When crossing the border to come back to your home - which is not in the country in which you are a citizen - do not, under any circumstances, decide to be funny and answer the question: "Are you bringing back anything with you to Canada?"
With this response: "(Giggle) A hangover?"
Because the border guard will not find it funny and then you will subject to a great deal of questioning AND lecturing about why it isn't funny to say that.
Where My Wild Things Are
Monday, October 12, 2009
I was six years old when I first saw the book.
My surroundings are what I imprint upon. I was on the floor which had your standard issue industrial school carpeting. The cubbies were to my left and formed the wall that ran the length of the room. The bathrooms were behind me.
The teacher whose name could have been Mrs Walker (?) was sitting on a blue chair in front of us.
Now, books and I have always been friends. There are pictures of a sleeping three year old Dawn, hiding in her closet with the lamp, surrounded by books. I remember being in those closets - small, dark, tight spaces of safety. Me and My Books. Later on in life when I felt stress or anxiety, diving into a book was my first reaction. My college room mate would laugh as I would bring home a massive stack of fiction to read in between studying for other exams. "They relax me", I would explain.
This book, however, was different. From the moment Mrs Walker held the book up I knew that this was special - something I maybe shouldn't be seeing - and so I held my breath throughout the reading and when she had finished, I stood up and asked if I could hold this book. I needed to absorb this book. I needed to possess this book.
In fact, the next library day found me at the librarians desk asking about where I could find this book to borrow and my first memory of ordering from a book club was my amazement seeing that this prized book was one of the ones offered and begging for the 50 cents to order it.
The book was, of course, Where the Wild Things Are.
Now, psychologically, the adult Dawn could deconstruct why the book was so important to First Grade Me. A tale of the Wild Things who were both menacing and loving - terrible and fierce and Max - the boy who tamed them with a magic trick - this tale was not so far off from my life in the world of Adults. I navigated some pretty Wild Things in my day to day life, and while this was perhaps the most stable time in my remembrance of my family life, it was still business as usual.
It was in 1976 that my father threatened to kill Santa if he came into the house on Christmas Eve. I locked the door behind him as he ran out on the porch with his loaded shotgun, looking for Santa to shoot. I had the sense to hide before my mother got the door unlocked and my father began to search the house for me.
Now, I had seen my father shoot things. Our Pet Dogs when they wouldn't stop barking. Rabbits. At the car as my mother pulled out of the driveway...with his child(ren)in the car. His unpredictable behavior made him the undisputed King of the Wild Things.
My mother, while a bit more stable in her overall demeanor, had her own role in the kingdom of my Wild Things. A role which would take center stage once my parents divorced. As long as I did as she wanted, she was a benevolent ruler in the Kingdom. Benign neglect, I have called it - feral childhood. Yes, we were fed and clothed. But there were conditions - always conditions.
My mother was not Max's mother. There would be no hot dinner waiting for me when I woke. No, more likely I would be told that I was ungrateful and didn't deserve to have dinner - but if I insisted than I could make it myself since she was not my slave and furthermore since I had the audacity to complain, I should really start saving up to buy my own food.
First Grade Dawn didn't know all of this. She only knew that there was a book that whispered to her in a way she had never experienced. It was a book that told her that it Knew Adults were not what they seemed, and revealed them for what they were. Odd monsters with feathers and fur, feet and beaks, human noses on animal faces.
The book knew that the Wild Things Roared and Gnashed and Stomped as they pleased. However, when Max saw the Wild Things he was not afraid. No. Max was in charge of the Wild Things. He was the Adult in the world of Wild Things, the voice of reason.
And Like Max, First Grade Dawn wanted to be in control, to tame her Wild Things with her magic tricks. And also like Max, First Grade Dawn wanted to go home and be someones child, somewhere where he was loved best of all. Loved Unconditionally.
It was the first time I heard a book speak to me in the secret language of the best stories. Maurice Sendak winked at me from behind the pages of the book - He knew what adults were and had hidden the truth in those pages, right in front of them. They read the pages to us, and I felt delightfully subversive as his critique of the Big People in charge of our lives was laid out in front of them.
A door was opened for me as Mrs Walker read Where the Wild Things Are to me - and 18 other children - in 1976. I sailed over and across weeks and years and a day - and have never looked back.
My surroundings are what I imprint upon. I was on the floor which had your standard issue industrial school carpeting. The cubbies were to my left and formed the wall that ran the length of the room. The bathrooms were behind me.
The teacher whose name could have been Mrs Walker (?) was sitting on a blue chair in front of us.
Now, books and I have always been friends. There are pictures of a sleeping three year old Dawn, hiding in her closet with the lamp, surrounded by books. I remember being in those closets - small, dark, tight spaces of safety. Me and My Books. Later on in life when I felt stress or anxiety, diving into a book was my first reaction. My college room mate would laugh as I would bring home a massive stack of fiction to read in between studying for other exams. "They relax me", I would explain.
This book, however, was different. From the moment Mrs Walker held the book up I knew that this was special - something I maybe shouldn't be seeing - and so I held my breath throughout the reading and when she had finished, I stood up and asked if I could hold this book. I needed to absorb this book. I needed to possess this book.
In fact, the next library day found me at the librarians desk asking about where I could find this book to borrow and my first memory of ordering from a book club was my amazement seeing that this prized book was one of the ones offered and begging for the 50 cents to order it.
The book was, of course, Where the Wild Things Are.
Now, psychologically, the adult Dawn could deconstruct why the book was so important to First Grade Me. A tale of the Wild Things who were both menacing and loving - terrible and fierce and Max - the boy who tamed them with a magic trick - this tale was not so far off from my life in the world of Adults. I navigated some pretty Wild Things in my day to day life, and while this was perhaps the most stable time in my remembrance of my family life, it was still business as usual.
It was in 1976 that my father threatened to kill Santa if he came into the house on Christmas Eve. I locked the door behind him as he ran out on the porch with his loaded shotgun, looking for Santa to shoot. I had the sense to hide before my mother got the door unlocked and my father began to search the house for me.
Now, I had seen my father shoot things. Our Pet Dogs when they wouldn't stop barking. Rabbits. At the car as my mother pulled out of the driveway...with his child(ren)in the car. His unpredictable behavior made him the undisputed King of the Wild Things.
My mother, while a bit more stable in her overall demeanor, had her own role in the kingdom of my Wild Things. A role which would take center stage once my parents divorced. As long as I did as she wanted, she was a benevolent ruler in the Kingdom. Benign neglect, I have called it - feral childhood. Yes, we were fed and clothed. But there were conditions - always conditions.
My mother was not Max's mother. There would be no hot dinner waiting for me when I woke. No, more likely I would be told that I was ungrateful and didn't deserve to have dinner - but if I insisted than I could make it myself since she was not my slave and furthermore since I had the audacity to complain, I should really start saving up to buy my own food.
First Grade Dawn didn't know all of this. She only knew that there was a book that whispered to her in a way she had never experienced. It was a book that told her that it Knew Adults were not what they seemed, and revealed them for what they were. Odd monsters with feathers and fur, feet and beaks, human noses on animal faces.
The book knew that the Wild Things Roared and Gnashed and Stomped as they pleased. However, when Max saw the Wild Things he was not afraid. No. Max was in charge of the Wild Things. He was the Adult in the world of Wild Things, the voice of reason.
And Like Max, First Grade Dawn wanted to be in control, to tame her Wild Things with her magic tricks. And also like Max, First Grade Dawn wanted to go home and be someones child, somewhere where he was loved best of all. Loved Unconditionally.
It was the first time I heard a book speak to me in the secret language of the best stories. Maurice Sendak winked at me from behind the pages of the book - He knew what adults were and had hidden the truth in those pages, right in front of them. They read the pages to us, and I felt delightfully subversive as his critique of the Big People in charge of our lives was laid out in front of them.
A door was opened for me as Mrs Walker read Where the Wild Things Are to me - and 18 other children - in 1976. I sailed over and across weeks and years and a day - and have never looked back.
Impasse
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
I wouldn't say that I am at a truce with Emily's teacher.
No.
I would characterize it as being stopped at a red light, and eyeballing the asshole in the car next to you who is going to try to cut you off as soon as the light turns green while making that split second decision as to whether you are going to Gun it OR just let them pass you while pretending not to notice.
Most of the parents at the school with whom I have spoken have nearly all said the same thing - Leave it alone. Some of those parents have had issues with the same teacher and they have all, one by one, said to me "You can't win. She won't change."
Add into this consideration the news that it is the fifth grade report cards that the high schools look at here in Montreal when they make their admission decisions. If she wants to be considered for the better high schools, she needs to have a strong report card. Pissing off the teacher and writing about her on the internet is NOT, I hear, the way to help your child get to a strong report card.
In fact, one of the Moms got into such a panic when I told he I was writing about the teacher on my blog that she infected me with some of her panic. Like when the lead gazelle bolts with no predator in sight. "You can't do that" she whispered to me. "If she sees this, that's it - your daughter will never get into a good high school...."
At which point all my self critical voices jumped onto that whisper and began to echo the thought. In fifteen short minutes, I spiraled to Emily in her mid 30's, unemployed and still living at home fighting with me about how I ruined her chances in life during 5th grade by opening my big mouth and writing about her teacher.
Thankfully, the other voice - the one that gets irascible and feisty when told not to do something? She put a chokehold on the critical voices and put an end to that pretty darn quickly.
So, we wait. Interim report cards just came out and Em seems to be doing fine. She complains about the amount of homework she has - but what 5th grader doesn't? She doesn't seem to love this teacher, but she doesn't seem to hate her either.
Terrance and I were always attentive to Emily's homework and we are more attentive now. From the perspective of Emily, she doesn't really talk about what she has learned. She and her father and I go over her homework and make sure she understands the work - be it grammar, math or science.
Being the academic geeks we are, Terrance and I correct the mistakes in the textbook and send in detailed explanations as to WHY the word defend can not be paired with the suffix "able" unless one is using it during a legal argument OR why the use of the suffix "ture" is incorrect. It SHOULD be the suffix "ure", but due to a multitude of words USING the "ure" suffix ending with the letter "T", it is commonly mistakenly assumed to BE "Ture"...
She must LOVE us. I can only imagine she is Dreaming of the parent conference day when Emily's parents come in to visit. We never get answers back - just more of our anal retentive fussing into the lightless void.
Yep. Two years of this, as Em will have her for 5th and 6th grade.
Still deciding whether to hit the gas, or let it pass....
No.
I would characterize it as being stopped at a red light, and eyeballing the asshole in the car next to you who is going to try to cut you off as soon as the light turns green while making that split second decision as to whether you are going to Gun it OR just let them pass you while pretending not to notice.
Most of the parents at the school with whom I have spoken have nearly all said the same thing - Leave it alone. Some of those parents have had issues with the same teacher and they have all, one by one, said to me "You can't win. She won't change."
Add into this consideration the news that it is the fifth grade report cards that the high schools look at here in Montreal when they make their admission decisions. If she wants to be considered for the better high schools, she needs to have a strong report card. Pissing off the teacher and writing about her on the internet is NOT, I hear, the way to help your child get to a strong report card.
In fact, one of the Moms got into such a panic when I told he I was writing about the teacher on my blog that she infected me with some of her panic. Like when the lead gazelle bolts with no predator in sight. "You can't do that" she whispered to me. "If she sees this, that's it - your daughter will never get into a good high school...."
At which point all my self critical voices jumped onto that whisper and began to echo the thought. In fifteen short minutes, I spiraled to Emily in her mid 30's, unemployed and still living at home fighting with me about how I ruined her chances in life during 5th grade by opening my big mouth and writing about her teacher.
Thankfully, the other voice - the one that gets irascible and feisty when told not to do something? She put a chokehold on the critical voices and put an end to that pretty darn quickly.
So, we wait. Interim report cards just came out and Em seems to be doing fine. She complains about the amount of homework she has - but what 5th grader doesn't? She doesn't seem to love this teacher, but she doesn't seem to hate her either.
Terrance and I were always attentive to Emily's homework and we are more attentive now. From the perspective of Emily, she doesn't really talk about what she has learned. She and her father and I go over her homework and make sure she understands the work - be it grammar, math or science.
Being the academic geeks we are, Terrance and I correct the mistakes in the textbook and send in detailed explanations as to WHY the word defend can not be paired with the suffix "able" unless one is using it during a legal argument OR why the use of the suffix "ture" is incorrect. It SHOULD be the suffix "ure", but due to a multitude of words USING the "ure" suffix ending with the letter "T", it is commonly mistakenly assumed to BE "Ture"...
She must LOVE us. I can only imagine she is Dreaming of the parent conference day when Emily's parents come in to visit. We never get answers back - just more of our anal retentive fussing into the lightless void.
Yep. Two years of this, as Em will have her for 5th and 6th grade.
Still deciding whether to hit the gas, or let it pass....
Preaching to the Irritated Choir
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
It was at the curriculum night that I decided, in a spur of the moment action, to put my name forth for the home/school governing council.
To be honest,my all consuming hatred for the shirt man was the impetus. I was determined to crush him and do everything in my unholy power to make sure he lost the contract for shirts for the school. You do not, Sir, get to scream at me that my check is "No Good" over and over and just have that slide. Oh no. And to top that little shit sundae with you not delivering the shirts we TOLD you we were purchasing and me then having to calm my hysterical kid because the god damn shirts didn't get delivered?
And you took my money.
I hope your life has been enjoyable up to this point, because I have now rearranged my priorities to make your future a living hell.
This was Tuesday Night. I calm Emily, Terrance calms me ( and prevents me from running the two blocks to the school so I can personally stomp this guy with my highest, spikiest heels) and we put the matter to the side.
Emily is a bit anxious at the best of times, but any kind of teacher/parent meeting, or field trip, or any other thing which does not comply to her well ordered schedule can send her into a tizzy. She checks, she re-checks, she triple checks to make sure we KNOW the curriculum night is Tonight and that we are BOTH coming. Yes. We are both coming.
Terrance warns me before we leave the house to be nice. Be nice? What ever could you mean? I am the picture of suburban calm and demure motherhood. I am wearing a skirt...and a funky t shirt...and my rainbow skull sneakers. I am harmless.
We walk in and the principal sees me and turns away.
My reputation precedes me. I see my letter has had an impact. Or perhaps it was my crusade last year against the special ed sector of the English Montreal School Board when I cc'ed my local Parliament representatives. Not that I can vote here, but I do write a well put together letter and no one asked my voting status or ability.
Terrance leans in, "Wow. I have never seen her move so fast before."
I glare at him. His job is to keep the attackers off of me for as long as possible, and/or push me out of the way in an assassination attempt. His commentary is not needed.
We see some parents with whom we are familiar and sit down. Minor chit chat occurs. The new school website is unveiled. Parents look attentive and then the nominations for home/school begin.
I lean into Terrance, "I should nominate you", I say loudly.
The four heads of the parents in front of us whip around
"Thats a GREAT idea", they collectively say.
I mess with Terrance some more. "Yeah hon, I'll nominate you and then I will help you out if you are out of town for that meeting."
