It happens to every parent. That moment when you are dropped. Instantly. You tuck your precious child in at night with a hug, a kiss, and an "I love you". And literally overnight, that same child doesn't want to be seen with you, speak with you in public, or acknowledge your existence in front of friends. God forbid you should actually speak his name out loud in front of his friends, thus shattering the fragile facade he has worked so hard to create that he doesn't even really know who you are.
I was hit smack in the forehead with this reality when Big Dude asked if he could go to the movies with some friends, including some girls, alone. Sure. As long as all the other parents understand it will be a co-ed outing and we are all on board with the agreed upon movie, I don't have a problem with stepping up the social freedoms a notch or two. But you know what sounds even better? Me and the other family members attending a different movie at the theater during that time. Seems to me that there's no reason the rest of us shouldn't enjoy a movie as well. It also saves me gas, not having to drive home after dropping you off only to turn around and pick you up in a few hours. Sounds logical, right? Holy shit, you would have thought I suggested drawing and quartering him ala Braveheart style. The sounds of pain emitting from him at the mere thought of having to endure such a horrific experience would have put Mel Gibson to shame. I tried to reassure him that I wouldn't set foot in his movie, wouldn't attempt to even lay eyes on him and his friends, and would behave like a perfect stranger should the unthinkable happen and we actually cross paths. All to no avail. He was ready to call the whole thing off and just not go. I can only imagine the look of "You can not be serious about this. Are you effin' kidding me with this shit?!" on my face at this point. I mean its a huge ass theater!! There are a shit-ton of different options there, and unless he is Justin Beiber or a Kardashian, I'm not sure he has any business trying to regulate who can and can't go there while he is in the building. Given the fact that he was scrambling to come up with the money to cover the movie and snacks for himself and his female friend, I think its safe to say that the Beibs he is NOT.
It was the first time I was faced with this new status quo. And I know its just the beginning. All in all, I'm okay with it I think. Overall we still have a pretty awesome relationship. He shares with me, voluntarily I might add, things that are going on with him at school with friends and girls and stuff. He always checks in with me when he is out with friends in the neighborhood, telling me where he's going to be or when he'll be home. And his friends all seem to respect the fact that this is the expectation, and don't give him a hard time about it. I've even had them check in with me when they are with him. Not too shabby.
He's been away this week on a vacation with my mom. He's farther away than a car ride for the first time and for longer than a few nights with a family member. And he has called me every night so far. To check in. And to chat. And to tell me about all the cool stuff. Like how when he's really quiet in the pool, he can hear the sounds of more different kinds of birds than he ever knew existed. And that the color of the red flowering bush next to the house is a brighter red than he could have ever imagined. And how amazingly beautiful a starfish is in the ocean, as opposed to in an aquarium. In fact, he just now, as I am typing this blog, called in the middle of the day to ask me what size his little sister is because he is at a gift shop and found a "really really cute little sundress" that he wants to get her. The kid has an amazing heart and I love love LOVE that he still wants to share his heart with his family. I know not to take it for granted because if this mentality isn't nurtured and cultivated carefully, it can disappear faster than Lindsey Lohan's underwear at a Los Angeles night club.
I'm trying to prepare myself for the years to come, when its not just Big Dude asking me to step back, but also Little Dude and Little Diva as well. And I've decided to handle it in the mature and adult manner that would be expected of me. I'm going to do my damnedest to be every inch of the embarrassing mother that I am being punished for not being yet. Lets call it a lesson on "Self-Fulfilling Prophecy". I will do my very best to fulfill your expectations of me. If you expect me to be polite and respectful of your privacy and personal preferences, I will happily meet that expectation. However, if you expect me to be an embarrassment and humiliate you, I got that covered too. Just like I expect you to do well in school, be a good citizen, help those in need, and grow into a fine upstanding young man. Which you are doing an amazing job of doing, I might add. Instead of expecting you to be loser punk who's going to end up living in my basement forever. Cuz if I expected that of you, you'd probably meet that expectation. See how that works? So I'll give you another chance to rethink how you might want to handle future situations where you might have no other choice but to be seen with me in public. This is called empowerment. I'm empowering you to determine your own destiny in this matter. Cuz I care about your destiny. But if you want, I have lots of other ideas too. Lots. And I am very creative. This could be fun. Muaaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah!!!
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Monday, April 22, 2013
How in God's name was I not clear???
I'm sorry. You are right. My bad. I don't know what I was thinking. I apologize for being intentionally unclear and misleading. I admit that I said "You need a sweatshirt this morning since its only 38 degrees." What was I thinking? Your choice was completely appropriate, given the complete lack of direction I offered in the situation. I see, now, how you could clearly have misconstrued my intentions. I only said you needed it, not what you needed to DO with it once you had it. Because it makes so much sense to use a sweatshirt to combat cold temperatures by putting it in your backpack instead of ON YOUR FRIGGIN' BODY. Good. God. Help. Me.
This seems to be a recurring theme in my house. My complete lack of clarity. I have apparently struggled with this disorder for at least 13 years that I have been made aware of. I'm starting to think that its something that I was exposed to during my first pregnancy that seems to be incurable. I'm calling it Non-Sequitor Directional Speech Disorder. I call it this because when I'm giving directions, I may as well be throwing out a complete non-sequitor into the conversation for all the apparent sense my directions make to the intended listener. For example, "Put your shoes away" seems to come across in the moment with as much relevance as "There is a frog in the back yard". See? Complete non-sequitor.
I used to think that the problem was more directly related to language. Like maybe I was randomly lapsing into speaking French, or German, or Italian, or Russian, or Latvian when I was giving instruction or direction to the kids. Because this would clearly account for my children not being able to clearly understand what I was saying and the directions I was giving. Several things have dissuaded me from this position, however. One, I have thoroughly checked my own background and education, and I now know for a FACT that I don't speak French (sorry, Madame Marr!), or German, or Italian, or Russian, or Latvian, or any other foreign language for that matter. Two, my children have clearly shown the ability to understand at least PART of what I am saying. I know this because when I say things like "I just told you to put your shoes away! Why are they still sitting here in front of the door?!", a typical response is "Yeah, but you didn't tell me where to put them." Clearly it was me that dropped the ball on this one.
I wasn't aware of this affliction before I had kids, and I'm guessing that it is relatively unknown in the medical field. All I know is none of my doctors ever warned me about exposure to this disorder, or how to avoid getting it, or what treatment options are available to those who become tragically afflicted. And ironically enough, my limited research has given me the distinct impression that the group most afflicted with this disorder is parents, although any adult who comes in regular contact with children is at high risk. High risk. Like "Oh, you have the plague and didn't tell me until after you hugged me, coughed in my face, and threw up on my shoes" kind of high risk.
I can't even tell you the wide variety of ways in which my NSDSD has hurt my children. I have realized the error of my ways in retrospect, and to some degree this has helped me to make sure not to repeat my past NSDSD episodes. Such as...
"Do not aim your airsoft gun at your brother in the house."
What I clearly should have said...
"Do not shoot your brother with an airsoft gun in the house."
My bad.
"I need you to sweep the kitchen floor."
What I clearly should have said...
This seems to be a recurring theme in my house. My complete lack of clarity. I have apparently struggled with this disorder for at least 13 years that I have been made aware of. I'm starting to think that its something that I was exposed to during my first pregnancy that seems to be incurable. I'm calling it Non-Sequitor Directional Speech Disorder. I call it this because when I'm giving directions, I may as well be throwing out a complete non-sequitor into the conversation for all the apparent sense my directions make to the intended listener. For example, "Put your shoes away" seems to come across in the moment with as much relevance as "There is a frog in the back yard". See? Complete non-sequitor.
I used to think that the problem was more directly related to language. Like maybe I was randomly lapsing into speaking French, or German, or Italian, or Russian, or Latvian when I was giving instruction or direction to the kids. Because this would clearly account for my children not being able to clearly understand what I was saying and the directions I was giving. Several things have dissuaded me from this position, however. One, I have thoroughly checked my own background and education, and I now know for a FACT that I don't speak French (sorry, Madame Marr!), or German, or Italian, or Russian, or Latvian, or any other foreign language for that matter. Two, my children have clearly shown the ability to understand at least PART of what I am saying. I know this because when I say things like "I just told you to put your shoes away! Why are they still sitting here in front of the door?!", a typical response is "Yeah, but you didn't tell me where to put them." Clearly it was me that dropped the ball on this one.
I wasn't aware of this affliction before I had kids, and I'm guessing that it is relatively unknown in the medical field. All I know is none of my doctors ever warned me about exposure to this disorder, or how to avoid getting it, or what treatment options are available to those who become tragically afflicted. And ironically enough, my limited research has given me the distinct impression that the group most afflicted with this disorder is parents, although any adult who comes in regular contact with children is at high risk. High risk. Like "Oh, you have the plague and didn't tell me until after you hugged me, coughed in my face, and threw up on my shoes" kind of high risk.