The other parents are looking positively pleased at this prospect. There is lots of agreement and encouragement. Terrance snarls back through his not quite smile, "I'll nominate YOU, Dawn".
The greek chorus of parents in front of us begin their declarations of agreement to this amended plan.
Whats this sir? A Challenge? Have you slapped me with your glove? Thrown down your gauntlet?
I ready myself for the renewed verbal spar when my husband does something so unexpected as to render me speechless. He legs it out of the gym. Gets up and takes off. Holy Crap! I smile at the greek chorus of parents - "Sure, you can nominate me" I say. I begin furiously texting things such as "chicken" and "coward" to my husbands phone.
Now that my handler has fled the scene, all bets are off. Who KNOWS what I might say? BWA-HA-HA-HA!
But I don't. I get nominated, I don't get voted in I find out later that week during the secret parent ballot vote count and I walk up the stairs to my child's new classroom where I will "meet" the teachers and be given an overview of the Cycle 3 curriculum. Terrance is still absent.
I get to the class and sit down with Emily. She shows me her desk and how she has straightened it up for my "visit". We ready ourselves for the Curriculum presentation. I continue to taunt my spouse via text message.
So, there we are. All the parents of Cycle 3 who have attended this evening. The four classes have about 120 children all told and there are maybe 40 families in attendance. Now, I am going to take a leap here, but I am guessing that the families that DID show up to this evening....Well, they are the ones who are the "involved" families. I am guessing that THESE families are the ones who send in their forms promptly and pay their school fees during the first week. I am further going to go out on the limb to say that these parents send their children into school with the entire list of school supplies purchased AND probably check over their child's homework nightly. I don't have any empirical evidence of this, but long experiences has taught me that this is the Choir right here. You don't need to preach to THEM.
Oh, but I would be wrong. The preaching begins. My daughters teacher leads the charge with the God Damn Shirt Lecture. My jaw drops. I am staring RIGHT at her and she just goes on and on about the school uniform shirts. She expands this lecture to include that blue pants with stripes are not acceptable, nor are blue sweatshirts with any logos or markings other than the school uniform. My Stare becomes an Outright GLARE. Not satisfied with the descriptions of the type of blue pants that would be acceptable, she then lectures the group of parents on what their child may wear on Free Dress Day, freely giving her opinions of outfits which are NOT acceptable, including, but not limited to, jewelry and/or makeup.
Sitting next to me, Em peeks from the side to see how I am handling this. I am in full glare with my mouth Open and eyebrows raised. The lecture continues.
I turn to Em and say - not quietly - "Does she lecture you all day like this, or does she teach you anything?"
Em stifles a giggle and whispers "No, she does teach us some things, but she does this alot."
Mrs XXX then moves her lecture to the finer points of school supplies and why everything on the list should be purchased. One of the other teachers picks up with her spiel about science and technology. Oh Thank God. Its CURRICULUM!!! The French teacher does her part and my jaw unclenches a little but I continue to stare at Emilys Teacher.
I have now Written you a letter about these shirts. I have written a letter to the principal, and you have the cojones to stand in front of ME and lecture ME about these shirts? For a good 20 minutes? You have lost your ever loving mind.
Furthermore, you just blew your last chance of redemption with me.
I almost feel sorry for you.
Almost.
To be honest,my all consuming hatred for the shirt man was the impetus. I was determined to crush him and do everything in my unholy power to make sure he lost the contract for shirts for the school. You do not, Sir, get to scream at me that my check is "No Good" over and over and just have that slide. Oh no. And to top that little shit sundae with you not delivering the shirts we TOLD you we were purchasing and me then having to calm my hysterical kid because the god damn shirts didn't get delivered?
And you took my money.
I hope your life has been enjoyable up to this point, because I have now rearranged my priorities to make your future a living hell.
This was Tuesday Night. I calm Emily, Terrance calms me ( and prevents me from running the two blocks to the school so I can personally stomp this guy with my highest, spikiest heels) and we put the matter to the side.
Emily is a bit anxious at the best of times, but any kind of teacher/parent meeting, or field trip, or any other thing which does not comply to her well ordered schedule can send her into a tizzy. She checks, she re-checks, she triple checks to make sure we KNOW the curriculum night is Tonight and that we are BOTH coming. Yes. We are both coming.
Terrance warns me before we leave the house to be nice. Be nice? What ever could you mean? I am the picture of suburban calm and demure motherhood. I am wearing a skirt...and a funky t shirt...and my rainbow skull sneakers. I am harmless.
We walk in and the principal sees me and turns away.
My reputation precedes me. I see my letter has had an impact. Or perhaps it was my crusade last year against the special ed sector of the English Montreal School Board when I cc'ed my local Parliament representatives. Not that I can vote here, but I do write a well put together letter and no one asked my voting status or ability.
Terrance leans in, "Wow. I have never seen her move so fast before."
I glare at him. His job is to keep the attackers off of me for as long as possible, and/or push me out of the way in an assassination attempt. His commentary is not needed.
We see some parents with whom we are familiar and sit down. Minor chit chat occurs. The new school website is unveiled. Parents look attentive and then the nominations for home/school begin.
I lean into Terrance, "I should nominate you", I say loudly.
The four heads of the parents in front of us whip around
"Thats a GREAT idea", they collectively say.
I mess with Terrance some more. "Yeah hon, I'll nominate you and then I will help you out if you are out of town for that meeting."
The other parents are looking positively pleased at this prospect. There is lots of agreement and encouragement. Terrance snarls back through his not quite smile, "I'll nominate YOU, Dawn".
The greek chorus of parents in front of us begin their declarations of agreement to this amended plan.
Whats this sir? A Challenge? Have you slapped me with your glove? Thrown down your gauntlet?
I ready myself for the renewed verbal spar when my husband does something so unexpected as to render me speechless. He legs it out of the gym. Gets up and takes off. Holy Crap! I smile at the greek chorus of parents - "Sure, you can nominate me" I say. I begin furiously texting things such as "chicken" and "coward" to my husbands phone.
Now that my handler has fled the scene, all bets are off. Who KNOWS what I might say? BWA-HA-HA-HA!
But I don't. I get nominated, I don't get voted in I find out later that week during the secret parent ballot vote count and I walk up the stairs to my child's new classroom where I will "meet" the teachers and be given an overview of the Cycle 3 curriculum. Terrance is still absent.
I get to the class and sit down with Emily. She shows me her desk and how she has straightened it up for my "visit". We ready ourselves for the Curriculum presentation. I continue to taunt my spouse via text message.
So, there we are. All the parents of Cycle 3 who have attended this evening. The four classes have about 120 children all told and there are maybe 40 families in attendance. Now, I am going to take a leap here, but I am guessing that the families that DID show up to this evening....Well, they are the ones who are the "involved" families. I am guessing that THESE families are the ones who send in their forms promptly and pay their school fees during the first week. I am further going to go out on the limb to say that these parents send their children into school with the entire list of school supplies purchased AND probably check over their child's homework nightly. I don't have any empirical evidence of this, but long experiences has taught me that this is the Choir right here. You don't need to preach to THEM.
Oh, but I would be wrong. The preaching begins. My daughters teacher leads the charge with the God Damn Shirt Lecture. My jaw drops. I am staring RIGHT at her and she just goes on and on about the school uniform shirts. She expands this lecture to include that blue pants with stripes are not acceptable, nor are blue sweatshirts with any logos or markings other than the school uniform. My Stare becomes an Outright GLARE. Not satisfied with the descriptions of the type of blue pants that would be acceptable, she then lectures the group of parents on what their child may wear on Free Dress Day, freely giving her opinions of outfits which are NOT acceptable, including, but not limited to, jewelry and/or makeup.
Sitting next to me, Em peeks from the side to see how I am handling this. I am in full glare with my mouth Open and eyebrows raised. The lecture continues.
I turn to Em and say - not quietly - "Does she lecture you all day like this, or does she teach you anything?"
Em stifles a giggle and whispers "No, she does teach us some things, but she does this alot."
Mrs XXX then moves her lecture to the finer points of school supplies and why everything on the list should be purchased. One of the other teachers picks up with her spiel about science and technology. Oh Thank God. Its CURRICULUM!!! The French teacher does her part and my jaw unclenches a little but I continue to stare at Emilys Teacher.
I have now Written you a letter about these shirts. I have written a letter to the principal, and you have the cojones to stand in front of ME and lecture ME about these shirts? For a good 20 minutes? You have lost your ever loving mind.
Furthermore, you just blew your last chance of redemption with me.
I almost feel sorry for you.
Almost.
White Shirted
Monday, September 28, 2009
Ah, so where was I? Ah, yes. Stuck in a Curriculum night being lectured by a woman who was rapidly pissing me off.
First, because she conveyed no warmth to the parents of incoming students...looked at my spouse and I like we were the village idiots when we asked a question to clarify the list of school supplies And her endless harping about the school uniform shirt.
Now, I Admit it. I did not buy the school uniform shirts last year.
At first it was simply because I wanted to speak to the uniform guy and make sure that I was buying the right size shirts. Emily has been whipping through sizes in the past two and a half years at an alarming rate so I honestly just wanted to make sure I bought shirts big enough to get through the year.
I called him. I called again. And again, and again. After leaving numerous messages and waiting nearly two months for a return call, I gave up in November and simply bought a bunch of white polo type shirts. Screw him, I figured. It was not killing me to not give this man 250 bucks for ten white shirts she would trash in minutes.
No one asked me last year about why Em didn't have the school uniform shirts. She was in a white shirt (without the school logo) and her blue bottoms every day, so it isn't as if I was dressing her like a Bratz doll and sending in to wreak havoc on the uniform code.
Within two days of the new school year, however, my kid is having a full on panic attack because her new teacher is telling them over and over about the UNIFORM and how SHE MUST HAVE IT, OR ELSE. Ddduuuuuuudddddeeee. Chill out. I will order the shirts. School starts on Monday and by Tuesday I have sent in the order form for the school uniform shirts.
"Did Mrs XXX see your order form? Is she going to chill it with the Uniform shirt talk now", I asked Em on Tuesday afternoon.
"Yes, she sent it to the office. Do you know when they will be in, cause she said soon she was going to start checking to make sure we were IN our required uniform and we would be in trouble if we weren't..."
"I can't control how fast the shirts get in, but Em - she has seen your order go in. She KNOWS you have ordered shirts. We can't do anything else but that - if you get in trouble then she will be deeply sorry she went down that path..."
Emily is quiet. My voice has that rattle. The Mother rattlesnake rattle through which my next move is clear. Pulling over, and marching up the stairs with daughter in tow to have a little "talk" about these shirts with Mrs XXX.
Em wisely drops it. Until that Friday, when she bounds out of school and hands me the still sealed envelope with her uniform shirt order. "Mrs XXX gave this back to me and said the office said you have to call or order online. Can you do that as soon as we get home, cause Mrs XXX said she was going to start checking next week to make sure we had our uniform shirts on... "
Oh friends. Oh My.
I will just pause a moment in my re-telling to let you ponder my reaction to this tidbit of news.
Let us suffice it to say, I first went online and attempted to locate a internet ordering option for these shirts. By 4 p.m., when I had found NONE WHATSOEVER, I first called the school and left a very clear message on the school answering machine.
I then called the Shirt company and left an even Clearer message on that voice mail, with my added critique of their customer service from the previous year and the promise that I would be sharing my impression of their company with ALL the other parents I could speak with, the principal AND the Home/School Parent Representative.
Then I fumed. And spluttered. I am generally not a threatener of action, but a Do'er. I don't do well sitting on this energy. So I wrote my first email to the Home/School Parent representative explaining my history with the shirt people and now my frustration at having my daughter freak out about these shirts because her new teacher was vaguely holding some nebulous punishment over her head.
The very kind parent rep wrote me right back, offering her suggestions for actions, her understanding of my frustration and offering her phone number if I wanted to speak about this further.
Sufficiently soothed, I went about my plan. Letters to the principal and teacher were written, copies of the emails to the parent rep were included - I am nothing if Not thorough in my documentation. Monday morning, the letters went into school, with my email address and cell phone number attached.
I hear nothing. I ask Em if she gave the teacher the letter.
"Yeah, I gave it to her", Em shrugged.
"So? Did she say anything to you after she read it?"
"Yeah, she said she felt like my mother was scolding her..."
Oh Mrs XXX, that was a bad move. Perhaps in hindsight, we will agree that this was a fatal move, but the game has not yet finished so we can not make those endgame pronouncements. The CORRECT answer, Mrs XXX, would have been for you to reassure my daughter that you understood that we were trying to get her the school uniform shirts - and that she would NOT be in trouble. But Nooooooo. You chose to subtly criticize her Mother in front of her while giving her the whiff of your disapproval at being "scolded". I mean you ARE the teacher after all, right?
By Wednesday, the shirt guy finally returned my phone call ( since I can only assume the principal has now called Him and warned him to call this crazy mother NOW) and leaves a message. I called Thursday around noon, sitting next to Terrance on the couch to keep me vaguely calm.
Shirt guy makes HIS opening move. Which is to start yelling at me, Immediately.
His opening shoutfest is :
"I DIDN'T GET THE ORDER, I DIDN'T GET THE ORDER, I DIDN'T GET THE ORDER"
To which I - still calm - explained I was AWARE of that since it had been sent back from the office the previous Friday. At this juncture he begins Yelling:
"YOUR CHECK NO GOOD!! YOUR CHECK NO GOOD!!!"
with me trying to ascertain just what the fuck he is talking about - cause I have NO IDEA. I am the one who has experienced rotten customer service and NOW I am having some man scream at me that my check is no good?!?!? WHAT?!!
My voice starts to raise. I start to shout and Terrance reaches over and grabs the phone from my hand...just about at the point when I am going to tell this man EXACTLY what he can do with his overpriced shirts, and the offer of my assistance in placing those shirts in my suggested areas. Terrance shuttles me into the bedroom and closes the door so he can speak with this man without me doing my best "Girlfriend on COPS" impression, shouting over his shoulder that I am going to Kick this mans ASS.
Terrance speaks with the man and tells him exactly what shirts we need. The man informs Terrance that he will be at the school on Tuesday to deliver the shirts and Terrance tells him we will bring cash for the shirts. I fume. We agree that Terrance will go and get the shirts alone, as we can all see that putting this man and I in the same room would be unfortunate.
Emily is told her shirts are being delivered on Tuesday. She can sleep easy knowing that she will be in compliance with the school uniform policy.
Tuesday comes and I stay far away from the school. I get the phone call from Terrance. He has been and seen the man. He has brought the money for the shirts.
He does not have the shirts.
What? WHAT? We told his man exactly what we needed on THURSDAY and he did not bring the shirts AND he TOOK our money????!!!
This was the evening before the curriculum night.
Things were not looking promising.
First, because she conveyed no warmth to the parents of incoming students...looked at my spouse and I like we were the village idiots when we asked a question to clarify the list of school supplies And her endless harping about the school uniform shirt.
Now, I Admit it. I did not buy the school uniform shirts last year.
At first it was simply because I wanted to speak to the uniform guy and make sure that I was buying the right size shirts. Emily has been whipping through sizes in the past two and a half years at an alarming rate so I honestly just wanted to make sure I bought shirts big enough to get through the year.
I called him. I called again. And again, and again. After leaving numerous messages and waiting nearly two months for a return call, I gave up in November and simply bought a bunch of white polo type shirts. Screw him, I figured. It was not killing me to not give this man 250 bucks for ten white shirts she would trash in minutes.
No one asked me last year about why Em didn't have the school uniform shirts. She was in a white shirt (without the school logo) and her blue bottoms every day, so it isn't as if I was dressing her like a Bratz doll and sending in to wreak havoc on the uniform code.
Within two days of the new school year, however, my kid is having a full on panic attack because her new teacher is telling them over and over about the UNIFORM and how SHE MUST HAVE IT, OR ELSE. Ddduuuuuuudddddeeee. Chill out. I will order the shirts. School starts on Monday and by Tuesday I have sent in the order form for the school uniform shirts.
"Did Mrs XXX see your order form? Is she going to chill it with the Uniform shirt talk now", I asked Em on Tuesday afternoon.
"Yes, she sent it to the office. Do you know when they will be in, cause she said soon she was going to start checking to make sure we were IN our required uniform and we would be in trouble if we weren't..."
"I can't control how fast the shirts get in, but Em - she has seen your order go in. She KNOWS you have ordered shirts. We can't do anything else but that - if you get in trouble then she will be deeply sorry she went down that path..."
Emily is quiet. My voice has that rattle. The Mother rattlesnake rattle through which my next move is clear. Pulling over, and marching up the stairs with daughter in tow to have a little "talk" about these shirts with Mrs XXX.
Em wisely drops it. Until that Friday, when she bounds out of school and hands me the still sealed envelope with her uniform shirt order. "Mrs XXX gave this back to me and said the office said you have to call or order online. Can you do that as soon as we get home, cause Mrs XXX said she was going to start checking next week to make sure we had our uniform shirts on... "
Oh friends. Oh My.
I will just pause a moment in my re-telling to let you ponder my reaction to this tidbit of news.
Let us suffice it to say, I first went online and attempted to locate a internet ordering option for these shirts. By 4 p.m., when I had found NONE WHATSOEVER, I first called the school and left a very clear message on the school answering machine.
I then called the Shirt company and left an even Clearer message on that voice mail, with my added critique of their customer service from the previous year and the promise that I would be sharing my impression of their company with ALL the other parents I could speak with, the principal AND the Home/School Parent Representative.
Then I fumed. And spluttered. I am generally not a threatener of action, but a Do'er. I don't do well sitting on this energy. So I wrote my first email to the Home/School Parent representative explaining my history with the shirt people and now my frustration at having my daughter freak out about these shirts because her new teacher was vaguely holding some nebulous punishment over her head.
The very kind parent rep wrote me right back, offering her suggestions for actions, her understanding of my frustration and offering her phone number if I wanted to speak about this further.
Sufficiently soothed, I went about my plan. Letters to the principal and teacher were written, copies of the emails to the parent rep were included - I am nothing if Not thorough in my documentation. Monday morning, the letters went into school, with my email address and cell phone number attached.
I hear nothing. I ask Em if she gave the teacher the letter.
"Yeah, I gave it to her", Em shrugged.
"So? Did she say anything to you after she read it?"
"Yeah, she said she felt like my mother was scolding her..."
Oh Mrs XXX, that was a bad move. Perhaps in hindsight, we will agree that this was a fatal move, but the game has not yet finished so we can not make those endgame pronouncements. The CORRECT answer, Mrs XXX, would have been for you to reassure my daughter that you understood that we were trying to get her the school uniform shirts - and that she would NOT be in trouble. But Nooooooo. You chose to subtly criticize her Mother in front of her while giving her the whiff of your disapproval at being "scolded". I mean you ARE the teacher after all, right?
By Wednesday, the shirt guy finally returned my phone call ( since I can only assume the principal has now called Him and warned him to call this crazy mother NOW) and leaves a message. I called Thursday around noon, sitting next to Terrance on the couch to keep me vaguely calm.
Shirt guy makes HIS opening move. Which is to start yelling at me, Immediately.
His opening shoutfest is :
"I DIDN'T GET THE ORDER, I DIDN'T GET THE ORDER, I DIDN'T GET THE ORDER"
To which I - still calm - explained I was AWARE of that since it had been sent back from the office the previous Friday. At this juncture he begins Yelling:
"YOUR CHECK NO GOOD!! YOUR CHECK NO GOOD!!!"
with me trying to ascertain just what the fuck he is talking about - cause I have NO IDEA. I am the one who has experienced rotten customer service and NOW I am having some man scream at me that my check is no good?!?!? WHAT?!!
My voice starts to raise. I start to shout and Terrance reaches over and grabs the phone from my hand...just about at the point when I am going to tell this man EXACTLY what he can do with his overpriced shirts, and the offer of my assistance in placing those shirts in my suggested areas. Terrance shuttles me into the bedroom and closes the door so he can speak with this man without me doing my best "Girlfriend on COPS" impression, shouting over his shoulder that I am going to Kick this mans ASS.
Terrance speaks with the man and tells him exactly what shirts we need. The man informs Terrance that he will be at the school on Tuesday to deliver the shirts and Terrance tells him we will bring cash for the shirts. I fume. We agree that Terrance will go and get the shirts alone, as we can all see that putting this man and I in the same room would be unfortunate.
Emily is told her shirts are being delivered on Tuesday. She can sleep easy knowing that she will be in compliance with the school uniform policy.
Tuesday comes and I stay far away from the school. I get the phone call from Terrance. He has been and seen the man. He has brought the money for the shirts.
He does not have the shirts.
What? WHAT? We told his man exactly what we needed on THURSDAY and he did not bring the shirts AND he TOOK our money????!!!
This was the evening before the curriculum night.
Things were not looking promising.
A Bad Beginning
Friday, September 25, 2009
If there is one lesson I have learned as both a teacher and mother, it is this: During the first month of the new Parent/Teacher/caregiver relationship, it is REALLY important that all parties set a good tone. The Teacher/caregiver is the lead in this new relationship, as the parent is pretty vulnerable and in a defensive position by default. I mean - this is their KID and regardless if you have 29 others in the room and have been doing this for umpteen billion years this is still THEIR CHILD.
They have resisted the urges to drown this child during screaming fits about parsley on her plate at a restaurant. They have not yet left this child by the side of the road after enduring 4 hours of "Blues Big Musical Adventure" or more frequently these days, the waxing poetic of the skillz of the Jonas Brothers or vocal stylings of Miley Cyrus. They have not yet stabbed the other parent during a fight about the others parenting style/skills/ability. With this child entering puberty, the temptation to flee her becomes and turn to drinking becomes stronger. In short, they have made it to this point on the strength of their fear of prison alone.
Your job - as teacher - is to make sure the parent understands that you know their child is special. That you are listening to them. That you know they are listening to you. You need to project humor. Confidence. The general aura of "everything is going to be all right - we'll get through this together."
I can speak to this job, because I have done it. I have calmed hysterical parents of both genders when they flip their shit about very small things. I have conveyed that they are not being silly and that I completely understand their concern, because this beginning time in the parent/teacher/caregiver relationship is as important as this time in the Teacher/Child relationship. A misstep on the teachers part during this phase can take forever to repair ...if Ever.
Which brings me to the lecture I, and others, received last Wednesday night. During the curriculum night at my daughters school. When we were supposed to be hearing about CURRICULUM and the PLAN for the school year.
I don't have to tell any of you that I am a keen observer of other teachers. I've made a living of it so far. I know the messages being broadcast between words...because I have crafted and delivered those messages. I still do.
Of the four teachers that my daughter could have gotten for the next two year cycle, we seem to have drawn the Eeyore of the lot. It isn't simply her age, of which it is indeterminate, it is her manner...her persona. Her terrible, terrible teeth.
We kind of guessed on the first day when Terrance and I corralled her after school to seek clarification on WHICH oxford concise dictionary she wanted for the class list. I mean - there are LOTS of versions of this dictionary. A school Edition, a hardcover - one edited in 2004, or in 2005. Being two oldest children, Terrance and I wanted to make sure that we provided the PRECISE one on the list.
There we stood. Dawn and Terrance - both speaking to the teacher. Asking questions about this dictionary. Because Terrance and Dawn make sure that the teacher and child have the exact thing they requested on the first day of school. Lists are made to be respected!!
She looked at us as if we had both lost our minds. Which could well be true...BUT. The correct response SHOULD have been. "Wow! I was unaware that there were so many versions - The school edition is fine..."
Her answer, "What? Didn't I put it on the list? Cause that is the one I want."
Silence as Terrance and Dawn stare back at her...having been pretty sure they collectively just explained that what she had on the LIST had many versions - did she have one in mind?
Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick...............
"well - it doesn't matter - its for her home study space anyway...."
and with that she turned away from us. To be fair, she was getting kids lined up for the bus which I know is a hectic operation, BUT.....
"I don't think I like her", I muttered to Terrance. He rolled his eyes, "You don't like anybody."
Ok. Fair enough. I OWN that judgment.
Now comes the careful questioning of Emily. What did SHE think of the teacher? How did SHE feel in the classroom?
As any 5th grader, Emily is most concerned about 1. What friends are in the class and 2. How much homework she will be expected to produce.
As far as she is concerned, she likes the majority of girls in her class and so far, the homework is manageable. Life is pretty good.
"But", she said," Mrs XX reminded us that the school shirt uniforms are mandatory and she is going to be checking to make sure we are wearing our shirts. And we can't have pants with any stripes or anything on them."
Shirts, as you will later learn, are quite a sore spot with me. That is story to be told in this larger story arc, but not yet. Suffice it to say that I boycotted the required shirts LAST year, sending her in with plain white shirts rather than those with the crest silk screened on them.
Emily pushes me. "I brought you the order form home so you can fill it out and I will take it back tomorrow cause I need to have these shirts or I am going to get in trouble. Mrs XX says she will give us a couple of weeks to get our shirts but after that, we'll be in trouble..."
Grrrrr. Fine. I fill out the order form and cheque for 200 bucks and send it back into the school. In fact, ALL forms get filled out and returned, with all cheques for the school year fees. 225 for this, 60 for that, 150 for the other....another 200 for the shirts...100 bucks for girl guides renewal. Sigh.
Emily delivers the shirt order to her teacher to be passed down the the office.
"Did she see that you were ordering shirts? That she can hold off on giving you the shirt lecture cause they are coming?"
On Friday, Emily brings me back the order and cheque. "Mrs XXX said the office said you need to order online - can you order as soon as we get home cause I am going to get in trouble if I don't have these shirts..."
And, that, my friends, is all this whole fiasco began.
They have resisted the urges to drown this child during screaming fits about parsley on her plate at a restaurant. They have not yet left this child by the side of the road after enduring 4 hours of "Blues Big Musical Adventure" or more frequently these days, the waxing poetic of the skillz of the Jonas Brothers or vocal stylings of Miley Cyrus. They have not yet stabbed the other parent during a fight about the others parenting style/skills/ability. With this child entering puberty, the temptation to flee her becomes and turn to drinking becomes stronger. In short, they have made it to this point on the strength of their fear of prison alone.
Your job - as teacher - is to make sure the parent understands that you know their child is special. That you are listening to them. That you know they are listening to you. You need to project humor. Confidence. The general aura of "everything is going to be all right - we'll get through this together."
I can speak to this job, because I have done it. I have calmed hysterical parents of both genders when they flip their shit about very small things. I have conveyed that they are not being silly and that I completely understand their concern, because this beginning time in the parent/teacher/caregiver relationship is as important as this time in the Teacher/Child relationship. A misstep on the teachers part during this phase can take forever to repair ...if Ever.
Which brings me to the lecture I, and others, received last Wednesday night. During the curriculum night at my daughters school. When we were supposed to be hearing about CURRICULUM and the PLAN for the school year.
I don't have to tell any of you that I am a keen observer of other teachers. I've made a living of it so far. I know the messages being broadcast between words...because I have crafted and delivered those messages. I still do.
Of the four teachers that my daughter could have gotten for the next two year cycle, we seem to have drawn the Eeyore of the lot. It isn't simply her age, of which it is indeterminate, it is her manner...her persona. Her terrible, terrible teeth.
We kind of guessed on the first day when Terrance and I corralled her after school to seek clarification on WHICH oxford concise dictionary she wanted for the class list. I mean - there are LOTS of versions of this dictionary. A school Edition, a hardcover - one edited in 2004, or in 2005. Being two oldest children, Terrance and I wanted to make sure that we provided the PRECISE one on the list.
There we stood. Dawn and Terrance - both speaking to the teacher. Asking questions about this dictionary. Because Terrance and Dawn make sure that the teacher and child have the exact thing they requested on the first day of school. Lists are made to be respected!!
She looked at us as if we had both lost our minds. Which could well be true...BUT. The correct response SHOULD have been. "Wow! I was unaware that there were so many versions - The school edition is fine..."
Her answer, "What? Didn't I put it on the list? Cause that is the one I want."
Silence as Terrance and Dawn stare back at her...having been pretty sure they collectively just explained that what she had on the LIST had many versions - did she have one in mind?
Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick...............
"well - it doesn't matter - its for her home study space anyway...."
and with that she turned away from us. To be fair, she was getting kids lined up for the bus which I know is a hectic operation, BUT.....
"I don't think I like her", I muttered to Terrance. He rolled his eyes, "You don't like anybody."
Ok. Fair enough. I OWN that judgment.
Now comes the careful questioning of Emily. What did SHE think of the teacher? How did SHE feel in the classroom?
As any 5th grader, Emily is most concerned about 1. What friends are in the class and 2. How much homework she will be expected to produce.
As far as she is concerned, she likes the majority of girls in her class and so far, the homework is manageable. Life is pretty good.
"But", she said," Mrs XX reminded us that the school shirt uniforms are mandatory and she is going to be checking to make sure we are wearing our shirts. And we can't have pants with any stripes or anything on them."
Shirts, as you will later learn, are quite a sore spot with me. That is story to be told in this larger story arc, but not yet. Suffice it to say that I boycotted the required shirts LAST year, sending her in with plain white shirts rather than those with the crest silk screened on them.
Emily pushes me. "I brought you the order form home so you can fill it out and I will take it back tomorrow cause I need to have these shirts or I am going to get in trouble. Mrs XX says she will give us a couple of weeks to get our shirts but after that, we'll be in trouble..."
Grrrrr. Fine. I fill out the order form and cheque for 200 bucks and send it back into the school. In fact, ALL forms get filled out and returned, with all cheques for the school year fees. 225 for this, 60 for that, 150 for the other....another 200 for the shirts...100 bucks for girl guides renewal. Sigh.
Emily delivers the shirt order to her teacher to be passed down the the office.
"Did she see that you were ordering shirts? That she can hold off on giving you the shirt lecture cause they are coming?"
On Friday, Emily brings me back the order and cheque. "Mrs XXX said the office said you need to order online - can you order as soon as we get home cause I am going to get in trouble if I don't have these shirts..."