I can't even tell you the wide variety of ways in which my NSDSD has hurt my children. I have realized the error of my ways in retrospect, and to some degree this has helped me to make sure not to repeat my past NSDSD episodes. Such as...
"Do not aim your airsoft gun at your brother in the house."
What I clearly should have said...
"Do not shoot your brother with an airsoft gun in the house."
My bad.
"I need you to sweep the kitchen floor."
What I clearly should have said...
"I need you to sweep the kitchen floor, thus removing the dirt currently there from the kitchen by putting it into a dust pan with the broom and then placing the dirt in the garbage can."
See how I failed?
"You need to take your shower now."
What I clearly should have said...
"You need to use soap, while in the shower with the water running, to clean the dirt off of your entire body, and yes this includes your face, feet and hands, and use shampoo to wash the mud and dirt out of your hair."
Clearly my fault.
"Your backpack doesn't belong there in front of the door."
What I should have said...
"Your backpack doesn't belong there, or there, or there, or there, or there, or there, or there, or there, or there, or there, or there, or there, or there. Oh for the love of God! Just put your damn back pack in your damn room!!!"
You see the pattern, here.
"The garbage needs to be taken out."
What I should have said...
"The garbage needs to be taken out of the house."
Not sure what I was thinking.
"Go do your homework."
What I should have said...
"Go do your homework correctly."
Its the little things, I guess.
"Turn off the television."
What I should have said...
"Turn off the television now, not in a second or a minute or after this commercial which is so funny you just have to watch it or when the show is over. Now. As in right now. Right. The. Eff. Now."
Gotta work on getting specific.
"Its time to set the table for dinner."
What I should have said...
"Its time to set the table for dinner, and since we use more than butter and ketchup during dinner, I need you to include plates, napkins, cups, and silverware to your 'table setting' repertoire."
Its so obvious how I was trying to mislead.
I am going to keep working on this issue and hope to one day master my affliction. I continue to try and find new, better ways to improve my directional communications with my offspring. As you can see from my sweatshirt conversation with Little Dude this morning, I am continuing to fail. If anyone has any suggestions from their own experiences with NSDSD that might help me improve the situation here, I am all ears because what I am doing obviously ain't working. And my poor children just don't know what to do with my muddled and vague attempts at giving instructions and guidance on a daily basis. So its really their futures, their lives you would be helping with your advice and input. Think of the poor children.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Abnormality is NOT an excuse!!!
I am very well aware that there is nothing "normal" about the way we have been living in the past 5 weeks. Shit. Ok, I admit there has been nothing "normal" about me for about 42 years, but for the sake of argument, let's just focus on the last 5 months, shall we? Having the kitchen out-of-order has created a giant clusterfuck in a wide variety of ways...no running water, no access to stove or oven, eating wherever you can find a chair and a clear surface... I've had to close my eyes and breathe deeply sooooo many times as things that are so very wrong became so very necessary. Straining food in a bathroom sink, anyone?
So given how "off routine" things have been, I've been willing to be quite a bit flexible in how we've done things around here. The normal job chart as been tabled temporarily, as doing many of the kitchen chores over a carpeted surface means Mom is a little bit less willing to stand back and let the minions learn the hard way how to take out the trash without dumping it all over the floor, or how to clear the table without dropping 86% of the dirty silverware on the floor on the way to the sink (especially since the sink in question is now at the complete other end of the house and in the basement!). So its not like I am flying off the handle at the first sign of discombobulation. We've been living in a state of discombobulation for 5 weeks now, and I'm kinda thinking we should all be used to it by now. It's kinda our "new normal". As such, I don't think its asking too much for the minions around here to get their shit together and get with the friggin' program already!
I know for a fact that tonight was NOT the first night anyone shorter than 5 feet tall in this family was asked to help out with washing dishes. I'm pretty sure the basics have been covered plenty of times. You know, hot water, soap, a cleansing cloth of some sort...the basics. Therefore, merely changing the location of the dishwashing experience, from the kitchen sink to the basement sink, doesn't really change the actual PROCESS of the dish washing itself. Since there is still access to the required hot water, soap, and cleansing cloth in the new location, I just don't believe that the new location itself is enough to create such a degree of confusion as to make the act of dish washing too difficult to be completed. And not to break my arm patting myself on the back or anything, but its not like I am asking for the complete sterilization process that I was taught to follow when I worked at a preschool - soapy water so hot you couldn't retrieve the silverware from the bottom of the sink without risking the loss of an arm, followed by the scalding hot rinse and the burning bleach water that seared off the top layer of skin from both hands. No. I'm perfectly happy with hot water, soap, and a cleansing cloth. Not too much to ask, I'm thinking.
Therefore, I've come to the conclusion that from now on, the next person who is asked to do the dishes and who then assures me, without a doubt, that they are absolutely 100% done with the dishes and that they have, in fact, been washed thoroughly, that person will be eating their next meal off of those exact same dishes. If those dishes are "clean" enough for you to step away from the sink and call it "done", then those dishes are "clean" enough for YOU to eat off of. Cuz there ain't no fucking way I am eating off any of them! Cuz that shit ain't fucking clean! And I'm gonna give you a little cheat sheet to use when trying to determine if dishes are or are not, in fact, clean yet.
If the "clean" knife handle has a dried glob of peanut butter on it that can't even be chiseled off with another knife, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" frying pan has a layer of grease on it that turns a paper towel brown when said paper towel is wiped over the surface of said pan, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" spoon that was once a solid color now has a polka dot pattern of dried, red spaghetti sauce spots on it, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" cereal bowl has a white ring dried in the bottom in the exact shape and pattern of the milk left over from the cereal you had for breakfast, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" colander has a 50% blockage of all its drainage holes from tiny bits of pasta that have dried into place, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" fork no longer has separate tines, but instead has dried shit in between them, thus creating a smooth eating surface, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" cups still retain the ability to have the last liquid consumed from them easily and readily identified, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" spatula still has enough dried egg on it to provide a child in a 3rd world nation a healthy breakfast, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" silverware bin, that is supposed to be clear, is now opaque (that means NOT see through anymore!) as a result of all the left over food crap dried on it, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
Do I need to keep going? I kinda feel like I've made my point but if not, I'd be happy to continue making my way through the "clean" dishes to point out additional examples. And the irony of it all is that merely using the 3 basic tools of appropriate dish washing mentioned before, the hot water, soap, and cleansing cloth, would easily have prevented these items from merely being "clean" and helped them actually to be fucking CLEAN!! So if you feel like being lazy and doing a half-assed job of washing dishes, understand that it will be you, and NOT me, who will be getting Ecoli, or Botulism, or Salmonella, or Listeria, or the Plague, or whatever disgusting diarrhea-and-vomit-inducing illness comes with eating off of filthy dishes. Because I will be eating off of dishes that I wash myself. You will not be going anywhere near MY dishes. Back those grubby little paws the hell away. NOW!
And as an added bonus, I'm willing to offer a few more pointers that can make our existence here more mutually beneficial (and just overall more positive)...It might, just might, not be a good time to make me ask you FOUR times to bring me your mother effing dirty clothes off your bed room floor. Cuz I don't know if you can tell, but the shrill harpy-like voice, bugged-out eyes, and 360 degree head-spin are all signs that I've about had it, and your help in meeting some basic minimums around here would be greatly the fuck appreciated. And the bonus to the bonus tip? When I am in the basement up to my armpits with your stankified clothing, with prune hands from washing all of your "clean" dishes, you might - just MIGHT - NOT want to try and tell me that the dog whining at the back door shouldn't fall on you because you aren't currently "in that room". Cuz guess what? Neither the hell am I! And it would be a really, really, REALLY bad idea to try and tell me that I should come upstairs and do that so that you can avoid having to get up from that comfortable chair. Like, really, really bad.
But its really only a bad idea if you think you might want to keep living in this house. Or if you think you might want to maintain the use of your arms as something other than clubs. Or if you think you like being able walk without a permanent limp. Or if you kinda like the look of going out in public without my foot permanently embedded up your ass. But really, its up to you. Your call.
So given how "off routine" things have been, I've been willing to be quite a bit flexible in how we've done things around here. The normal job chart as been tabled temporarily, as doing many of the kitchen chores over a carpeted surface means Mom is a little bit less willing to stand back and let the minions learn the hard way how to take out the trash without dumping it all over the floor, or how to clear the table without dropping 86% of the dirty silverware on the floor on the way to the sink (especially since the sink in question is now at the complete other end of the house and in the basement!). So its not like I am flying off the handle at the first sign of discombobulation. We've been living in a state of discombobulation for 5 weeks now, and I'm kinda thinking we should all be used to it by now. It's kinda our "new normal". As such, I don't think its asking too much for the minions around here to get their shit together and get with the friggin' program already!
I know for a fact that tonight was NOT the first night anyone shorter than 5 feet tall in this family was asked to help out with washing dishes. I'm pretty sure the basics have been covered plenty of times. You know, hot water, soap, a cleansing cloth of some sort...the basics. Therefore, merely changing the location of the dishwashing experience, from the kitchen sink to the basement sink, doesn't really change the actual PROCESS of the dish washing itself. Since there is still access to the required hot water, soap, and cleansing cloth in the new location, I just don't believe that the new location itself is enough to create such a degree of confusion as to make the act of dish washing too difficult to be completed. And not to break my arm patting myself on the back or anything, but its not like I am asking for the complete sterilization process that I was taught to follow when I worked at a preschool - soapy water so hot you couldn't retrieve the silverware from the bottom of the sink without risking the loss of an arm, followed by the scalding hot rinse and the burning bleach water that seared off the top layer of skin from both hands. No. I'm perfectly happy with hot water, soap, and a cleansing cloth. Not too much to ask, I'm thinking.
Therefore, I've come to the conclusion that from now on, the next person who is asked to do the dishes and who then assures me, without a doubt, that they are absolutely 100% done with the dishes and that they have, in fact, been washed thoroughly, that person will be eating their next meal off of those exact same dishes. If those dishes are "clean" enough for you to step away from the sink and call it "done", then those dishes are "clean" enough for YOU to eat off of. Cuz there ain't no fucking way I am eating off any of them! Cuz that shit ain't fucking clean! And I'm gonna give you a little cheat sheet to use when trying to determine if dishes are or are not, in fact, clean yet.
If the "clean" knife handle has a dried glob of peanut butter on it that can't even be chiseled off with another knife, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" frying pan has a layer of grease on it that turns a paper towel brown when said paper towel is wiped over the surface of said pan, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" spoon that was once a solid color now has a polka dot pattern of dried, red spaghetti sauce spots on it, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" cereal bowl has a white ring dried in the bottom in the exact shape and pattern of the milk left over from the cereal you had for breakfast, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" colander has a 50% blockage of all its drainage holes from tiny bits of pasta that have dried into place, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" fork no longer has separate tines, but instead has dried shit in between them, thus creating a smooth eating surface, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" cups still retain the ability to have the last liquid consumed from them easily and readily identified, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" spatula still has enough dried egg on it to provide a child in a 3rd world nation a healthy breakfast, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
If the "clean" silverware bin, that is supposed to be clear, is now opaque (that means NOT see through anymore!) as a result of all the left over food crap dried on it, SHIT AIN'T CLEAN!
Do I need to keep going? I kinda feel like I've made my point but if not, I'd be happy to continue making my way through the "clean" dishes to point out additional examples. And the irony of it all is that merely using the 3 basic tools of appropriate dish washing mentioned before, the hot water, soap, and cleansing cloth, would easily have prevented these items from merely being "clean" and helped them actually to be fucking CLEAN!! So if you feel like being lazy and doing a half-assed job of washing dishes, understand that it will be you, and NOT me, who will be getting Ecoli, or Botulism, or Salmonella, or Listeria, or the Plague, or whatever disgusting diarrhea-and-vomit-inducing illness comes with eating off of filthy dishes. Because I will be eating off of dishes that I wash myself. You will not be going anywhere near MY dishes. Back those grubby little paws the hell away. NOW!
And as an added bonus, I'm willing to offer a few more pointers that can make our existence here more mutually beneficial (and just overall more positive)...It might, just might, not be a good time to make me ask you FOUR times to bring me your mother effing dirty clothes off your bed room floor. Cuz I don't know if you can tell, but the shrill harpy-like voice, bugged-out eyes, and 360 degree head-spin are all signs that I've about had it, and your help in meeting some basic minimums around here would be greatly the fuck appreciated. And the bonus to the bonus tip? When I am in the basement up to my armpits with your stankified clothing, with prune hands from washing all of your "clean" dishes, you might - just MIGHT - NOT want to try and tell me that the dog whining at the back door shouldn't fall on you because you aren't currently "in that room". Cuz guess what? Neither the hell am I! And it would be a really, really, REALLY bad idea to try and tell me that I should come upstairs and do that so that you can avoid having to get up from that comfortable chair. Like, really, really bad.
But its really only a bad idea if you think you might want to keep living in this house. Or if you think you might want to maintain the use of your arms as something other than clubs. Or if you think you like being able walk without a permanent limp. Or if you kinda like the look of going out in public without my foot permanently embedded up your ass. But really, its up to you. Your call.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Morning Person I Am NOT!
I like my sleep. I mean, I really like my sleep. REALLY. I wish the hours of the day were reversed and that it would be acceptable to spend 8 hours a day awake and spend the rest of my time out cold. I truly hate waking up. No matter what time I wake up, I would advise people not to speak to me until at least - at LEAST - 10:30am and not until I have had at least - at LEAST - 2 Diet Cokes. Even my kids know that they should tread lightly around me in the mornings and anything I do or say should be verified with Dad before being taken too seriously. I've stopped making apologies for it too. It is what it is and I am what I am. Which is not a morning person.
This problem is often compounded by the fact that I am a Mom. Which means that I haven't had a solid sleep-through-the-night night of sleep in the past 12 years. And if you are a Mom, you know what I mean. All it takes is a whimper, a bed spring sproinging, a floor board creaking, a light switch clicking, or let's face it, the sound of a child's breathing that gets any closer to my ear than their bed. And I'm awake. On full alert. Wondering why the child is awake, up, moving. And this is directly followed by wondering what sort of mayhem will ensue that I will discover in the morning and have to rectify. And what's really weird is I can tell from my bed which child it is that is awake. Little Diva has a delicate, barely detectable pitter-pat and always closes her bedroom door behind her when she leaves her room in the middle of the night, lest the dog escape and dare to try and sleep somewhere other than her room. Big Dude has your standard, basic 12 year old foot fall. Little Dude, however, is my stomper. He doesn't mean to. In fact, he's still asleep 98.54% time when he gets up in the middle of the night and has no clue that he is plodding down the hallway in a manner that would make Bigfoot look like a dainty, ballerina. And I KNOW he's asleep because of the things he does and has no memory of. Like trying to shower...with his clothes on. Or attempting to leave the house out the front door, or through the garage. Or perhaps trying to pee...with his eyes closed...while still dreaming about being someplace other than a bathroom...and actually peeing all over all 4 walls of the bathroom and the underside of the toilet. Yes, the underside of the toilet.
So its pretty easy to know which kid is up and moving, and intercede accordingly as necessary. With Little Diva, I'm pretty sure its gonna be something along the lines of helping her retrieve some stuffed animal that has fallen off the bed or is wedged between the bed and the wall. Thank GOD we are out of the "You need to help me go to the bathroom." phase, which always involved me standing in the doorway of the bathroom watching her go to the bathroom and walking her back to her room where I turned off the light and shut the door. Yes, I'm pretty sure my assistance was invaluable and absolutely necessary! With Big Dude, I can just roll over because unless he has had a bad dream and comes to the side of my bed for some reassurances, he can handle his own shiznit. With Little Dude, all bets are off. He might simply use the bathroom and return to bed, which is the best possible outcome for all of us. He may leave a bunch of lights on, in which case, I just have to turn them off (including the one in his room). Or, he could need to be forcibly removed from the shower, or redirected back to his bedroom from whatever quest he might be on (to escape the house, to watch TV in the living room, to do...something...in the basement, to pee in the corner of the dining room that he thinks is a public urinal, etc). But my biggest fear is that he will need me to stand next to him gently tapping his cheek, poking his shoulder, and screaming at him to "Wake up! Open your eyes! Watch what you are doing! AIM! Get it in the toilet!" while he is sleep-peeing, and then spending an hour or 2 in the middle of the night cleaning and disinfecting the bathroom. This shit definitely puts a damper on the smooth-nights-sleep thing.
Of course, it doesn't help to sleep next to a snore-er-er-er. Its not his fault and I have never even one time told him he needed to sleep on the couch. If it gets to be too much, I'll go to the couch. But the fact of the matter is that I can't sleep with snoring. So I try really, really, REALLY hard to fall asleep in the 46 seconds between me asking him to roll over because he's snoring, and the beginning of his next round of snoring. This very rarely happens. So I do a bit of tossing and turning until there is a long enough break for me to actually fall asleep. And you add an uncooperative mattress to the equation, and Mama ain't gonna be a'smilin' when the sun comes up. I realize I am probably in the smallest minority of all mattress-owners when I say this, but Tempurpedic has done me NO favors for the last 2.5 years. I know, I know...they are the greatest thing since sliced bread, and they solve every sleep issue known to man, and they will cure all aches and pains associated with sleeping discomfort. Except for me. Because I NEVER had back pain, or hip pain, or trouble getting comfortable, or issues tossing and turning through the night, until we got this mattress. I was told "You have to give it awhile to get used to it. It'll take some time but once your body is used to it, you are gonna love it!" Um, yeah, not so much. I am not sure, but I really don't think it should take 2 years and 4 months (and counting...) to get "used to" sleeping on a new mattress before you can expect a good nights sleep. Usually I sleep on one side until that shoulder and hip are numb or aching. Then I roll over to the other side until the same thing happens. Sometimes at this point I will try to sleep on my back, but I grind my teeth and this position results in me waking up with a raging jaw ache. So then its back to side #1 again. Lather, rinse and repeat, as the shampoo bottle says. All night long. And don't even get me started on how my crazy, whacky dreaming can mess with a good nights sleep........