And, that, my friends, is all this whole fiasco began.
Girl, you'll be a woman soon
Thursday, September 24, 2009
If I have to have one more discussion about vaginal mucous and its consistency, frequency, color or texture I may have to kill myself.
Ahhh-oooooooo
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Can I take a moment to express my utter dislike for the Shakira song - "She-wolf"?
Not because I dislike Shakira, nor her right or the right of any other woman to be a "she-wolf" in or out of the closet.
Its that dreadful howl she insisted on inserting in the song. That is the weakest most pitiful howl EVER. That howl indicates a sick and sad she-wolf...certainly not one who is an alpha and being chased by other he-wolves.
Furthermore, I get the distinct sensation that she fell across the word "Lycanthropy" in her word-a-day calender and then decided she would be clever and craft a song around the word.
And while I am kvetching about artists - Hey L'il Wayne. Stop with the metallic computer voice over yours. We don't want you to branch out into rock. Stick with what you are good at, as I am pretty sure your other career options include sullen Wal-Mart restocker or the guy at the gas station who ignores the customers while texting on his phone until the line becomes unbearable.
This goes the same for you - T-Pain. Stop spending your cash on those stupid hats. The gravy train is going to pull away in the near future and you don't have alot of other career options either. You may blame it on the Al-AL-Al-Al-Al-AL-Cohol, but I would suggest poor financial planning is more likely the culprit.
And Finally. I fucking hate Nickleback.
Not because I dislike Shakira, nor her right or the right of any other woman to be a "she-wolf" in or out of the closet.
Its that dreadful howl she insisted on inserting in the song. That is the weakest most pitiful howl EVER. That howl indicates a sick and sad she-wolf...certainly not one who is an alpha and being chased by other he-wolves.
Furthermore, I get the distinct sensation that she fell across the word "Lycanthropy" in her word-a-day calender and then decided she would be clever and craft a song around the word.
And while I am kvetching about artists - Hey L'il Wayne. Stop with the metallic computer voice over yours. We don't want you to branch out into rock. Stick with what you are good at, as I am pretty sure your other career options include sullen Wal-Mart restocker or the guy at the gas station who ignores the customers while texting on his phone until the line becomes unbearable.
This goes the same for you - T-Pain. Stop spending your cash on those stupid hats. The gravy train is going to pull away in the near future and you don't have alot of other career options either. You may blame it on the Al-AL-Al-Al-Al-AL-Cohol, but I would suggest poor financial planning is more likely the culprit.
And Finally. I fucking hate Nickleback.
Me and My Big Mouth
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Back when I was gainfully and steadily employed by a Government Agency, we had a joke amongst my work colleagues.
Let's NOT send Dawn to any meeting where we don't want to offend any attendees, because inevitably - regardless of the meeting - She WILL say something that will get her "Un-invited" to ALL the meetings. She may do this in the first meeting. She may hold out and do this at the middle of the series of committee meetings, but rest assured...It WILL happen.
This little personality quirk has not made me terribly beloved to most supervisors, and believe me, if I could stop it I would. It has cost me more reprimands and punishments than I care to recall. Even as I am sitting there with Dawn-Ego saying "Don't Say it! Don't Say it! Let it Go! Do Not Open your Mouth..." things will slip out.
Like this meeting in the Governors office. As in the Actual Gov's ( at the time) office - at the giant table with the huge leather chairs, where the Executive Council meets, when I said this:
"Seeing as I am the only person at this table who has worked with REAL LIVE children and families, I think these standards that you are writing are ridiculous."
This was edited down from what was in my head which was :"You people wouldn't know a real child if they jumped up and bit you in the ass, furthermore you're are all terribly, disgustingly condescending about poverty and you generally couldn't find your asses with both hands and a flashlight."
While I got in trouble for what I really said, I was congratulating myself for NOT saying what was going on in my head. Small victories is what I am all about.
Which is how I ended up nominated last night for the Home and Parent Governing Council at Emily's school.
Those poor , poor people. They know not what they have done.
Let's NOT send Dawn to any meeting where we don't want to offend any attendees, because inevitably - regardless of the meeting - She WILL say something that will get her "Un-invited" to ALL the meetings. She may do this in the first meeting. She may hold out and do this at the middle of the series of committee meetings, but rest assured...It WILL happen.
This little personality quirk has not made me terribly beloved to most supervisors, and believe me, if I could stop it I would. It has cost me more reprimands and punishments than I care to recall. Even as I am sitting there with Dawn-Ego saying "Don't Say it! Don't Say it! Let it Go! Do Not Open your Mouth..." things will slip out.
Like this meeting in the Governors office. As in the Actual Gov's ( at the time) office - at the giant table with the huge leather chairs, where the Executive Council meets, when I said this:
"Seeing as I am the only person at this table who has worked with REAL LIVE children and families, I think these standards that you are writing are ridiculous."
This was edited down from what was in my head which was :"You people wouldn't know a real child if they jumped up and bit you in the ass, furthermore you're are all terribly, disgustingly condescending about poverty and you generally couldn't find your asses with both hands and a flashlight."
While I got in trouble for what I really said, I was congratulating myself for NOT saying what was going on in my head. Small victories is what I am all about.
Which is how I ended up nominated last night for the Home and Parent Governing Council at Emily's school.
Those poor , poor people. They know not what they have done.
Lazy Sunday, Emily Style
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday Morning:
Em: “Mama, can you get up and make me some eggs”
Me: Yep, just let me wake up”
Em: “Ok…Are you awake now?”
Me: “Emily – You have to give me a minute. Your mother doesn’t move so fast”
Em: “Ok Mama. Are you getting up now?”
Me: “Do you see me moving? Do you see me getting up?”
Em: “Yeah. Are you going to make me eggs?”
Me: “Emily, for the love of all that is holy. I am getting up. I am going to make you eggs.”
Em: “Why are you going to the bathroom? I thought you were going to make me eggs”
Me: “I can not cook with a full bladder. Let me go to the bathroom”
She stands outside the door and waits for me to emerge.
Em: “Are you gonna make the eggs now?”
Me: “Yes. What kind of eggs do you want – 2 eggs scrambled?”
Em: “No.”
Me: “What? You got me up to make you eggs. What kind of eggs do you want”
Em: “What kind do I usually have?”
Me: “Scrambled.”
Em: “Ok, Then two eggs scrambled”
I cook eggs well. It is one of my failsafe dishes. I make them light and fluffy and present them to her on a plate with peaches on the side.
Em: “Mama, I’ve been thinking. I don’t want eggs.”
Me: “You got me up and hounded me to make you eggs. Now you say you don’t want the eggs. What on earth could you want?”
Em: “I’d like two glazed doughnuts- cause don’t you want to go to Dunkin Donuts and get yourself some coffee?”
Me: “I’d highly suggest that you eat those eggs, cause there is NO chance that you are getting anything resembling a glazed donut. But might I commend you on the effort to get me to drive out to get you some. Well played, chief.”
Em: “Ok Mama. These eggs look good But if you go out for coffee, can you get me two glazed donuts?”
Part II:
Me: “Emily, we all need to cooperate today and clean up our rooms. Can you please take care of your room?”
Em: “OK – but what are you going to do?”
Me: “The laundry and then cleaning the living room..”
Em: “Ok.” She disappears into her room. She emerges 3 minutes later.
Em: “I’ve been thinking Mama. It makes more sense for me to clean my room AFTER I play – cause I will just get it messy again. Sop I think I should Play FIRST and then clean. That’s a good plan, right Mama? Right? Cause I’ll just get it messy again if I clean it first”
Me: “Go sell that story to your father, Cause I am totally not buying that”
Why am I afraid when a seven year old can out-logic me twice by 9:30 in the morning?
Originally Posted January 2006
Em: “Mama, can you get up and make me some eggs”
Me: Yep, just let me wake up”
Em: “Ok…Are you awake now?”
Me: “Emily – You have to give me a minute. Your mother doesn’t move so fast”
Em: “Ok Mama. Are you getting up now?”
Me: “Do you see me moving? Do you see me getting up?”
Em: “Yeah. Are you going to make me eggs?”
Me: “Emily, for the love of all that is holy. I am getting up. I am going to make you eggs.”
Em: “Why are you going to the bathroom? I thought you were going to make me eggs”
Me: “I can not cook with a full bladder. Let me go to the bathroom”
She stands outside the door and waits for me to emerge.
Em: “Are you gonna make the eggs now?”
Me: “Yes. What kind of eggs do you want – 2 eggs scrambled?”
Em: “No.”
Me: “What? You got me up to make you eggs. What kind of eggs do you want”
Em: “What kind do I usually have?”
Me: “Scrambled.”
Em: “Ok, Then two eggs scrambled”
I cook eggs well. It is one of my failsafe dishes. I make them light and fluffy and present them to her on a plate with peaches on the side.
Em: “Mama, I’ve been thinking. I don’t want eggs.”
Me: “You got me up and hounded me to make you eggs. Now you say you don’t want the eggs. What on earth could you want?”
Em: “I’d like two glazed doughnuts- cause don’t you want to go to Dunkin Donuts and get yourself some coffee?”
Me: “I’d highly suggest that you eat those eggs, cause there is NO chance that you are getting anything resembling a glazed donut. But might I commend you on the effort to get me to drive out to get you some. Well played, chief.”
Em: “Ok Mama. These eggs look good But if you go out for coffee, can you get me two glazed donuts?”
Part II:
Me: “Emily, we all need to cooperate today and clean up our rooms. Can you please take care of your room?”
Em: “OK – but what are you going to do?”
Me: “The laundry and then cleaning the living room..”
Em: “Ok.” She disappears into her room. She emerges 3 minutes later.
Em: “I’ve been thinking Mama. It makes more sense for me to clean my room AFTER I play – cause I will just get it messy again. Sop I think I should Play FIRST and then clean. That’s a good plan, right Mama? Right? Cause I’ll just get it messy again if I clean it first”
Me: “Go sell that story to your father, Cause I am totally not buying that”
Why am I afraid when a seven year old can out-logic me twice by 9:30 in the morning?
Originally Posted January 2006
Lesson Learned....Never Aim for the Head
Friday, August 21, 2009
By Popular demand, The Back story of "Another Mothering Fail":
Hello all. Sorry for my little “hiatus”. Work has been, well, blecky, and I am premenstrual. Never a stellar combo. Add in the perpetual “My Balls hurt” moaning and you can well imagine the joy that has been present in my home. I am surprised they haven’t knocked on my door to do a holiday special.
Some aside notes: Yes, the Doctor has demanded that we have 20 sexual encounters before they can test his sperm sample for being “clear”. Until then, we can consider his penis a potentially lethal weapon.
We tried for the first time last night. I was terrified. I believe that I lay there like a blow up doll. I kept waiting for the whole thing to fall off on me. Talk about pressure.
He relates that he “feels better” today. Yeah right. I can see where this is going.
So today, I offer for your enjoyment, one of My most spectacular failures of mothering I was ever able to muster up. I present “The Day I caused my daughter to have a black eye cause I threw a Bitty Shoe at her in a fit of irritation” or “Why I almost had to call the Child Protective services people (….or me) on Me”
Last winter, Terrance had gone away for a business trip. I generally can keep my shit together for 5 days, then the veneer starts to crack and I look a little wild eyed and crazy.
At this point, I was driving her into school – which was 15 minutes PAST where I work, and then driving back to work, then after work driving to pick her up and then beginning the 45-minute to hour commute home. Since I picked her up at 5:30, I would get home at 6:30 p.m. or so. Not conducive to starting dinner, right? So every night when Daddy was gone, I would pick her up and take her to a different restaurant. It serves an all around need – we eat, I don’t have to cook, everyone is happy!
So, on the Thursday night in question, I decided that I wanted Thai food. I really, really wanted Thai food. Emily doesn’t care for the Thai restaurant cause she doesn’t like statues. We get to the door, she seems the statues and she starts to scream. Loudly. I am smiling at the Thai restaurant people, as my daughter crawls under my coat screaming “No, Mommy, No, I don’t like statues! Please don’t make me go in there!”
I smile at the worried looking hostess and try to say calmly “Can we have a table far, far away from any statues?” My coat is screaming and moving around. I lift the child and my coat and proceed to carry her to the table where I plop her down on the chair and whip off my coat – “See”, I say, “no statues! Calm down!”
We have a fairly pleasant dinner, after I assure her that the Tandori chicken is not the devils food, and that the jasmine rice is quite delicious!
I reward her with a new Bitty baby outfit. It is Blue and Velvety and she is excited. See – Life with Mommy is Fun!
Full and happy, we drive home. It is 7:30 p.m. and so, like Mommy’s all over the world, I am really, really ready for Em to hit the sack. We read, we snuggle and then it’s off to bed for her.
Except this is clearly not part of her plan. Instead, she hits the floor- in a full blown tantrum. She cannot find her new Bitty Shoe. I remain calm.
Me: “Did you check the car, next to your car seat?”
Em: “I CHECKED THERE IT’S GONE AND NOW MY LIFE IS RUINED!!!!”
Me: “Emily, there is no reason for you to have this reaction.”
Em: “NO, NO, NO, IT’S GONE, I LOOKED THERE AND IT’S GONE”
Me: “seriously Emily, you need to calm down – have you looked in the car?”
Em: “I TOLD YOU I LOOKED THERE AND IT’S GONE, YOU NEED TO FIND IT”
(There was more screaming at me, that I will leave to your imagination)
Me: (Voice raising) “Emily, I swear to god, that I if I go out to the car and find that damn bitty baby shoe, there is going to be hell to pay. I am throwing every last god damn bit of Bitty Baby shit away!!!!”
I run into the January cold night in my bare feet and pajamas. I whip open the car door and there it is – sitting right there – the blue velvet bitty baby shoe. Right where I said it would be.
I fly into the house and round the corner. I am Steaming mad. Psychotic Mommy Mad.
I throw my child’s bedroom door open and scream
“HERE’S YOUR FUCKING BITTY BABY SHOE”
And I throw the shoe in her direction. Now mind you, I wasn’t aiming at her head, really.
But like all moments of clarity, I watch as the shoe flies, in slow motion through the air. It makes a perfect arc and connects with her eye.
GGGGGAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSPPPPPPPPPPP. Did you hear the sucking intake of my breath?
My daughter grabs her eye and wails. Oh…………………Shit………………………….
I run and grab her hand and wrench it from her eye. I see the black and blue developing.
Em: “You hit me in the Eyyyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeee.”
I burst into tears and run for the telephone to call my husband.
Terrance: “Dawn, calm down. Now what happened? You threw a bitty baby shoe at her? You hit her in the eye? Why did you aim for her head? Never aim for the head, honey.”
So, he calms us both down and I apologize profusely to my daughter. She can tell she’s got me now. The Mommy guilt is wafting off of me like 5 day old fish.
But here’s the thing. I have to take her to school tomorrow. I ain’t got a quiet kid. She is about to relate in gut wrenching detail how Mommy popped her in the eye with a Bitty Baby shoe. Her eye is clearly bruised. I am fucked.
I also, at that time, was managing the registry for all those in the state who had been convicted for child abuse and neglect. If the teacher calls in the bruise, she is calling me into….well, me. Double fucked.
So I must do the Mommy walk of shame into the classroom and explain what happened last night in my house. Yes. I have to hang it all out there, since my kid is definitely talking. I get about halfway through the story and burst back into tears.
Em’s teacher hugs me and tells me that it’s all right- every parent in this room has lost it with their kid and done something that they regretted, including her. A hard spanking, an arm grab, a thrown bitty baby shoe. Nobody talks about it, she says, but we all have our moments.
And so, I share with you all. My Moment. My bad, bad mommy moment. And I can assure you; she milks that baby for all it’s worth. If you ever meet her just say “bitty shoe” and watch the story tumble from her mouth.
Originally posted November 2005
Hello all. Sorry for my little “hiatus”. Work has been, well, blecky, and I am premenstrual. Never a stellar combo. Add in the perpetual “My Balls hurt” moaning and you can well imagine the joy that has been present in my home. I am surprised they haven’t knocked on my door to do a holiday special.
Some aside notes: Yes, the Doctor has demanded that we have 20 sexual encounters before they can test his sperm sample for being “clear”. Until then, we can consider his penis a potentially lethal weapon.
We tried for the first time last night. I was terrified. I believe that I lay there like a blow up doll. I kept waiting for the whole thing to fall off on me. Talk about pressure.
He relates that he “feels better” today. Yeah right. I can see where this is going.
So today, I offer for your enjoyment, one of My most spectacular failures of mothering I was ever able to muster up. I present “The Day I caused my daughter to have a black eye cause I threw a Bitty Shoe at her in a fit of irritation” or “Why I almost had to call the Child Protective services people (….or me) on Me”
Last winter, Terrance had gone away for a business trip. I generally can keep my shit together for 5 days, then the veneer starts to crack and I look a little wild eyed and crazy.
At this point, I was driving her into school – which was 15 minutes PAST where I work, and then driving back to work, then after work driving to pick her up and then beginning the 45-minute to hour commute home. Since I picked her up at 5:30, I would get home at 6:30 p.m. or so. Not conducive to starting dinner, right? So every night when Daddy was gone, I would pick her up and take her to a different restaurant. It serves an all around need – we eat, I don’t have to cook, everyone is happy!
So, on the Thursday night in question, I decided that I wanted Thai food. I really, really wanted Thai food. Emily doesn’t care for the Thai restaurant cause she doesn’t like statues. We get to the door, she seems the statues and she starts to scream. Loudly. I am smiling at the Thai restaurant people, as my daughter crawls under my coat screaming “No, Mommy, No, I don’t like statues! Please don’t make me go in there!”
I smile at the worried looking hostess and try to say calmly “Can we have a table far, far away from any statues?” My coat is screaming and moving around. I lift the child and my coat and proceed to carry her to the table where I plop her down on the chair and whip off my coat – “See”, I say, “no statues! Calm down!”
We have a fairly pleasant dinner, after I assure her that the Tandori chicken is not the devils food, and that the jasmine rice is quite delicious!
I reward her with a new Bitty baby outfit. It is Blue and Velvety and she is excited. See – Life with Mommy is Fun!
Full and happy, we drive home. It is 7:30 p.m. and so, like Mommy’s all over the world, I am really, really ready for Em to hit the sack. We read, we snuggle and then it’s off to bed for her.
Except this is clearly not part of her plan. Instead, she hits the floor- in a full blown tantrum. She cannot find her new Bitty Shoe. I remain calm.
Me: “Did you check the car, next to your car seat?”
Em: “I CHECKED THERE IT’S GONE AND NOW MY LIFE IS RUINED!!!!”
Me: “Emily, there is no reason for you to have this reaction.”
Em: “NO, NO, NO, IT’S GONE, I LOOKED THERE AND IT’S GONE”
Me: “seriously Emily, you need to calm down – have you looked in the car?”
Em: “I TOLD YOU I LOOKED THERE AND IT’S GONE, YOU NEED TO FIND IT”
(There was more screaming at me, that I will leave to your imagination)
Me: (Voice raising) “Emily, I swear to god, that I if I go out to the car and find that damn bitty baby shoe, there is going to be hell to pay. I am throwing every last god damn bit of Bitty Baby shit away!!!!”
I run into the January cold night in my bare feet and pajamas. I whip open the car door and there it is – sitting right there – the blue velvet bitty baby shoe. Right where I said it would be.
I fly into the house and round the corner. I am Steaming mad. Psychotic Mommy Mad.
I throw my child’s bedroom door open and scream
“HERE’S YOUR FUCKING BITTY BABY SHOE”
And I throw the shoe in her direction. Now mind you, I wasn’t aiming at her head, really.
But like all moments of clarity, I watch as the shoe flies, in slow motion through the air. It makes a perfect arc and connects with her eye.
GGGGGAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSPPPPPPPPPPP. Did you hear the sucking intake of my breath?
My daughter grabs her eye and wails. Oh…………………Shit………………………….
I run and grab her hand and wrench it from her eye. I see the black and blue developing.
Em: “You hit me in the Eyyyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeee.”
I burst into tears and run for the telephone to call my husband.
Terrance: “Dawn, calm down. Now what happened? You threw a bitty baby shoe at her? You hit her in the eye? Why did you aim for her head? Never aim for the head, honey.”
So, he calms us both down and I apologize profusely to my daughter. She can tell she’s got me now. The Mommy guilt is wafting off of me like 5 day old fish.
But here’s the thing. I have to take her to school tomorrow. I ain’t got a quiet kid. She is about to relate in gut wrenching detail how Mommy popped her in the eye with a Bitty Baby shoe. Her eye is clearly bruised. I am fucked.
I also, at that time, was managing the registry for all those in the state who had been convicted for child abuse and neglect. If the teacher calls in the bruise, she is calling me into….well, me. Double fucked.
So I must do the Mommy walk of shame into the classroom and explain what happened last night in my house. Yes. I have to hang it all out there, since my kid is definitely talking. I get about halfway through the story and burst back into tears.
Em’s teacher hugs me and tells me that it’s all right- every parent in this room has lost it with their kid and done something that they regretted, including her. A hard spanking, an arm grab, a thrown bitty baby shoe. Nobody talks about it, she says, but we all have our moments.
And so, I share with you all. My Moment. My bad, bad mommy moment. And I can assure you; she milks that baby for all it’s worth. If you ever meet her just say “bitty shoe” and watch the story tumble from her mouth.
Originally posted November 2005
Let's call a spade a spade, shall we?
Friday, August 14, 2009
Part of the beauty of being a white American has been that we - as a group - get to "Opt out" of the ugly side of life.
We get to come up with phrases like "It was just a Joke - can't you take a JOKE?" or other elaborate boondoggles that surround issues of race and culture which are designed to deceive, inveigle and obfuscate what is apparent to everyone.
Racism is alive and well - and thriving - in the United States.
Sure, I see it in Montreal too - but this culture has a very different history and so its brand of racism is based on entirely different factors.
When a police dispatcher gets to forward this photo to her police dispatcher friends on their Police email accounts from their Police Computers of "Air Force One"?
Racist. Nope, not freedom of speech. Not a joke. Referring to our President as a Nigger is racist.
Those of us who grew up in America know what he word nigger means. It isn't even as veiled at the term "colored" - nope. It pretty much sets the stage for what one is going to assume is a Racist comment. Really no line of delineation there.
How about this one?
Any guesses? She loves gardening and has planted the first sustainable and organic garden on the grounds of the white house since the Victory gardens?
Noooo. We all know what this means, wink, wink. Because you know - Black people in America were SLAVES...and SLAVES WORKED THE FIELD to make crops for their WHITE MASTERS, thereby contributing to the wealth and status of those white masters at the expense of their own lives, liberty and pursuit of happiness. Did we mention she is black here? No, of course not. We really mean she just like gardening. Alot.
And because Black American women haven't suffered enough in the way of denigration, lets remind them of the times when they could be raped and lynched for being black. Lets remind them that too many of them are still being raped and that when they call the police dispatcher to report that....Oh yeah. The police dispatchers who forwarded the Nigger email take the call.
Well, it was a JOKE, remember. Geesh, Black people are so thin skinned when it comes to jokes.
A joke like this:
So, a Nigger - complete with bone in Nose and feathered headdress, AND the soviet hammer and sickle. This is quite a nuanced image. But really, its just a joke about health care.
And here's one of my Faves:
Wow, White guys. Imposing the faces of three black men onto KKK members. Not even a veiled try there.
You are collectively scared shitless aren't you? It isn't about socialism - which you wouldn't know if it bit you in the ass since none of you have read the works of Engels or Marx beyond repeating what you hear on talk radio. Its not about health care BEING socialized since many of you are benefiting from Government Health Care through federal health insurance, Medicare, Medicaid, the VA...you know, all programs the scary government run. Its because a BLACK man - unashamedly Black, with a Black wife and Black children - is running the country. A Black Man - who knows all the innuendos and backstory on all these images being served up since it has quite literally been beaten into the collective memory of African-Americans. A Black man who isn't afraid of you - with your gun toting protests and beet red faces screaming about things you know nothing about except that someone has stirred up the reality that having white skin doesn't make you better than someone else. And then you can quote the "founding fathers" who, lets face it, wouldn't have liked you either as they were traveled men of wealth and learning and you are a crazy mob who blindly repeats things they hear from other terrified white guys.
We are not in a post racial society - and only the deluded and purposely blind white people could tell you that we are. Electing this President doesn't mean we DON'T have to have the conversation that many of us are terrified of having - and not just with other safe white people. Cause we can still call the President a Nigger in private. With our safe white friends. They get the joke after all. We don't need to hide behind jokes and images and pretend ignorance of what symbols and words may or may not be racist.
The election of this President has ripped off a very infected scab on the face of America. People crying about wanting "their America to come back" - just say what you mean. The America where the President looks like YOU. The America where you can pretend that we are well beyond racism. The America where you can forward your funny jokes to one another and no one complains. Well, maybe that while lady who married the black guy and has the bi-racial daughter, but we knew she was a race traitor anyway.
Guess what. That America isn't coming back, and its death rattle is long overdue. It will kick and scream and try to get you to go along with the innuendos and winks. Cause your their friend, right? You look like me - We have the same background, right?
Nope. Some white people have turned in their membership cards at the door, me included. And I would highly warn you to watch your words around the other white people you assume to be part of your club. Because the first one of you to make one of these jokes in front of me ( and yes, there have been fool hardy souls to do so) will have your racist ass verbally handed to them so fast that they won't know what hit them.
Don't rest in peace, racist White America. You are a herpes sore on the ass of a fine country and you have got to go.
We get to come up with phrases like "It was just a Joke - can't you take a JOKE?" or other elaborate boondoggles that surround issues of race and culture which are designed to deceive, inveigle and obfuscate what is apparent to everyone.
Racism is alive and well - and thriving - in the United States.
Sure, I see it in Montreal too - but this culture has a very different history and so its brand of racism is based on entirely different factors.
When a police dispatcher gets to forward this photo to her police dispatcher friends on their Police email accounts from their Police Computers of "Air Force One"?
Racist. Nope, not freedom of speech. Not a joke. Referring to our President as a Nigger is racist.
Those of us who grew up in America know what he word nigger means. It isn't even as veiled at the term "colored" - nope. It pretty much sets the stage for what one is going to assume is a Racist comment. Really no line of delineation there.
How about this one?
Any guesses? She loves gardening and has planted the first sustainable and organic garden on the grounds of the white house since the Victory gardens?
Noooo. We all know what this means, wink, wink. Because you know - Black people in America were SLAVES...and SLAVES WORKED THE FIELD to make crops for their WHITE MASTERS, thereby contributing to the wealth and status of those white masters at the expense of their own lives, liberty and pursuit of happiness. Did we mention she is black here? No, of course not. We really mean she just like gardening. Alot.
And because Black American women haven't suffered enough in the way of denigration, lets remind them of the times when they could be raped and lynched for being black. Lets remind them that too many of them are still being raped and that when they call the police dispatcher to report that....Oh yeah. The police dispatchers who forwarded the Nigger email take the call.
Well, it was a JOKE, remember. Geesh, Black people are so thin skinned when it comes to jokes.
A joke like this:
So, a Nigger - complete with bone in Nose and feathered headdress, AND the soviet hammer and sickle. This is quite a nuanced image. But really, its just a joke about health care.
And here's one of my Faves:
Wow, White guys. Imposing the faces of three black men onto KKK members. Not even a veiled try there.
You are collectively scared shitless aren't you? It isn't about socialism - which you wouldn't know if it bit you in the ass since none of you have read the works of Engels or Marx beyond repeating what you hear on talk radio. Its not about health care BEING socialized since many of you are benefiting from Government Health Care through federal health insurance, Medicare, Medicaid, the VA...you know, all programs the scary government run. Its because a BLACK man - unashamedly Black, with a Black wife and Black children - is running the country. A Black Man - who knows all the innuendos and backstory on all these images being served up since it has quite literally been beaten into the collective memory of African-Americans. A Black man who isn't afraid of you - with your gun toting protests and beet red faces screaming about things you know nothing about except that someone has stirred up the reality that having white skin doesn't make you better than someone else. And then you can quote the "founding fathers" who, lets face it, wouldn't have liked you either as they were traveled men of wealth and learning and you are a crazy mob who blindly repeats things they hear from other terrified white guys.
We are not in a post racial society - and only the deluded and purposely blind white people could tell you that we are. Electing this President doesn't mean we DON'T have to have the conversation that many of us are terrified of having - and not just with other safe white people. Cause we can still call the President a Nigger in private. With our safe white friends. They get the joke after all. We don't need to hide behind jokes and images and pretend ignorance of what symbols and words may or may not be racist.
The election of this President has ripped off a very infected scab on the face of America. People crying about wanting "their America to come back" - just say what you mean. The America where the President looks like YOU. The America where you can pretend that we are well beyond racism. The America where you can forward your funny jokes to one another and no one complains. Well, maybe that while lady who married the black guy and has the bi-racial daughter, but we knew she was a race traitor anyway.
Guess what. That America isn't coming back, and its death rattle is long overdue. It will kick and scream and try to get you to go along with the innuendos and winks. Cause your their friend, right? You look like me - We have the same background, right?
Nope. Some white people have turned in their membership cards at the door, me included. And I would highly warn you to watch your words around the other white people you assume to be part of your club. Because the first one of you to make one of these jokes in front of me ( and yes, there have been fool hardy souls to do so) will have your racist ass verbally handed to them so fast that they won't know what hit them.
Don't rest in peace, racist White America. You are a herpes sore on the ass of a fine country and you have got to go.
Another Mothering Fail
Monday, August 10, 2009
Really it wasn't shocking. This latest incident. Since the incident with the Bitty Baby shoe, I have regularly confessed my less than stellar mom ability. My plan is that if I confess it first, she'll get alot less money for the tell-all book I expect her to someday shop around. At the very least, the therapist can read it as a first hand account from the pages of my blog.