So I think today will be a nap day. Although I know this will only make it harder to fall asleep tonight. Which means I really should just make everyone suffer right along with me, and deal with my cranky, overtired ass all friggin' day and then I should make all the little minions go to bed early (bitch at me for making you go to bed early tonight...go ahead, I dare you.) And hope to fall asleep early. It would really be in everyone's best interest if this could happen. Cuz if it doesn't, there won't even be anything Diet Coke can do to help. And that's saying a lot. Because I think an ice cold Diet Coke can pretty much solve anything. Especially if it has some Jack in it.
This problem is often compounded by the fact that I am a Mom. Which means that I haven't had a solid sleep-through-the-night night of sleep in the past 12 years. And if you are a Mom, you know what I mean. All it takes is a whimper, a bed spring sproinging, a floor board creaking, a light switch clicking, or let's face it, the sound of a child's breathing that gets any closer to my ear than their bed. And I'm awake. On full alert. Wondering why the child is awake, up, moving. And this is directly followed by wondering what sort of mayhem will ensue that I will discover in the morning and have to rectify. And what's really weird is I can tell from my bed which child it is that is awake. Little Diva has a delicate, barely detectable pitter-pat and always closes her bedroom door behind her when she leaves her room in the middle of the night, lest the dog escape and dare to try and sleep somewhere other than her room. Big Dude has your standard, basic 12 year old foot fall. Little Dude, however, is my stomper. He doesn't mean to. In fact, he's still asleep 98.54% time when he gets up in the middle of the night and has no clue that he is plodding down the hallway in a manner that would make Bigfoot look like a dainty, ballerina. And I KNOW he's asleep because of the things he does and has no memory of. Like trying to shower...with his clothes on. Or attempting to leave the house out the front door, or through the garage. Or perhaps trying to pee...with his eyes closed...while still dreaming about being someplace other than a bathroom...and actually peeing all over all 4 walls of the bathroom and the underside of the toilet. Yes, the underside of the toilet.
So its pretty easy to know which kid is up and moving, and intercede accordingly as necessary. With Little Diva, I'm pretty sure its gonna be something along the lines of helping her retrieve some stuffed animal that has fallen off the bed or is wedged between the bed and the wall. Thank GOD we are out of the "You need to help me go to the bathroom." phase, which always involved me standing in the doorway of the bathroom watching her go to the bathroom and walking her back to her room where I turned off the light and shut the door. Yes, I'm pretty sure my assistance was invaluable and absolutely necessary! With Big Dude, I can just roll over because unless he has had a bad dream and comes to the side of my bed for some reassurances, he can handle his own shiznit. With Little Dude, all bets are off. He might simply use the bathroom and return to bed, which is the best possible outcome for all of us. He may leave a bunch of lights on, in which case, I just have to turn them off (including the one in his room). Or, he could need to be forcibly removed from the shower, or redirected back to his bedroom from whatever quest he might be on (to escape the house, to watch TV in the living room, to do...something...in the basement, to pee in the corner of the dining room that he thinks is a public urinal, etc). But my biggest fear is that he will need me to stand next to him gently tapping his cheek, poking his shoulder, and screaming at him to "Wake up! Open your eyes! Watch what you are doing! AIM! Get it in the toilet!" while he is sleep-peeing, and then spending an hour or 2 in the middle of the night cleaning and disinfecting the bathroom. This shit definitely puts a damper on the smooth-nights-sleep thing.
Of course, it doesn't help to sleep next to a snore-er-er-er. Its not his fault and I have never even one time told him he needed to sleep on the couch. If it gets to be too much, I'll go to the couch. But the fact of the matter is that I can't sleep with snoring. So I try really, really, REALLY hard to fall asleep in the 46 seconds between me asking him to roll over because he's snoring, and the beginning of his next round of snoring. This very rarely happens. So I do a bit of tossing and turning until there is a long enough break for me to actually fall asleep. And you add an uncooperative mattress to the equation, and Mama ain't gonna be a'smilin' when the sun comes up. I realize I am probably in the smallest minority of all mattress-owners when I say this, but Tempurpedic has done me NO favors for the last 2.5 years. I know, I know...they are the greatest thing since sliced bread, and they solve every sleep issue known to man, and they will cure all aches and pains associated with sleeping discomfort. Except for me. Because I NEVER had back pain, or hip pain, or trouble getting comfortable, or issues tossing and turning through the night, until we got this mattress. I was told "You have to give it awhile to get used to it. It'll take some time but once your body is used to it, you are gonna love it!" Um, yeah, not so much. I am not sure, but I really don't think it should take 2 years and 4 months (and counting...) to get "used to" sleeping on a new mattress before you can expect a good nights sleep. Usually I sleep on one side until that shoulder and hip are numb or aching. Then I roll over to the other side until the same thing happens. Sometimes at this point I will try to sleep on my back, but I grind my teeth and this position results in me waking up with a raging jaw ache. So then its back to side #1 again. Lather, rinse and repeat, as the shampoo bottle says. All night long. And don't even get me started on how my crazy, whacky dreaming can mess with a good nights sleep........
So I think today will be a nap day. Although I know this will only make it harder to fall asleep tonight. Which means I really should just make everyone suffer right along with me, and deal with my cranky, overtired ass all friggin' day and then I should make all the little minions go to bed early (bitch at me for making you go to bed early tonight...go ahead, I dare you.) And hope to fall asleep early. It would really be in everyone's best interest if this could happen. Cuz if it doesn't, there won't even be anything Diet Coke can do to help. And that's saying a lot. Because I think an ice cold Diet Coke can pretty much solve anything. Especially if it has some Jack in it.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Fear is NOT my friend.
As I have gotten older I have come to a conclusion that I am quite comfortable with, one that I liked to pretend wasn't true when I was younger. I've come to accept the fact that I hate to be scared. Hate it. Don't like it at all. Not. One. Bit. I'm not talking about the adventurous type of "this is a challenge that I don't think I can conquer because of my fear but I can push myself through it and beat it" type of scared. I used to work in a wilderness program, so I am totally down for the ropes course/rappelling/rock climbing sorts of challenges that might elicit some kind of fear, but that are really more about pushing past your personal limits and learning about yourself and how much more you are capable of. No. I'm talking about "Holy shit! That just scared the bejesus out of me and I won't be able to sleep with the lights off EVER again even if I am in a house full of people 24/7" type of scared. The scary movie/haunted house/boogeyman/things that go bump in the night stuff. And because of this, I find it completely ironic that I am the one in my family that this shit always seems to happen to. Never to my husband. Which makes me appear like a complete whackadoodle looney toon. But I'm not. I couldn't make this shit up.
Several nights ago, when my husband was working the night shift from 7pm to 7am (of course he was!!!) I was sitting with my kids playing Life. Suddenly the door from the kitchen into the garage opens up. Little Dude proudly announces "Daddy's home!" because that is the door Dad comes through when he gets home from work. Only it was 8:30pm. So there was no way he was home from work. Once this reality sets in, I find myself looking at 3 little sets of deer-in-the-headlights faces. When I get up and investigate, the garage doors are down and there is no one in the garage. Things that make you go hmmmmmmmm. Now I like to think of myself as a fairly rational and logical thinker. I have a more mathematical, scientific, linear kind of brain so I am very well aware that most things have a very reasonable explanation. In this case, maybe there was a shift in air pressure and the door wasn't closed all the way and the air-pressure change pushed the door open. Could be. So, no reason to panic or freak out right? Right.
The next night I am saying goodnight to the last of my kids as he heads to bed (because its not cool to say your 12 year old wants to be "tucked in" so you just call it "saying goodnight" - whatever allows me to still give my babies good night kisses is just fine by me!). As I head down the hallway, I hear a noise in our bedroom. I go in and discover the exhaust fan is on in our bathroom. This is the same freaking exhaust fan that hasn't worked since we moved in to the house 5 months ago, that no matter what configuration of switches we tried between our bathroom and the kids bathroom (thinking it might be a circuit-thing) the fan just will not work. Until tonight. WTF!! So I run downstairs to get my phone and call the husband to tell him that I don't know how but somehow I managed to get the fan on in the bathroom and I'm going to leave it running all night so the electrician working on our kitchen can look at it when he comes back tomorrow. At this point, I'm not that freaked out at all. With all the electrical work we are having done in the kitchen (moving outlets, putting in lights, installing switches, moving appliances around, etc) its entirely possible that somewhere along the way a circuit was tripped or jiggled or screwed with in some way, and when the kids were doing their showers earlier in the evening, our fan was tripped on when they turned on the fan in their bathroom. Or something like that. Somehow. Maybe. Possibly.