I can go a long time keeping my cool. The medication helps of course, but in general I don't get riled up too often. This made me an excellent teacher of young children. Those nervous teachers never last long with the young ones as it quickly becomes a game of "drive the teacher bat shit nutty".
(Can I get an Amen from the teachers out there?)
Between my calm demeanor and my super awesome "teacher look " ( which also works on Undergraduate students and random co-workers) I can manage most situations with aplomb.
You might even find yourself compelled to apologize to me for unknown reasons after I affix the "look" upon you. Unless you happen to be my child.
If you are my child ( and occasionally my spouse), your ability to ignore the flashing warning sirens and shaking of the rattle on my tail is legendary. If you are my child, your ability to think I am kidding when I say "You need to calm down and listen to my words, you aren't listening to me and I am getting angry" is something to behold.
So what put her so far over the edge that I drove the car around the block a couple of times and then threw her water bottle at her when I finally DID come back?
A Spider.
And not even a big one.
We were leaving for camp/work. Things were going smoothly. Lunch, backpack, dry bathing suit and towel were packed and ready. We got into the car and I began to back out. As in actively driving and looking behind me as I attempted the taunting of death that is pulling out of my driveway. Looking behind me scanning for delivery trucks who will TRY TO KILL ME when she lets out a blood curdling scream, opens the door and throws herself from the slightly moving vehicle.
Ok. So it is true that she scared the shit out of me by leaping out of the car. This is a child who, at age 11, will still sit in the back seat and complain that she can't unbuckle herself. Therefore her speedy and deft ability to free herself from the seatbelt AND get the door open was a surprise.
Now you have two screaming females in the driveway. One in the car - with car halfway out of driveway, the other in the driveway - running away.
I can't recall the exact words I was screaming, but I believe they were several expletives, her name and "Prithee gentle child of mine, what troubles you?" or some other less gentile version of that phrase.
From a good 15 feet away, and with face COVERED in snot/tears, she screams: "SPIIIIIIIDDDDEEEERRRRRR"
Ok. Now I know the enemy. And I spot it. On the door. And it is not a death-leap from car worthy spider. I've seen those kind, and this ain't it.
"Emily. Stop Crying, Get back over here - open the door and knock that spider OUT"
More intense sobbing. Mucous emerging from passages. Some kind of jumbled, hiccuping ball of words is shouted at me. I fix my stare at her.
"Emily Damali" ( Dear lord, the middle NAME is coming out - this is mother speak for you, missy, are in some serious trouble and better get yourself together STAT)
"You find a stick and walk over here, open the door and knock that spider out of the car."
More incoherent mucous mumbling. Did I mention yet that this is all Pre-first cup of coffee? Because it is.
"I swear to you Emily Damali, if you don't knock it off this second, I am driving off without you."
Mind you, the door to the car is still wide open.
From Emily, there is pointing and sobbing and screaming. I back out like the Dukes of Hazard and make my passenger door slam shut. I drive away. Not really, of course. I drive around the block hoping that she will come to her senses and start to breathe again.
I circle the block and pull back into the driveway. She is sitting on the front step. Glaring.
Oh yes, my little jedi. Your teacher look, while good, does not match mine. You scare me not.
"Emily. Get a stick. Get back over here and knock that spider out of the car. It is a teeny tiny fraction of the size of you. Yes. I understand you do not like spiders. However, you need to problem solve this. Now get over here and TAKE CARE OF IT."
There is an edge to my voice. You parents know that edge. Shit, I know the edge from my own mother. It is the "Dear Lord Baby Jesus, do not make me come over there and beat your ass" edge. It is the "I am trying everything in my human power to not completely lose my shit and run through the yard trying to catch you while you scream about spiders" edge.
She stands and first tries to tell me there are no sticks in the yard. I simply stare at her. I mean, come on. If you are going to try to bullshit me, give it a real effort. She find the previously invisible stick and marches back over. Opens the door and throws the stick in the direction of the spider. Which misses the spider completely. Most likely it provided the spider with a cooling breeze as it soared by.
I stare at her. We are now in a battle of wills, my daughter and I. I immediately feel the balance of her teen years hanging before us. Will I be one of those mothers - fixing every problem, smoothing every wrinkle?
Oh No, Mo-fo. You are going to do this if it is the last thing you do. I pick up the water bottle she has tucked in the cup holder. And I am sorry to say, I throw it at her legs. And it makes contact. Thunk. She now has forgotten the danger of the spider. The danger of her mother is in the forefront of her attention.
"HEEEEYYYYY! THAT HURTS!!!" she screams.
"GOOD", I yell back, "I MEANT IT TO - NOW TAKE CARE OF THAT SPIDER."
I am in full mother rage. Teeth clenched. Nose breathing. Lips pursed. Palms and armpits sweating.
She stares at me. She looks in the back of the car. She looks back at me.
"Can I use your sneaker to get the spider out?"
"Of course. Please. Be my guest."
And in less than 5 seconds, the spider is knocked from the car door and made a "former spider" by a Converse sneaker wielding girl.
She gets in the car. Our silence is deep. Our wrinkle in time not yet corrected.
I drive.
I offer the olive branch with this question:
"What could I have done differently in that situation?" and allow her to criticize my mothering safely - for both of us.
By the time we get to camp, we kiss and I wish her a lovely day.
She lingers. "I love you, Mom."
"I love you too, my brave girl."
I can go a long time keeping my cool. The medication helps of course, but in general I don't get riled up too often. This made me an excellent teacher of young children. Those nervous teachers never last long with the young ones as it quickly becomes a game of "drive the teacher bat shit nutty".
(Can I get an Amen from the teachers out there?)
Between my calm demeanor and my super awesome "teacher look " ( which also works on Undergraduate students and random co-workers) I can manage most situations with aplomb.
You might even find yourself compelled to apologize to me for unknown reasons after I affix the "look" upon you. Unless you happen to be my child.
If you are my child ( and occasionally my spouse), your ability to ignore the flashing warning sirens and shaking of the rattle on my tail is legendary. If you are my child, your ability to think I am kidding when I say "You need to calm down and listen to my words, you aren't listening to me and I am getting angry" is something to behold.
So what put her so far over the edge that I drove the car around the block a couple of times and then threw her water bottle at her when I finally DID come back?
A Spider.
And not even a big one.
We were leaving for camp/work. Things were going smoothly. Lunch, backpack, dry bathing suit and towel were packed and ready. We got into the car and I began to back out. As in actively driving and looking behind me as I attempted the taunting of death that is pulling out of my driveway. Looking behind me scanning for delivery trucks who will TRY TO KILL ME when she lets out a blood curdling scream, opens the door and throws herself from the slightly moving vehicle.
Ok. So it is true that she scared the shit out of me by leaping out of the car. This is a child who, at age 11, will still sit in the back seat and complain that she can't unbuckle herself. Therefore her speedy and deft ability to free herself from the seatbelt AND get the door open was a surprise.
Now you have two screaming females in the driveway. One in the car - with car halfway out of driveway, the other in the driveway - running away.
I can't recall the exact words I was screaming, but I believe they were several expletives, her name and "Prithee gentle child of mine, what troubles you?" or some other less gentile version of that phrase.
From a good 15 feet away, and with face COVERED in snot/tears, she screams: "SPIIIIIIIDDDDEEEERRRRRR"
Ok. Now I know the enemy. And I spot it. On the door. And it is not a death-leap from car worthy spider. I've seen those kind, and this ain't it.
"Emily. Stop Crying, Get back over here - open the door and knock that spider OUT"
More intense sobbing. Mucous emerging from passages. Some kind of jumbled, hiccuping ball of words is shouted at me. I fix my stare at her.
"Emily Damali" ( Dear lord, the middle NAME is coming out - this is mother speak for you, missy, are in some serious trouble and better get yourself together STAT)
"You find a stick and walk over here, open the door and knock that spider out of the car."
More incoherent mucous mumbling. Did I mention yet that this is all Pre-first cup of coffee? Because it is.
"I swear to you Emily Damali, if you don't knock it off this second, I am driving off without you."
Mind you, the door to the car is still wide open.
From Emily, there is pointing and sobbing and screaming. I back out like the Dukes of Hazard and make my passenger door slam shut. I drive away. Not really, of course. I drive around the block hoping that she will come to her senses and start to breathe again.
I circle the block and pull back into the driveway. She is sitting on the front step. Glaring.
Oh yes, my little jedi. Your teacher look, while good, does not match mine. You scare me not.
"Emily. Get a stick. Get back over here and knock that spider out of the car. It is a teeny tiny fraction of the size of you. Yes. I understand you do not like spiders. However, you need to problem solve this. Now get over here and TAKE CARE OF IT."
There is an edge to my voice. You parents know that edge. Shit, I know the edge from my own mother. It is the "Dear Lord Baby Jesus, do not make me come over there and beat your ass" edge. It is the "I am trying everything in my human power to not completely lose my shit and run through the yard trying to catch you while you scream about spiders" edge.
She stands and first tries to tell me there are no sticks in the yard. I simply stare at her. I mean, come on. If you are going to try to bullshit me, give it a real effort. She find the previously invisible stick and marches back over. Opens the door and throws the stick in the direction of the spider. Which misses the spider completely. Most likely it provided the spider with a cooling breeze as it soared by.
I stare at her. We are now in a battle of wills, my daughter and I. I immediately feel the balance of her teen years hanging before us. Will I be one of those mothers - fixing every problem, smoothing every wrinkle?
Oh No, Mo-fo. You are going to do this if it is the last thing you do. I pick up the water bottle she has tucked in the cup holder. And I am sorry to say, I throw it at her legs. And it makes contact. Thunk. She now has forgotten the danger of the spider. The danger of her mother is in the forefront of her attention.
"HEEEEYYYYY! THAT HURTS!!!" she screams.
"GOOD", I yell back, "I MEANT IT TO - NOW TAKE CARE OF THAT SPIDER."
I am in full mother rage. Teeth clenched. Nose breathing. Lips pursed. Palms and armpits sweating.
She stares at me. She looks in the back of the car. She looks back at me.
"Can I use your sneaker to get the spider out?"
"Of course. Please. Be my guest."
And in less than 5 seconds, the spider is knocked from the car door and made a "former spider" by a Converse sneaker wielding girl.
She gets in the car. Our silence is deep. Our wrinkle in time not yet corrected.
I drive.
I offer the olive branch with this question:
"What could I have done differently in that situation?" and allow her to criticize my mothering safely - for both of us.
By the time we get to camp, we kiss and I wish her a lovely day.
She lingers. "I love you, Mom."
"I love you too, my brave girl."
Not seen, Not believed
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Terrance was born in Detroit, Michigan, on a fine October day back in 1961. Attending the birth were his mother, father , and various nurses and doctors.
He grew up in the same city in which he was born.
Later, he went east to some fancy pants school where he was often one of the only black dudes to be seen for miles and miles around. He got an undergraduate degree in Law and sociology. He got a Masters degree in Sociology and even had three years of lawyer school. He got a Doctorate in Sociology. He taught at some colleges and university's and was a good professor, from what I have been told. He got good at socializing amongst the white people. he even got one to marry him.
BUT, I think he isn't telling me the truth. I think he was born in Kenya. Or maybe Mali. Niger? Chad? Some place with Black people.
Why do I think this?
He doesn't have a birth certificate.
Yeah, his mom has some "story" about how he was born in Detroit and everything...but I don't know. I mean Yeah - I see him walking around. Yeah, I reproduced with him. But I can't be sure that he IS who he says he IS. I can't be sure that the schools and other institutions that he has attended have adequately documented who he IS, for real.
His "Mom" - if that is who she really is....now that I think about it, I didn't see her gestate and push him out after all - said she went to the records division and was told that the "Hospital", if it was really that - "burned down" in the late 60's and that the records were "lost".
"burned down"? "Burned Down"? ! More like she BURNED it down to hide the evidence of his non-birth. She was a member of the Black Panthers, after all. It was part of her crazy plot to rid the world of whiteys.
According to "her" - if she is female, I have never seen her naked after all, she then went to the state capitol and tried to get some kind of record stating Terrance was born in Michigan - which they wouldn't give her, because they don't have any kind of record ...because they were "burned" with the hospital fire.
Now, we did have a document - a small3X5 card that was alleged to be his birth certificate. It was pretty beat up and when we mailed it in for his passport...we never got it back. Lost, they said. But we all now can see where this is going? The Black Panther Conspiracy that set these wheels in motion in 1961, with the planned insemination of my husbands "mother" and the subsequent burning of the hospital had intercepted the birth certificate and destroyed it.
I see it all now. My husband is not a black African American Man from Detroit, but part of the African Continents long range plan to take over the United States and oppress teh white peoplez.
Why didn't I see this earlier? Was it my liberal, bleeding heart conscience? No, it couldn't be that.
He drugged me. He and his wiley black family drugged me and convinced me he was an American and that I should fall in love with him and get married and produce a baby. How could I have been so blind not to request and see a certified, official, cross your heart and hope to die copy of a birth certificate in a zip-loc bag, hand presented to me by the doctor who delivered him, and then certified by a pristine DVD copy of the entirety of his birth, complete with proof that this DVD was produced in 1961.
Wait. There were no DVDs in 1961. Except in Africa, I bet.
Helpz! Helpz!
Hey, wait a second. Does this mean I will get to be first lady?
He grew up in the same city in which he was born.
Later, he went east to some fancy pants school where he was often one of the only black dudes to be seen for miles and miles around. He got an undergraduate degree in Law and sociology. He got a Masters degree in Sociology and even had three years of lawyer school. He got a Doctorate in Sociology. He taught at some colleges and university's and was a good professor, from what I have been told. He got good at socializing amongst the white people. he even got one to marry him.
BUT, I think he isn't telling me the truth. I think he was born in Kenya. Or maybe Mali. Niger? Chad? Some place with Black people.
Why do I think this?
He doesn't have a birth certificate.
Yeah, his mom has some "story" about how he was born in Detroit and everything...but I don't know. I mean Yeah - I see him walking around. Yeah, I reproduced with him. But I can't be sure that he IS who he says he IS. I can't be sure that the schools and other institutions that he has attended have adequately documented who he IS, for real.
His "Mom" - if that is who she really is....now that I think about it, I didn't see her gestate and push him out after all - said she went to the records division and was told that the "Hospital", if it was really that - "burned down" in the late 60's and that the records were "lost".
"burned down"? "Burned Down"? ! More like she BURNED it down to hide the evidence of his non-birth. She was a member of the Black Panthers, after all. It was part of her crazy plot to rid the world of whiteys.
According to "her" - if she is female, I have never seen her naked after all, she then went to the state capitol and tried to get some kind of record stating Terrance was born in Michigan - which they wouldn't give her, because they don't have any kind of record ...because they were "burned" with the hospital fire.
Now, we did have a document - a small3X5 card that was alleged to be his birth certificate. It was pretty beat up and when we mailed it in for his passport...we never got it back. Lost, they said. But we all now can see where this is going? The Black Panther Conspiracy that set these wheels in motion in 1961, with the planned insemination of my husbands "mother" and the subsequent burning of the hospital had intercepted the birth certificate and destroyed it.