So I'm explaining this phenomenon to him and I head back upstairs so he can hear the fan going. Except that he can't now. Because its not. Going that is. The effer has turned off. By itself. No light switches or bathroom switches or fan switches or circuits being messed with at all. Just turned off. All by itself. Holy shitball-palooza!!!!!!! NOW I'm freaking the hell out. NOW shit just got real! NOW I'm shaking and I really don't see how I am going to be able to sleep tonight because I am having a really hard time finding a logical and rational explanation. And I am looking reeeeeeeeally hard for a logical and rational explanation. I'm not someone who hears the logical explanation and chooses to ignore it and believe the shit is possessed anyway. Oh HELL to the no! I WANT to be told WTF is going on so I DON'T have to think the shit is possessed. And while I don't know for sure if I believe shit CAN be possessed, I do know that I have had experiences in the past that I have not been able to explain for the life of me, which makes me think its entirely possible for shit to be possessed.
Like the time at my mom's house (which was built in 1860) at 11pm when I heard a bedroom door open and close by itself. A bedroom door which has an old-fashioned lift-latch which makes a very distinct noise when its lifted and lowered, and which has to be lifted and lowered in order for the door to move. No one else up. No windows open so there is no air-flow issues going on. No way for the door not to have been fully latched because the door would have swung open already - the house was built in 1860 and there isn't a god damn flat or level surface in the entire place! So the door HAD to have been fully latched in the first place because it was closed.
Or the time I was sleeping on my mom's couch (if you think there was any chance in HELL of me sleeping upstairs in that house EVER again after the bedroom door incident, you are freaking driving the cray-cray train!) and I am awakened at 2am to the voice of a young girl speaking with a British accent coming through the baby monitor sitting on the end table. When I told Mom, she explained that with it being summer, and with the windows open on the front of the house, sometimes when people go by on the sidewalk their voices will carry up through the windows and be picked up by the baby monitor in that bedroom. I asked her to give me the name of the little British girl in the neighborhood who goes for walks at 2am. She couldn't name any.
I know there are people out there who LOVE scary movies and get a thrill out of being scared. I used to try and be one of those people. I would go to the haunted house with my friends and try sooooo hard NOT to be "that" person who gets freaked out and can't handle it. I would try to go to the scary movies and believe that it would be fun to be a little scared and cling to whoever the boyfriend was at the time. It never worked. Because inevitably I would have to be left alone at some point. Even being married there are nights (too many nights to count) where the husband has to go away for a period of time, or is working the night shift, and no matter how long it has been since I have seen a scary movie or had a scary experience, somehow that is ALL I can think of the minute I am home alone. Somehow, I have the unique ability to convince myself that no matter how far-fetched, fake, and impossible the stupid scary movie plots and scenarios are, they can - and inevitably WILL - happen to me in that moment. All of them. At the same time. One after the other. Bam, bam, bam, bam. And nothing...NOTHING...can convince me that it won't.
And its NOT an adrenaline rush for me. Its not fun. So I respectfully request that all the ghosts, spirits, souls, whatever you want to call them, please give your signs to other people. Its not that I am not open to it. I am. I just am not the person you are looking for. I'm not strong enough to be able to convey the message you are trying to send. Unless that message is "OMG OMG OMG WTF WTF WTF SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!!!" in which case, I sooooo got this for you. Consider the message sent.
Several nights ago, when my husband was working the night shift from 7pm to 7am (of course he was!!!) I was sitting with my kids playing Life. Suddenly the door from the kitchen into the garage opens up. Little Dude proudly announces "Daddy's home!" because that is the door Dad comes through when he gets home from work. Only it was 8:30pm. So there was no way he was home from work. Once this reality sets in, I find myself looking at 3 little sets of deer-in-the-headlights faces. When I get up and investigate, the garage doors are down and there is no one in the garage. Things that make you go hmmmmmmmm. Now I like to think of myself as a fairly rational and logical thinker. I have a more mathematical, scientific, linear kind of brain so I am very well aware that most things have a very reasonable explanation. In this case, maybe there was a shift in air pressure and the door wasn't closed all the way and the air-pressure change pushed the door open. Could be. So, no reason to panic or freak out right? Right.
The next night I am saying goodnight to the last of my kids as he heads to bed (because its not cool to say your 12 year old wants to be "tucked in" so you just call it "saying goodnight" - whatever allows me to still give my babies good night kisses is just fine by me!). As I head down the hallway, I hear a noise in our bedroom. I go in and discover the exhaust fan is on in our bathroom. This is the same freaking exhaust fan that hasn't worked since we moved in to the house 5 months ago, that no matter what configuration of switches we tried between our bathroom and the kids bathroom (thinking it might be a circuit-thing) the fan just will not work. Until tonight. WTF!! So I run downstairs to get my phone and call the husband to tell him that I don't know how but somehow I managed to get the fan on in the bathroom and I'm going to leave it running all night so the electrician working on our kitchen can look at it when he comes back tomorrow. At this point, I'm not that freaked out at all. With all the electrical work we are having done in the kitchen (moving outlets, putting in lights, installing switches, moving appliances around, etc) its entirely possible that somewhere along the way a circuit was tripped or jiggled or screwed with in some way, and when the kids were doing their showers earlier in the evening, our fan was tripped on when they turned on the fan in their bathroom. Or something like that. Somehow. Maybe. Possibly.
So I'm explaining this phenomenon to him and I head back upstairs so he can hear the fan going. Except that he can't now. Because its not. Going that is. The effer has turned off. By itself. No light switches or bathroom switches or fan switches or circuits being messed with at all. Just turned off. All by itself. Holy shitball-palooza!!!!!!! NOW I'm freaking the hell out. NOW shit just got real! NOW I'm shaking and I really don't see how I am going to be able to sleep tonight because I am having a really hard time finding a logical and rational explanation. And I am looking reeeeeeeeally hard for a logical and rational explanation. I'm not someone who hears the logical explanation and chooses to ignore it and believe the shit is possessed anyway. Oh HELL to the no! I WANT to be told WTF is going on so I DON'T have to think the shit is possessed. And while I don't know for sure if I believe shit CAN be possessed, I do know that I have had experiences in the past that I have not been able to explain for the life of me, which makes me think its entirely possible for shit to be possessed.
Like the time at my mom's house (which was built in 1860) at 11pm when I heard a bedroom door open and close by itself. A bedroom door which has an old-fashioned lift-latch which makes a very distinct noise when its lifted and lowered, and which has to be lifted and lowered in order for the door to move. No one else up. No windows open so there is no air-flow issues going on. No way for the door not to have been fully latched because the door would have swung open already - the house was built in 1860 and there isn't a god damn flat or level surface in the entire place! So the door HAD to have been fully latched in the first place because it was closed.
Or the time I was sleeping on my mom's couch (if you think there was any chance in HELL of me sleeping upstairs in that house EVER again after the bedroom door incident, you are freaking driving the cray-cray train!) and I am awakened at 2am to the voice of a young girl speaking with a British accent coming through the baby monitor sitting on the end table. When I told Mom, she explained that with it being summer, and with the windows open on the front of the house, sometimes when people go by on the sidewalk their voices will carry up through the windows and be picked up by the baby monitor in that bedroom. I asked her to give me the name of the little British girl in the neighborhood who goes for walks at 2am. She couldn't name any.
I know there are people out there who LOVE scary movies and get a thrill out of being scared. I used to try and be one of those people. I would go to the haunted house with my friends and try sooooo hard NOT to be "that" person who gets freaked out and can't handle it. I would try to go to the scary movies and believe that it would be fun to be a little scared and cling to whoever the boyfriend was at the time. It never worked. Because inevitably I would have to be left alone at some point. Even being married there are nights (too many nights to count) where the husband has to go away for a period of time, or is working the night shift, and no matter how long it has been since I have seen a scary movie or had a scary experience, somehow that is ALL I can think of the minute I am home alone. Somehow, I have the unique ability to convince myself that no matter how far-fetched, fake, and impossible the stupid scary movie plots and scenarios are, they can - and inevitably WILL - happen to me in that moment. All of them. At the same time. One after the other. Bam, bam, bam, bam. And nothing...NOTHING...can convince me that it won't.
And its NOT an adrenaline rush for me. Its not fun. So I respectfully request that all the ghosts, spirits, souls, whatever you want to call them, please give your signs to other people. Its not that I am not open to it. I am. I just am not the person you are looking for. I'm not strong enough to be able to convey the message you are trying to send. Unless that message is "OMG OMG OMG WTF WTF WTF SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!!!" in which case, I sooooo got this for you. Consider the message sent.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Ok, Let's Dance.
Dear Mrs. Big-Dude's-Teacher,
I'm not sure if you remember me, as we have only met that one time at the scheduled Parent-Teacher Conference in October. I'm Big Dude's Mom, the straight A student you said was a "really good kid" but who had a bad habit of talking too much in class after his own work was completed. And I'm his Mom, the one who said that we supported the school and did not condone misbehavior in school in any manner, the Mom who sat with you and discussed different behavior modification techniques that you could use with Big Dude to help discourage this overly social behavior. You might also make note of the fact that you haven't heard much from me since that conference. I haven't been barraging you with emails or special requests for my kid. I haven't been bypassing the normally acceptable "chain of command" by contacting the principal before discussing matters with you.
We are not tigers, or helicopters, or snow plows, or any other wacky parenting-label phrase that is currently popular. Rather than try to shield our children from adversity, heartbreak, or obstacles, we are trying to prepare our children to deal with them. It starts with setting a solid example for them, letting them see what a mature adult does in certain situations when things don't go as planned. That is followed by discussing with them how to do this for themselves and even walking them through things that they encounter, holding their hands and helping them along the way. The end goal is to sit back and maybe with some verbal encouragement, watch our children deal with adverse circumstances independently and successfully.
Sometimes, however, as a parent, there comes a time when its important to demonstrate to our children just how important they are to us and just how far we are willing to go for them. Cuz they are right now just children. And if they were capable of handling everything on their own at this age, they'd have their own apartments and jobs, and I wouldn't have to break up fights over whose turn it is to pet the dog, or who should have to put the milk away when Big Dude got it out but Little Dude touched it last. But they aren't. So they don't. And its up to us to help them sort through the batshit crazy that crosses their paths. And this, my dear, is where you come in.
Because you certainly are. Batshit crazy, I mean. Am I right, or am I right?
Okay, maybe batshit crazy seems a bit harsh. How does "power-hungry bully who is completely inconsistent and unpredictable while remaining hyper-focused on minutiae inconsequential to learning" sound? Yeah, batshit crazy does sound better.
But I know batshit crazy. I come from a long and distinguished line of batshit crazy. Not only am I an expert in recognizing batshit crazy, I have honed my skills in playing with batshit crazy. I guarantee that I can out-play, out-wit, and out-last your batshit crazy any day of the week. So, you wanna dance? Let's dance.
Your move: Big Dude finishes his work, and pulls a book out of his desk to read (as per your plan concocted during previously mentioned conference). He finishes this book before everyone is done with his work, asks you if he can get another book from his locker, and you make him "pull a card" because he should have planned ahead and had a book already in his desk if he was almost done with the other one.
Counter move: Really?? He should be psychic and be able to predict how long its going to take the other students to finish their work, as correlated against how fast he's going to read the remainder of the book in his desk (because as a psychic, he would know how many words are left in the book as well as his average words per minute reading speed)?? Ok. When you come to school and find a pile of 26 books stacked around his desk, I'm sure you will ask him what they are doing there and I have instructed him to assure you that he is doing exactly as you wished. Planning ahead. So that he is NEVER caught without proper reading material at his desk again.
Your move: You tell the Big Dude and the other students that they aren't allowed to have books in their desk to read because they should be "using their time more wisely" by finishing homework or doing other school work, even when they are done with their other work.
Counter move: You know what? Fuck it. Go ahead and chat it right up.
Your move: You hold Big Dude's lunchbox hostage, telling him you will return it to him when he writes a paper about how you are his favorite teacher and submits this paper to the "voluntary participation" PTA Favorite Teacher contest where the teacher who gets the most submissions wins something from the PTA.
Counter move: Write that paper. Write away. But since honesty is very important to us in this family, make sure you tell the truth. Somehow I don't think the content of this paper is going to be what you are hoping for. Because the first line of this paper will be "I am being forced to write this paper about a teacher who is, in fact, NOT my favorite teacher because its the only way I can get her to return my personal property to me." This will be followed by a lengthy Anti-Bullying PSA diatribe.
Your move: While serving the punishment of classroom lunch for a previous offense, Big Dude witnessed a co-serving peer spill at his desk, and receive permission to get a paper towel to clean it up. When Big Dude spilled some water on his desk and raised his hand to ask for permission to get a paper towel, you instructed him to "Put your hand down and sit down. This is my lunch too, you know."
Counter move: Really? Really?!? Ok. Next time you spill something or there is a mess to clean up, say out loud in a voice that is crystal clear, "Excuse me Dude Who Happens To Be Class Pet Through No Fault Of His Own, would you please ask Mrs. Big-Dude's-Teacher if you can get a paper towel for me, since she will allow you to do things that I am not allowed to do?" See, batshit crazy also has a healthy dose of experience with fucked up passive aggressive. Boo-yah!
Your move: You decide that one of Big Dude's infractions is significant enough to notify me about, but apparently not until the next day, when Big Dude arrives in the classroom in the morning to find an index card with the supposed infraction written in clear bold letters taped face up in the middle of his desk, for the entire classroom to see as they enter the class. Big Dude is supposed to bring this card home to me and have me sign it as proof that he has made his parents aware of his egregious behavior.
Counter move: I am pre-signing an entire package of blank index cards and sending them in to school with Big Dude tomorrow. From now on when there is an infraction that is "parent sign the card" worthy, just write it on the back of one of the pre-signed cards and place it directly in your "Big Dude Bad Behavior" file. Because like the boy who cried wolf, you have seriously over-played your hand. I no longer care when Big Dude has to "pull a card" because when you decide that a kid who trips over another student's chair and accidentally spills something deserves to pull a card for this clear violation of appropriate classroom behavior, I can not take you or your behavioral expectations and standards seriously.
When I was a child my son's age, my father taught me a lesson that I have never forgotten. This lesson has served me well throughout my life and I am optimistic that it can do the same for Big Dude. It is this. "You are going to encounter assholes your whole life. The earlier you learn how to deal with them the better off you will be." What I learned from my father is that sometimes you have to counter batshit crazy with batshit crazy. And a healthy dose of passive aggressive with a side dose of cynical sarcasm can give you just the edge you need to come out on top.
Sincerely,
Big Dude's passive aggressive batshit crazy cynically sarcastic mother who LOOOOVES to dance
I'm not sure if you remember me, as we have only met that one time at the scheduled Parent-Teacher Conference in October. I'm Big Dude's Mom, the straight A student you said was a "really good kid" but who had a bad habit of talking too much in class after his own work was completed. And I'm his Mom, the one who said that we supported the school and did not condone misbehavior in school in any manner, the Mom who sat with you and discussed different behavior modification techniques that you could use with Big Dude to help discourage this overly social behavior. You might also make note of the fact that you haven't heard much from me since that conference. I haven't been barraging you with emails or special requests for my kid. I haven't been bypassing the normally acceptable "chain of command" by contacting the principal before discussing matters with you.
We are not tigers, or helicopters, or snow plows, or any other wacky parenting-label phrase that is currently popular. Rather than try to shield our children from adversity, heartbreak, or obstacles, we are trying to prepare our children to deal with them. It starts with setting a solid example for them, letting them see what a mature adult does in certain situations when things don't go as planned. That is followed by discussing with them how to do this for themselves and even walking them through things that they encounter, holding their hands and helping them along the way. The end goal is to sit back and maybe with some verbal encouragement, watch our children deal with adverse circumstances independently and successfully.
Sometimes, however, as a parent, there comes a time when its important to demonstrate to our children just how important they are to us and just how far we are willing to go for them. Cuz they are right now just children. And if they were capable of handling everything on their own at this age, they'd have their own apartments and jobs, and I wouldn't have to break up fights over whose turn it is to pet the dog, or who should have to put the milk away when Big Dude got it out but Little Dude touched it last. But they aren't. So they don't. And its up to us to help them sort through the batshit crazy that crosses their paths. And this, my dear, is where you come in.
Because you certainly are. Batshit crazy, I mean. Am I right, or am I right?
Okay, maybe batshit crazy seems a bit harsh. How does "power-hungry bully who is completely inconsistent and unpredictable while remaining hyper-focused on minutiae inconsequential to learning" sound? Yeah, batshit crazy does sound better.
But I know batshit crazy. I come from a long and distinguished line of batshit crazy. Not only am I an expert in recognizing batshit crazy, I have honed my skills in playing with batshit crazy. I guarantee that I can out-play, out-wit, and out-last your batshit crazy any day of the week. So, you wanna dance? Let's dance.
Your move: Big Dude finishes his work, and pulls a book out of his desk to read (as per your plan concocted during previously mentioned conference). He finishes this book before everyone is done with his work, asks you if he can get another book from his locker, and you make him "pull a card" because he should have planned ahead and had a book already in his desk if he was almost done with the other one.
Counter move: Really?? He should be psychic and be able to predict how long its going to take the other students to finish their work, as correlated against how fast he's going to read the remainder of the book in his desk (because as a psychic, he would know how many words are left in the book as well as his average words per minute reading speed)?? Ok. When you come to school and find a pile of 26 books stacked around his desk, I'm sure you will ask him what they are doing there and I have instructed him to assure you that he is doing exactly as you wished. Planning ahead. So that he is NEVER caught without proper reading material at his desk again.
Your move: You tell the Big Dude and the other students that they aren't allowed to have books in their desk to read because they should be "using their time more wisely" by finishing homework or doing other school work, even when they are done with their other work.