I see it all now. My husband is not a black African American Man from Detroit, but part of the African Continents long range plan to take over the United States and oppress teh white peoplez.
Why didn't I see this earlier? Was it my liberal, bleeding heart conscience? No, it couldn't be that.
He drugged me. He and his wiley black family drugged me and convinced me he was an American and that I should fall in love with him and get married and produce a baby. How could I have been so blind not to request and see a certified, official, cross your heart and hope to die copy of a birth certificate in a zip-loc bag, hand presented to me by the doctor who delivered him, and then certified by a pristine DVD copy of the entirety of his birth, complete with proof that this DVD was produced in 1961.
Wait. There were no DVDs in 1961. Except in Africa, I bet.
Helpz! Helpz!
Hey, wait a second. Does this mean I will get to be first lady?
I was racially profiled
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Several years ago I was stopped by the police.
I was just driving along and bam - pulled over.
Well, actually I was speeding a bit - but downhill. And I was only coasting. And I was on my way to jury duty...where I was juror number 5 in a first degree murder trial. Where the accused were young Hispanic and Black men, and a drug deal gone terribly wrong. It was, however, their good fortune to have committed this (alleged) crime in New Hampshire, where the 98% white populations was Sure to give them a fair and equitable trial. And They pulled me. The white wife of one of the Two Black dudes who lived in all of Strafford.
So there I was, on my way to perform my enforced civic duty when I was so rudely pulled over. And given a ticket. Which seemed wildly unfair to me, given where I was going. Did he realize the photos of blood and brain I had to look at for the past week? That I had to stick my head in a tiny Ford Escort, and look down on the seat where one man died after being shot in the head and neck and two others fled the scene. That my delicate white lady sensibility had been roundly abused by having to learn details of drug deals and babys mommas, my ears assaulted by slang terms like "crush", meaning "to have sex" and why these young men were wearing such baggy trousers as was the style in their "group".
Flash forward to months later when the trial was long over and I was to have my day in court to protest my ticket. I dressed carefully that day. I wore a lovely light purple velveteen dress with matching purple leather pumps. I was wearing the pearls with the matching earrings that my husband had given me for a Christmas years prior. As it was winter, I had my cashmere long coat on with a small, but tasteful, bag to finish the look.
I arrived at the courthouse and presented my bag for inspection. I smiled and flirted with the elderly court guard. I am not a flirty woman, but I was prepared for what I was marching in to battle and a bit of practice couldn't hurt.
I was handed my purse and wished good luck by the baliff. I walked into the courtroom and walked to the front to await my turn. The judge had not yet arrived, so I glanced to my left and right, seeing the police officer who had detained and ticketed me over to the right. There were other people too seated towards the back. Women and men - all white, but dressed in a terrible choice of clothes. Lots of Denim, sneakers and Nascar shirts. Were they aware they were in court?
I was called first - Naturally. I was sitting right up front, after all. The prosecutor offerred his summary of the case - That I was speeding and was given a ticket. I walked across the court room and was sworn in. I sat in the witness box, and offerred my response. Which was that I "might" have been speeding, a little. But That I was a juror on this murder trial and it was very stressful...and that I just don't normally break the law, but this trial - you see - the pictures. Plus I work for the State , part of DCYF (which houses child protection). I help enforce the laws.
I smiled at the judge. I may have even cocked my head to show my earrings and matching necklace.
The judge smiled back. "No more Speeding, Ma'am - we want you to get home to your family safe and sound!"
I smiled back. I nodded.
He dismissed the ticket and I walked out a vindicated woman.
*************************************************************************************
There is sarcasm and irony in this story. There is also a bit of self acknowledged shame that I played my part so well. I went into that court room to portray a very specific image, which I achieved most successfully. As the wife of a Black American , I have been in the car ( or right behind) when He has been stopped for DWB (Driving while Black). I have seen him waved through the airport security when he is with me or our daughter, but stopped and searched when he is alone. I deserved that ticket. I WAS speeding. My skin color and socio-economic status were my free pass that day in the courtroom. As to the trial in which I was a juror, I have written about that before here. I am still a bit haunted by what happened in the jury room.
I was just driving along and bam - pulled over.
Well, actually I was speeding a bit - but downhill. And I was only coasting. And I was on my way to jury duty...where I was juror number 5 in a first degree murder trial. Where the accused were young Hispanic and Black men, and a drug deal gone terribly wrong. It was, however, their good fortune to have committed this (alleged) crime in New Hampshire, where the 98% white populations was Sure to give them a fair and equitable trial. And They pulled me. The white wife of one of the Two Black dudes who lived in all of Strafford.
So there I was, on my way to perform my enforced civic duty when I was so rudely pulled over. And given a ticket. Which seemed wildly unfair to me, given where I was going. Did he realize the photos of blood and brain I had to look at for the past week? That I had to stick my head in a tiny Ford Escort, and look down on the seat where one man died after being shot in the head and neck and two others fled the scene. That my delicate white lady sensibility had been roundly abused by having to learn details of drug deals and babys mommas, my ears assaulted by slang terms like "crush", meaning "to have sex" and why these young men were wearing such baggy trousers as was the style in their "group".
Flash forward to months later when the trial was long over and I was to have my day in court to protest my ticket. I dressed carefully that day. I wore a lovely light purple velveteen dress with matching purple leather pumps. I was wearing the pearls with the matching earrings that my husband had given me for a Christmas years prior. As it was winter, I had my cashmere long coat on with a small, but tasteful, bag to finish the look.
I arrived at the courthouse and presented my bag for inspection. I smiled and flirted with the elderly court guard. I am not a flirty woman, but I was prepared for what I was marching in to battle and a bit of practice couldn't hurt.
I was handed my purse and wished good luck by the baliff. I walked into the courtroom and walked to the front to await my turn. The judge had not yet arrived, so I glanced to my left and right, seeing the police officer who had detained and ticketed me over to the right. There were other people too seated towards the back. Women and men - all white, but dressed in a terrible choice of clothes. Lots of Denim, sneakers and Nascar shirts. Were they aware they were in court?
I was called first - Naturally. I was sitting right up front, after all. The prosecutor offerred his summary of the case - That I was speeding and was given a ticket. I walked across the court room and was sworn in. I sat in the witness box, and offerred my response. Which was that I "might" have been speeding, a little. But That I was a juror on this murder trial and it was very stressful...and that I just don't normally break the law, but this trial - you see - the pictures. Plus I work for the State , part of DCYF (which houses child protection). I help enforce the laws.
I smiled at the judge. I may have even cocked my head to show my earrings and matching necklace.
The judge smiled back. "No more Speeding, Ma'am - we want you to get home to your family safe and sound!"
I smiled back. I nodded.
He dismissed the ticket and I walked out a vindicated woman.
*************************************************************************************
There is sarcasm and irony in this story. There is also a bit of self acknowledged shame that I played my part so well. I went into that court room to portray a very specific image, which I achieved most successfully. As the wife of a Black American , I have been in the car ( or right behind) when He has been stopped for DWB (Driving while Black). I have seen him waved through the airport security when he is with me or our daughter, but stopped and searched when he is alone. I deserved that ticket. I WAS speeding. My skin color and socio-economic status were my free pass that day in the courtroom. As to the trial in which I was a juror, I have written about that before here. I am still a bit haunted by what happened in the jury room.
Lost Playmates
Sunday, August 02, 2009
So here is a not so shocking bit of news in the Blog-o-sphere...
When you spazz out and completely flee the Blog World in 2007, because you have a full blown manic f-ing depressive episode...
When you drop off the entire Bloggy planet and don't read any of your friends, even though you Love them...but participating in the bloggy world become just too much to bear because that means, well INTERACTING and shit...
When you decide after two years, which, lets face - is antediluvian in the time epochs of the internets - to wander back and try to find all of your peeps, your homies, your original Phi Delta Badass...
They ain't all there.
In recent weeks, my life seems to be filtering down to something. Wheels turning. Pulp falling to bottom of glass. I twist and squirm in my skin, trying to figure out what it is that I seem to be morphing into, but it still has no recognizable shape or form. I can only tell you is that it is Different.
I feel like I walked back into a playground that was waiting for me to arrive...but there is no one left on the swings. No one on the slides. No one over there by the fence telling ghostly tales and urban myths to each other.
I wandered last night through the places I used to live - old friends who started off as ideas and became people through conversations and interactions. From what I can piece together many of them fell prey to lives outside of the bloggy world - which is good and right and just. In the first heady wave of blogging, many of us set aside partners and children to visit these new friends and laugh. Those who have set aside blogging to be parents and partners, I miss your company, but I understand. Some seem to have fallen into dark places through depressions and miscarriages. Places that if I were braver I would wade into and sit with them to offer comfort and companionship.
Others? Well, others friendships ran their courses. People meandered into different places in lives, goals and careers. I understand that too.
I stand at the edge of my play yard. I look out into the dusk.
I yell
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry I withdrew so deeply into myself that I locked the door to the yard and refused to go out. I'm sorry I missed babies being born, babies being lost and the million other joys and sorrows that happened in your lives. Marriages. Divorces. The terrible. The frightening, the sublime. I didn't mean to abandon you."
And I wait here in the edge of the yard...just on the edge of the dark peering out waiting for a noise. A whisper. Anything. I pick up a small stone and throw it up into the air and watch the bats dive and turn towards it.
I can wait.
When you spazz out and completely flee the Blog World in 2007, because you have a full blown manic f-ing depressive episode...
When you drop off the entire Bloggy planet and don't read any of your friends, even though you Love them...but participating in the bloggy world become just too much to bear because that means, well INTERACTING and shit...
When you decide after two years, which, lets face - is antediluvian in the time epochs of the internets - to wander back and try to find all of your peeps, your homies, your original Phi Delta Badass...
They ain't all there.
In recent weeks, my life seems to be filtering down to something. Wheels turning. Pulp falling to bottom of glass. I twist and squirm in my skin, trying to figure out what it is that I seem to be morphing into, but it still has no recognizable shape or form. I can only tell you is that it is Different.
I feel like I walked back into a playground that was waiting for me to arrive...but there is no one left on the swings. No one on the slides. No one over there by the fence telling ghostly tales and urban myths to each other.
I wandered last night through the places I used to live - old friends who started off as ideas and became people through conversations and interactions. From what I can piece together many of them fell prey to lives outside of the bloggy world - which is good and right and just. In the first heady wave of blogging, many of us set aside partners and children to visit these new friends and laugh. Those who have set aside blogging to be parents and partners, I miss your company, but I understand. Some seem to have fallen into dark places through depressions and miscarriages. Places that if I were braver I would wade into and sit with them to offer comfort and companionship.
Others? Well, others friendships ran their courses. People meandered into different places in lives, goals and careers. I understand that too.
I stand at the edge of my play yard. I look out into the dusk.
I yell
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry I withdrew so deeply into myself that I locked the door to the yard and refused to go out. I'm sorry I missed babies being born, babies being lost and the million other joys and sorrows that happened in your lives. Marriages. Divorces. The terrible. The frightening, the sublime. I didn't mean to abandon you."
And I wait here in the edge of the yard...just on the edge of the dark peering out waiting for a noise. A whisper. Anything. I pick up a small stone and throw it up into the air and watch the bats dive and turn towards it.
I can wait.
Clash of the Titans
Friday, July 31, 2009
The scene: Last night,My bedroom
Me: ( On computer reading witty Internet friends…silence)
Em: (On bed rolling around watching Disney Channel) Can I have some ice?
Me: In a minute, honey – mommy’s looking at something.
Em: Can you get me some ice?
Me: I said I would get you some in a minute, please wait.
Five minutes pass
Em: Mom, you said you would get me some ice.
Me: I know – just let me finish this
Em: (Loud, audible sigh)
Me: Ask your father if you can’t wait.
Em: I can wait, I just want some ice.
Terrance: (From other room) Get her the ice yourself!
Me: Fine, I will get you some ice!
I go to the fridge and retrieve three ice cubes for my child to chew on. At the same time, my husband requests that I fetch him something from another room “since I’m up”. I scowl at him and march back into hand my child her accursed ice cubes, then march back out to give him the paper he requested.
2.7 minutes later
Em: I’m ready for bed – I’m done with the ice cubes.
Me: You have got to be shitting me. You’re done with the ice cubes? After all that?
Em: Yeah, just put them in the sink.
Me: You know, it’s lucky you are so cute, or we would have left you by the side of the road to be raised by rodents a long time ago.
Em: (perfectly serious) One Time you did.*
Me: Oh no, sister, that was your father – you can’t pin that one on me. That’s one therapy session in which I won’t be featured.
** Back story.
When Emily was just three, she had a bad habit of throwing things at us when we drove. Her shoes, socks, toys, books. She would get mad and throw things. One rainy day she threw something at her daddy as he drove and he said:
Terrance: “You do that again and I am going to stop and put you out at the side of the road”
Emily: Throws something
Tee: “I am serious, little bad ass – don’t think I won’t stop and put your ass out”
Emily: “Go ahead. Do it.”
(I am in the passenger seat with my mouth a perfect O – cause it is ON now, mofo. White parents will threaten - Black parents will DO)
Terrance pulls over to the side of the road.
Tee: Ok – Get Out”
Emily: Unbuckles her car seat “Ok, I’m going”
She GETS OUT of the car and stands by the car in the rain and shuts the door,
Me: Turning to Terrance “Holy Shit – what are we going to do?”
Tee: I don’t know – I didn’t think she would really get out
Me: She is such a bas ass. I am going to unroll the window and ask her if she wants to get back in.
Me: Em – are you ready to get back in the car?
She stares at me with her little lips puckered up in defiance
Me: “You can get back in, if you are ready to listen to Daddy’s words”
Emily silently opens the car door and climbs back into her car seat.
We drive home and I prepare myself for the hell that will be her teenage years.
Originally Published October 2005
Me: ( On computer reading witty Internet friends…silence)
Em: (On bed rolling around watching Disney Channel) Can I have some ice?
Me: In a minute, honey – mommy’s looking at something.
Em: Can you get me some ice?
Me: I said I would get you some in a minute, please wait.
Five minutes pass
Em: Mom, you said you would get me some ice.
Me: I know – just let me finish this
Em: (Loud, audible sigh)
Me: Ask your father if you can’t wait.
Em: I can wait, I just want some ice.
Terrance: (From other room) Get her the ice yourself!
Me: Fine, I will get you some ice!
I go to the fridge and retrieve three ice cubes for my child to chew on. At the same time, my husband requests that I fetch him something from another room “since I’m up”. I scowl at him and march back into hand my child her accursed ice cubes, then march back out to give him the paper he requested.
2.7 minutes later
Em: I’m ready for bed – I’m done with the ice cubes.
Me: You have got to be shitting me. You’re done with the ice cubes? After all that?
Em: Yeah, just put them in the sink.
Me: You know, it’s lucky you are so cute, or we would have left you by the side of the road to be raised by rodents a long time ago.
Em: (perfectly serious) One Time you did.*
Me: Oh no, sister, that was your father – you can’t pin that one on me. That’s one therapy session in which I won’t be featured.
** Back story.
When Emily was just three, she had a bad habit of throwing things at us when we drove. Her shoes, socks, toys, books. She would get mad and throw things. One rainy day she threw something at her daddy as he drove and he said:
Terrance: “You do that again and I am going to stop and put you out at the side of the road”
Emily: Throws something
Tee: “I am serious, little bad ass – don’t think I won’t stop and put your ass out”
Emily: “Go ahead. Do it.”
(I am in the passenger seat with my mouth a perfect O – cause it is ON now, mofo. White parents will threaten - Black parents will DO)
Terrance pulls over to the side of the road.
Tee: Ok – Get Out”
Emily: Unbuckles her car seat “Ok, I’m going”
She GETS OUT of the car and stands by the car in the rain and shuts the door,
Me: Turning to Terrance “Holy Shit – what are we going to do?”
Tee: I don’t know – I didn’t think she would really get out
Me: She is such a bas ass. I am going to unroll the window and ask her if she wants to get back in.
Me: Em – are you ready to get back in the car?
She stares at me with her little lips puckered up in defiance
Me: “You can get back in, if you are ready to listen to Daddy’s words”
Emily silently opens the car door and climbs back into her car seat.
We drive home and I prepare myself for the hell that will be her teenage years.
Originally Published October 2005
Nothing more than feelings
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Below is the post that I have had in draft since the 2007 BlogHer. I rarely leave my own blog cave anymore, and have only very,very recently started looking at other peoples blogs again.
Not because I don't love my true Bloggy Friends, but because well, I didn't like what the Blog world had become in 2007. I couldn't participate in what I was seeing. It horrified me then and I ran as fast and far as I could.
This is the conference where I watched True Wife get blatently ripped off and very, very few of my Blog "friends" stood by me. Some did, of course -( and you know who you are) and for that, you have my serious lifelong loyalty. I mean it. Karen, need a bottle of wine? I can drive it there. Izzy - you remain THE SHIT. Nancy, Jenn, Jess, and Tammy - we need a serious mini-blog-us long weekend.
In reading some of the recap posts across the net, I have had a hearty chuckle. Oh, the pots calling the collective kettles black. Great googley moogley. Some of these same outraged bloggers did the very same things in 2007. There didn't seem to be any outrage then. Well, maybe from me - who then got kind of kicked out of the "in crowd".
Listen. I hold no ill will towards people who make money from their writing - how ever they do it. I made my peace with where the Blog world was heading in 2007. As with any medium, the cream WILL rise. Women who are good writers will continue on as writers. Mommy-ness has not a good god damn thing too do with it. Children grow, Mommy hood changes - but we remain. The Women writers. The Women Bloggers. Complex. Quirky. Smart. Real.
No one handed me a medal in 2005 for blogging and the 50 bucks or so I earn from all my combined ad revenue keeps me in Coffee for the month, so I continue on. I Blog because I want to Blog, just like I slog away at this PhD ( and this is the point where I raise my fist and say KHAN!!!!) because I WANT it. A newish friend said to me "You have a thirst to write this all out, don't you?"
Yep. Thats why I do this. Because I have to. I want to. I need to.
*************************************************************************************
Ahem.
Hi there.
Its Me.
At BlogHer 2007. And I am not enjoying myself - Which is no fault of the conference sponsors, organizers, or anyone affiliated with the conference planning.
On one hand, I thought it would be good to come and network and visit with old bloggy friends and make a few new ones - kinda like I did last year. And that part? Awesome. Amazing. Pee inducing hysteria and fun.
I mean, for real. When you can wake up and have Izzy announce that she wishes a man with limited clothing would deliver a platter of bacon to our room. Fan-fucking-tastic.
And the drinking? Most excellent, as always. We are a community of barely restrained alkies, us Bloggers we.
However on the other hand - one thing I loved about blogging, the intimacy, the feeling of belonging that I once derived from reading others blogs and in writing my own? I am not feeling it.
Of course, I may no longer be in with the in-crowd after my year long mind-losing crazy fest.
And hey. I was never meant to be in an in crowd anyway. It freaks me out. Shit, just being in a ballroom with what feels like a mind crushing amount of people is freaking me out - which is one of the many reasons I have fled to the safety of my room. I don't know nearly anyone here....and I won't wear my nametag cause having everyone look at my boob is unsettling.
And then, there is something else. I am not a name caller. I will not go into details regarding what I will now forever after refer to as "the awakening" - but something happened here, for me, that has hurt me - deeply. As I lay my head on Her Bad Mothers shoulder today and had a little cry I realized that my perception of the Blog-i-verse? The one in which people respect others and play fair? The one in which credit is given to the appropriate people?
Well. I am naive. I should have been more savvy. Played harder. As much as anything else, I am sad and hurt by my own naivety. I am alarmed at the person I will have to inhabit to rectify what I consider to be a fundamental wrong. I am saddened by the realization that MY dream/fantasy world of BlogHer/blogging is not what I wanted or hoped or needed.
Not because I don't love my true Bloggy Friends, but because well, I didn't like what the Blog world had become in 2007. I couldn't participate in what I was seeing. It horrified me then and I ran as fast and far as I could.
This is the conference where I watched True Wife get blatently ripped off and very, very few of my Blog "friends" stood by me. Some did, of course -( and you know who you are) and for that, you have my serious lifelong loyalty. I mean it. Karen, need a bottle of wine? I can drive it there. Izzy - you remain THE SHIT. Nancy, Jenn, Jess, and Tammy - we need a serious mini-blog-us long weekend.
In reading some of the recap posts across the net, I have had a hearty chuckle. Oh, the pots calling the collective kettles black. Great googley moogley. Some of these same outraged bloggers did the very same things in 2007. There didn't seem to be any outrage then. Well, maybe from me - who then got kind of kicked out of the "in crowd".
Listen. I hold no ill will towards people who make money from their writing - how ever they do it. I made my peace with where the Blog world was heading in 2007. As with any medium, the cream WILL rise. Women who are good writers will continue on as writers. Mommy-ness has not a good god damn thing too do with it. Children grow, Mommy hood changes - but we remain. The Women writers. The Women Bloggers. Complex. Quirky. Smart. Real.
No one handed me a medal in 2005 for blogging and the 50 bucks or so I earn from all my combined ad revenue keeps me in Coffee for the month, so I continue on. I Blog because I want to Blog, just like I slog away at this PhD ( and this is the point where I raise my fist and say KHAN!!!!) because I WANT it. A newish friend said to me "You have a thirst to write this all out, don't you?"
Yep. Thats why I do this. Because I have to. I want to. I need to.
*************************************************************************************
Ahem.
Hi there.
Its Me.
At BlogHer 2007. And I am not enjoying myself - Which is no fault of the conference sponsors, organizers, or anyone affiliated with the conference planning.
On one hand, I thought it would be good to come and network and visit with old bloggy friends and make a few new ones - kinda like I did last year. And that part? Awesome. Amazing. Pee inducing hysteria and fun.
I mean, for real. When you can wake up and have Izzy announce that she wishes a man with limited clothing would deliver a platter of bacon to our room. Fan-fucking-tastic.
And the drinking? Most excellent, as always. We are a community of barely restrained alkies, us Bloggers we.
However on the other hand - one thing I loved about blogging, the intimacy, the feeling of belonging that I once derived from reading others blogs and in writing my own? I am not feeling it.
Of course, I may no longer be in with the in-crowd after my year long mind-losing crazy fest.
And hey. I was never meant to be in an in crowd anyway. It freaks me out. Shit, just being in a ballroom with what feels like a mind crushing amount of people is freaking me out - which is one of the many reasons I have fled to the safety of my room. I don't know nearly anyone here....and I won't wear my nametag cause having everyone look at my boob is unsettling.
And then, there is something else. I am not a name caller. I will not go into details regarding what I will now forever after refer to as "the awakening" - but something happened here, for me, that has hurt me - deeply. As I lay my head on Her Bad Mothers shoulder today and had a little cry I realized that my perception of the Blog-i-verse? The one in which people respect others and play fair? The one in which credit is given to the appropriate people?
Well. I am naive. I should have been more savvy. Played harder. As much as anything else, I am sad and hurt by my own naivety. I am alarmed at the person I will have to inhabit to rectify what I consider to be a fundamental wrong. I am saddened by the realization that MY dream/fantasy world of BlogHer/blogging is not what I wanted or hoped or needed.
It's No "Tommy"
I have been contemplating what my life would like as a Musical Opera, in the style of the great Rock Opera’s of past.
I would like to propose some song titles that would encompass my experiences throughout the day:
Side 1:
In Praise of Prozac, or how I get up in the morning
Where have all the run-free pantyhose gone?
Kidz Bop is the Devil’s music
Seriously Dude, you need to calm down before you have a stroke (A duet with my husband)
Emily, stop dancing around naked and get ready for school.
(This is a three-parter with the above Duet with my husband)
I have reached heaven, and its name is Dunkin Donuts
Guy in the F150 pickup, do not cut me off, for your job can not be all that great that you need to get there this fast, I see that you are in landscaping and like Nascar.
No small talk in the elevator (leave me alone) - a doo-wop number
What fresh hell is this? (the reading of the email)
Which morphs into the plaintive solo:
Are people really this stupid? (The Idiot Song)
Side 2:
Hey, Gas is 2.29! Fill ‘er up!
What do you want for dinner? (The Cell phone song)
Mommy has wine breath, but she still reads to me every night (sung by Emily)
Go to sleep, child, go to SLEEP!
If Mommy and Daddy don’t have sex soon, we will get divorced and it will be all your fault.
Bonus tracks:
I mock you, yes I do. (The Superiority song)
You can never have too many shoes – unless they are from Payless.
F is for Fuck
Suck it, Uber-Mom’s
Feel free to add your own.
Originally publish November 2005
I would like to propose some song titles that would encompass my experiences throughout the day:
Side 1:
In Praise of Prozac, or how I get up in the morning
Where have all the run-free pantyhose gone?
Kidz Bop is the Devil’s music
Seriously Dude, you need to calm down before you have a stroke (A duet with my husband)
Emily, stop dancing around naked and get ready for school.
(This is a three-parter with the above Duet with my husband)
I have reached heaven, and its name is Dunkin Donuts
Guy in the F150 pickup, do not cut me off, for your job can not be all that great that you need to get there this fast, I see that you are in landscaping and like Nascar.
No small talk in the elevator (leave me alone) - a doo-wop number
What fresh hell is this? (the reading of the email)
Which morphs into the plaintive solo:
Are people really this stupid? (The Idiot Song)
Side 2:
Hey, Gas is 2.29! Fill ‘er up!
What do you want for dinner? (The Cell phone song)
Mommy has wine breath, but she still reads to me every night (sung by Emily)
Go to sleep, child, go to SLEEP!
If Mommy and Daddy don’t have sex soon, we will get divorced and it will be all your fault.
Bonus tracks:
I mock you, yes I do. (The Superiority song)
You can never have too many shoes – unless they are from Payless.
F is for Fuck
Suck it, Uber-Mom’s
Feel free to add your own.
Originally publish November 2005
Rude Awakening
Monday, July 27, 2009
My day started earlier than I would have liked.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHHHHHAHAAAAHHH
Sorry, the futility of the first sentence struck me as funny. Since giving birth to my bundle o'fun seven years ago, ALL my days have started earlier than I would have liked.
As you know, Emily sleeps with me. The American Academy of Pediatrics may suggest that I have been trying to bump her off by endangering her with my "Family bed", and I may suggest that they shove it up their collective asses.
She wakes like clockwork at about 6:30 and begins her Bhutan Death march campaign to wake me up. It's a little game we play. She doesn't want anything in particular, just to be assured that I am NOT sleeping. She seems to feel very strongly that if she isn't sleeping, I shouldn't be sleeping.
I usually murmur something loving along the of "Leave me Alone!" or "Stop Touching me!" and try to roll away from her.
When she was small, I assumed that she had not intended to elbow me in the nose, or kick me directly in the crotch, or lean with her elbow on my nipple. Now I comprehend that she was simply perfecting her technique.
For this morning's stunt......
I am laying there, half asleep. Thinking of the day's schedule - ballet, have to go pick up a cake at a very yummy bakery, going to friends tonight, so need to pack an overnight bag .... you know, the stuff that women think of before they get up.
I hear a funny whirring noise. It's kind of far away and only goes on for a second. So I return to my day dreams of cake and bottles of wine with adults tonight and being away from bags of frozen peas....I begin to drift back to sleep.
Suddenly, I am being rushed back to the tunnel of consciousness. Something is very wrong my body is yelling, wake UP!
As my eyes fly open, they look directly into a small ultra violet light, which makes my head snap back as I exclaim "Emily, what the hell is WRONG with you?"
She has taken this small "Finding Nemo"aquarium top off a toy, and has pressed it's ultraviolet light to my eyelids in her latest attempt to awaken me.
Em:"Oh, sorry, Mama"
She says this in a breathless, innocent way. Then hops off the bed to go see her daddy. She wins again, I am awake!
I can actually still see the purple circle when I close my eyes. She may have cheered the back of my retina's.
I think my kid is channeling Mengele
Originally publish November 2005
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHHHHHAHAAAAHHH
Sorry, the futility of the first sentence struck me as funny. Since giving birth to my bundle o'fun seven years ago, ALL my days have started earlier than I would have liked.
As you know, Emily sleeps with me. The American Academy of Pediatrics may suggest that I have been trying to bump her off by endangering her with my "Family bed", and I may suggest that they shove it up their collective asses.
She wakes like clockwork at about 6:30 and begins her Bhutan Death march campaign to wake me up. It's a little game we play. She doesn't want anything in particular, just to be assured that I am NOT sleeping. She seems to feel very strongly that if she isn't sleeping, I shouldn't be sleeping.
I usually murmur something loving along the of "Leave me Alone!" or "Stop Touching me!" and try to roll away from her.
When she was small, I assumed that she had not intended to elbow me in the nose, or kick me directly in the crotch, or lean with her elbow on my nipple. Now I comprehend that she was simply perfecting her technique.
For this morning's stunt......
I am laying there, half asleep. Thinking of the day's schedule - ballet, have to go pick up a cake at a very yummy bakery, going to friends tonight, so need to pack an overnight bag .... you know, the stuff that women think of before they get up.
I hear a funny whirring noise. It's kind of far away and only goes on for a second. So I return to my day dreams of cake and bottles of wine with adults tonight and being away from bags of frozen peas....I begin to drift back to sleep.
Suddenly, I am being rushed back to the tunnel of consciousness. Something is very wrong my body is yelling, wake UP!
As my eyes fly open, they look directly into a small ultra violet light, which makes my head snap back as I exclaim "Emily, what the hell is WRONG with you?"
She has taken this small "Finding Nemo"aquarium top off a toy, and has pressed it's ultraviolet light to my eyelids in her latest attempt to awaken me.
Em:"Oh, sorry, Mama"
She says this in a breathless, innocent way. Then hops off the bed to go see her daddy. She wins again, I am awake!
I can actually still see the purple circle when I close my eyes. She may have cheered the back of my retina's.
I think my kid is channeling Mengele
Originally publish November 2005
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