Counter move: You know what? Fuck it. Go ahead and chat it right up.
Your move: You hold Big Dude's lunchbox hostage, telling him you will return it to him when he writes a paper about how you are his favorite teacher and submits this paper to the "voluntary participation" PTA Favorite Teacher contest where the teacher who gets the most submissions wins something from the PTA.
Counter move: Write that paper. Write away. But since honesty is very important to us in this family, make sure you tell the truth. Somehow I don't think the content of this paper is going to be what you are hoping for. Because the first line of this paper will be "I am being forced to write this paper about a teacher who is, in fact, NOT my favorite teacher because its the only way I can get her to return my personal property to me." This will be followed by a lengthy Anti-Bullying PSA diatribe.
Your move: While serving the punishment of classroom lunch for a previous offense, Big Dude witnessed a co-serving peer spill at his desk, and receive permission to get a paper towel to clean it up. When Big Dude spilled some water on his desk and raised his hand to ask for permission to get a paper towel, you instructed him to "Put your hand down and sit down. This is my lunch too, you know."
Counter move: Really? Really?!? Ok. Next time you spill something or there is a mess to clean up, say out loud in a voice that is crystal clear, "Excuse me Dude Who Happens To Be Class Pet Through No Fault Of His Own, would you please ask Mrs. Big-Dude's-Teacher if you can get a paper towel for me, since she will allow you to do things that I am not allowed to do?" See, batshit crazy also has a healthy dose of experience with fucked up passive aggressive. Boo-yah!
Your move: You decide that one of Big Dude's infractions is significant enough to notify me about, but apparently not until the next day, when Big Dude arrives in the classroom in the morning to find an index card with the supposed infraction written in clear bold letters taped face up in the middle of his desk, for the entire classroom to see as they enter the class. Big Dude is supposed to bring this card home to me and have me sign it as proof that he has made his parents aware of his egregious behavior.
Counter move: I am pre-signing an entire package of blank index cards and sending them in to school with Big Dude tomorrow. From now on when there is an infraction that is "parent sign the card" worthy, just write it on the back of one of the pre-signed cards and place it directly in your "Big Dude Bad Behavior" file. Because like the boy who cried wolf, you have seriously over-played your hand. I no longer care when Big Dude has to "pull a card" because when you decide that a kid who trips over another student's chair and accidentally spills something deserves to pull a card for this clear violation of appropriate classroom behavior, I can not take you or your behavioral expectations and standards seriously.
When I was a child my son's age, my father taught me a lesson that I have never forgotten. This lesson has served me well throughout my life and I am optimistic that it can do the same for Big Dude. It is this. "You are going to encounter assholes your whole life. The earlier you learn how to deal with them the better off you will be." What I learned from my father is that sometimes you have to counter batshit crazy with batshit crazy. And a healthy dose of passive aggressive with a side dose of cynical sarcasm can give you just the edge you need to come out on top.
Sincerely,
Big Dude's passive aggressive batshit crazy cynically sarcastic mother who LOOOOVES to dance
Sunday, February 10, 2013
I Love My Friends!!
I have the best friends! I really do. I have friends I have known since I was 2 years old, and friends I have only known for 6 months, and I must say I feel really blessed to have so many wonderful people to call "friends". As with most people, my friends tend to fall into categories. There's the old friends, like from childhood. There's the good friends, from a particular period or experience. There's the close friends, like a friendship safety net. There's the new friends, with new experiences (and debauchery) to be shared. And there's the family/friends, who just like family, will always be there (whether you want them to or not, because they know too much and most likely can't be trusted to use that information for good and not evil).
The old friends I knew as a kid are the ones I may not have seen in decades. The ones who were there with me when I did all those stupid and embarrassing things that I pray to God don't show up in pictures on Facebook, and yet are the ones who will inevitably post all the pictures on Facebook. They are the ones who were right beside me wearing those awful 70's outfits that our parents put us in. The ones who knew me during my "wonder years" of bad perms, thick Coke-bottle glasses, braces, and teenage acne. These are the friends who might have a preconceived notion of who I am now as an adult based on all the annoying things I may have done as a young kid. Some of these friends may have seen me getting dragged up the T bar lift by my dangling ski because obviously sitting is the logical thing to do on a T shaped piece of wood nestled against my butt! Some of these friends might have been with me when my boat ran out of gas in the faaaaaaarthest corner of the lake from home. These friends might even have been good enough friends to listen to me when I said "Hey, you jump in and push - kick really hard - while I get in and pull it with the ski tow rope, and you two just paddle like hell!" You just can't buy that kind of loyalty. Really. Sometimes these friends won't let you live down a foolish childhood mistake. Like hypothetically taking a vocabulary test you haven't studied for and upon seeing the word "satire" you, hypothetically, write down "a large mythical beast with a bad temper" because you are assuming its a typo and the teacher really meant to write "satyr". Hypothetically.
Then there are the good friends I have met along the way, the ones I have picked up in my many, MANY travels - I've had 17 addresses since college! These are the friends that I might lose touch with but carry so many wonderful memories of, the friends who bring me back to a specific time in my life. They probably haven't met my husband or kids, and I probably haven't seen them in years. I'm sure if I happened to get together with any of them, it would be just like old times but there would also be a learning curve. Because these friends knew me during a certain period in my life, and only for a small fraction of time, and people change and grow up and mature. So getting to know these friends all over again would be one of the most awesomest things I can imagine. But I think at this age I would hope that these friends would not necessarily be running naked through car washes any more. Or sneaking through the back woods of North Carolina trying to find a double wide trailer that sells mason jars of moonshine in 26 flavors. Hypothetically speaking. Or the ones who become your saving grace when you are living somewhere akin to "the worst place EVER", because they can make you spew Diet coke out of your nose by casually discussing smegma over lunch. These are the friends I am probably thinking about when I randomly burst out laughing at things that remind me of them, like references to the office copy machine guy on SNL played by Rob Schneider (Steve-o, The Steve-inator, Baron Von Steve-ster), or when someone tells me a story about trying to set up 2 friends and I instantly think about deaf mutes. It's these shared experiences that connect me to these friends in ways that cannot be undone, regardless of the passage of time, and for that I am so grateful.
There are also the close friends I have met along the way, who I have remained in close and fairly regular contact with, whose kids are friends with my kids long distance, the ones who invite me to their kids' weddings, birthdays, graduations, etc. and even if I haven't seen them in a year or more, it's like putting on a comfortable pair of slippers. These friends understand how tough it can be to relocate every few years, and they know how to make the most of 4 years of friendship. They can make that 4 years stretch out into a lifetime, and even if I never see them in person again, the phone calls, Christmas cards, and Facebook messages somehow manage to sustain that friendship just like I was still living down the street. These are the friends that I can go years without seeing but who can easily make me laugh until I cry, or hypothetically pee myself, in a phone conversation that can often go on for 2+ hours. They may not be able to "be there for me" in person now, but there isn't anything we wouldn't have done for each other when geography wasn't in the way. These are the friends who will drive over at 10:30 pm to help you out when you have fallen down a flight of stairs, because your other friend (who, hypothetically, lives only 2 houses away) has ignored your desperate phone call for help (you know who you are!!!). These are the ones who won't "judge" if your kid, hypothetically, takes a dump on the side of the road while visiting their house because the walk across the yard back to the house and inside to the bathroom was "too long". And this is the friend who jumps in the car on a moments notice to come and sit through the night with you for 6 hours to cry with you and hold your hand during a family emergency. The one that you would do the exact same thing for even if it's been more than 2 years since you've seen each other.
I am also lucky enough to have new friends, friends I am still getting to know and who are still getting to know me, but who already know me well enough to know about my inherent shyness, introversion, abhorrence of sarcasm, and fear of confrontation, and STILL want to be my friend anyway. The people I look forward to creating memories with and hopefully someday soon, being able to call my close friends. These are the friends who will do anything they can to help out when you are living in a hotel for 6 weeks with 3 kids and a dog in a brand new city in a brand new state. The ones who are willing to invite you over and introduce you to their circle of friends, who make you feel "part" of something for the first time in a new place. Its their faces you look for in a crowd because its always reassuring to know at least ONE person when you are walking into a new and unknown situation. They don't realize it, but something as simple as saying hello and chatting at a kid's football game, or asking how a parent/teacher conference went can mean the world when you are the new family in town, especially if said parent/teacher conference didn't exactly go "as planned" and you now have to prepare to kick some major ass when you get home. These are the people who have all the good inside information (which teachers to avoid, which sports team parents are the drama stir-ers, which pediatrician/dentist/ER/urgent care clinic/salon/etc is the best or worst, where to get the best pizza/mexican/italian/chinese/etc food in town....) and are willing to share it! Every friend starts out as a new friend and it is my every hope that they will become my close friends as time goes by.
With family/friends, the line between "family" and "friend" becomes hazy or non-existent. The bond that is shared between these friends is as strong as any family bond I have ever seen. These friends know me better than I know myself. They can tell me what I don't want to hear and know that I'm gonna be pissed as hell at them for calling me out on my shit, but that I'll be over it soon and will eventually thank them for it. These are the friends I can share my deepest secrets, fears, insecurities, failures, anxieties, and sadness with. And these are the people I call first to share in my joys, victories, successes, happiness, and laughter with. These are the people I can just share a "look" with, and they know to go along with me as I tell all the kids about the ever elusive goat-salmon hybrid fish - called the salmoat, but pronounced "smote" - that I'm pretty sure just washed up on the shore of the lake. They just know not to question, to go along with it, and if possible to offer their own bizarre contributions. These are the people who know without a doubt, no matter how pissed off I get at them, they should NOT under any circumstances EVER let me start a bonfire when I have been drinking. Again. Because I like my eyebrows just the way they have grown back in. These are the ones who will go to bat for you, even when they know they are on the losing side. Its these friends who will circle the wagons around you and protect you like a mama grizzly against anyone who hurts you. And its these friends whose new spouses are informed in no uncertain terms that you better treat my friend well because if you ever hurt her you will have to deal with me. Its not like I have ever whispered those exact same words to one (or several) of them as I hugged them in the receiving line at their wedding. Because that might be crossing the line. So I definitely didn't do that.
Regardless of what category a friend might fall into, I am very grateful for all of my friends. I am lucky that I get to make new memories with so many old friends who have chosen to stay in touch and maintain an active friendship. I am lucky to live someplace where people are so open and welcoming to new friends. We don't often take the time to tell everyone how important they are to us, or how much we appreciate them. This is more true with people or friends from the past. There are a lot of people who have touched my life in a very real and significant way but maybe for only a short period of time. Regardless of the length of time or the category of friendship, I want to thank everyone who has touched my life with their friendship. I really do have the best friends.
The old friends I knew as a kid are the ones I may not have seen in decades. The ones who were there with me when I did all those stupid and embarrassing things that I pray to God don't show up in pictures on Facebook, and yet are the ones who will inevitably post all the pictures on Facebook. They are the ones who were right beside me wearing those awful 70's outfits that our parents put us in. The ones who knew me during my "wonder years" of bad perms, thick Coke-bottle glasses, braces, and teenage acne. These are the friends who might have a preconceived notion of who I am now as an adult based on all the annoying things I may have done as a young kid. Some of these friends may have seen me getting dragged up the T bar lift by my dangling ski because obviously sitting is the logical thing to do on a T shaped piece of wood nestled against my butt! Some of these friends might have been with me when my boat ran out of gas in the faaaaaaarthest corner of the lake from home. These friends might even have been good enough friends to listen to me when I said "Hey, you jump in and push - kick really hard - while I get in and pull it with the ski tow rope, and you two just paddle like hell!" You just can't buy that kind of loyalty. Really. Sometimes these friends won't let you live down a foolish childhood mistake. Like hypothetically taking a vocabulary test you haven't studied for and upon seeing the word "satire" you, hypothetically, write down "a large mythical beast with a bad temper" because you are assuming its a typo and the teacher really meant to write "satyr". Hypothetically.
Then there are the good friends I have met along the way, the ones I have picked up in my many, MANY travels - I've had 17 addresses since college! These are the friends that I might lose touch with but carry so many wonderful memories of, the friends who bring me back to a specific time in my life. They probably haven't met my husband or kids, and I probably haven't seen them in years. I'm sure if I happened to get together with any of them, it would be just like old times but there would also be a learning curve. Because these friends knew me during a certain period in my life, and only for a small fraction of time, and people change and grow up and mature. So getting to know these friends all over again would be one of the most awesomest things I can imagine. But I think at this age I would hope that these friends would not necessarily be running naked through car washes any more. Or sneaking through the back woods of North Carolina trying to find a double wide trailer that sells mason jars of moonshine in 26 flavors. Hypothetically speaking. Or the ones who become your saving grace when you are living somewhere akin to "the worst place EVER", because they can make you spew Diet coke out of your nose by casually discussing smegma over lunch. These are the friends I am probably thinking about when I randomly burst out laughing at things that remind me of them, like references to the office copy machine guy on SNL played by Rob Schneider (Steve-o, The Steve-inator, Baron Von Steve-ster), or when someone tells me a story about trying to set up 2 friends and I instantly think about deaf mutes. It's these shared experiences that connect me to these friends in ways that cannot be undone, regardless of the passage of time, and for that I am so grateful.
There are also the close friends I have met along the way, who I have remained in close and fairly regular contact with, whose kids are friends with my kids long distance, the ones who invite me to their kids' weddings, birthdays, graduations, etc. and even if I haven't seen them in a year or more, it's like putting on a comfortable pair of slippers. These friends understand how tough it can be to relocate every few years, and they know how to make the most of 4 years of friendship. They can make that 4 years stretch out into a lifetime, and even if I never see them in person again, the phone calls, Christmas cards, and Facebook messages somehow manage to sustain that friendship just like I was still living down the street. These are the friends that I can go years without seeing but who can easily make me laugh until I cry, or hypothetically pee myself, in a phone conversation that can often go on for 2+ hours. They may not be able to "be there for me" in person now, but there isn't anything we wouldn't have done for each other when geography wasn't in the way. These are the friends who will drive over at 10:30 pm to help you out when you have fallen down a flight of stairs, because your other friend (who, hypothetically, lives only 2 houses away) has ignored your desperate phone call for help (you know who you are!!!). These are the ones who won't "judge" if your kid, hypothetically, takes a dump on the side of the road while visiting their house because the walk across the yard back to the house and inside to the bathroom was "too long". And this is the friend who jumps in the car on a moments notice to come and sit through the night with you for 6 hours to cry with you and hold your hand during a family emergency. The one that you would do the exact same thing for even if it's been more than 2 years since you've seen each other.
I am also lucky enough to have new friends, friends I am still getting to know and who are still getting to know me, but who already know me well enough to know about my inherent shyness, introversion, abhorrence of sarcasm, and fear of confrontation, and STILL want to be my friend anyway. The people I look forward to creating memories with and hopefully someday soon, being able to call my close friends. These are the friends who will do anything they can to help out when you are living in a hotel for 6 weeks with 3 kids and a dog in a brand new city in a brand new state. The ones who are willing to invite you over and introduce you to their circle of friends, who make you feel "part" of something for the first time in a new place. Its their faces you look for in a crowd because its always reassuring to know at least ONE person when you are walking into a new and unknown situation. They don't realize it, but something as simple as saying hello and chatting at a kid's football game, or asking how a parent/teacher conference went can mean the world when you are the new family in town, especially if said parent/teacher conference didn't exactly go "as planned" and you now have to prepare to kick some major ass when you get home. These are the people who have all the good inside information (which teachers to avoid, which sports team parents are the drama stir-ers, which pediatrician/dentist/ER/urgent care clinic/salon/etc is the best or worst, where to get the best pizza/mexican/italian/chinese/etc food in town....) and are willing to share it! Every friend starts out as a new friend and it is my every hope that they will become my close friends as time goes by.
With family/friends, the line between "family" and "friend" becomes hazy or non-existent. The bond that is shared between these friends is as strong as any family bond I have ever seen. These friends know me better than I know myself. They can tell me what I don't want to hear and know that I'm gonna be pissed as hell at them for calling me out on my shit, but that I'll be over it soon and will eventually thank them for it. These are the friends I can share my deepest secrets, fears, insecurities, failures, anxieties, and sadness with. And these are the people I call first to share in my joys, victories, successes, happiness, and laughter with. These are the people I can just share a "look" with, and they know to go along with me as I tell all the kids about the ever elusive goat-salmon hybrid fish - called the salmoat, but pronounced "smote" - that I'm pretty sure just washed up on the shore of the lake. They just know not to question, to go along with it, and if possible to offer their own bizarre contributions. These are the people who know without a doubt, no matter how pissed off I get at them, they should NOT under any circumstances EVER let me start a bonfire when I have been drinking. Again. Because I like my eyebrows just the way they have grown back in. These are the ones who will go to bat for you, even when they know they are on the losing side. Its these friends who will circle the wagons around you and protect you like a mama grizzly against anyone who hurts you. And its these friends whose new spouses are informed in no uncertain terms that you better treat my friend well because if you ever hurt her you will have to deal with me. Its not like I have ever whispered those exact same words to one (or several) of them as I hugged them in the receiving line at their wedding. Because that might be crossing the line. So I definitely didn't do that.
Regardless of what category a friend might fall into, I am very grateful for all of my friends. I am lucky that I get to make new memories with so many old friends who have chosen to stay in touch and maintain an active friendship. I am lucky to live someplace where people are so open and welcoming to new friends. We don't often take the time to tell everyone how important they are to us, or how much we appreciate them. This is more true with people or friends from the past. There are a lot of people who have touched my life in a very real and significant way but maybe for only a short period of time. Regardless of the length of time or the category of friendship, I want to thank everyone who has touched my life with their friendship. I really do have the best friends.
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