I recently facebook'd a quick message regarding the continuance of the ECEAP schooling system (link above). Now, I am friends with quite a few hardline conservatives, and I hope that this explanation might help a few of you see why some social programs need to stick around. This particular program is considered part of the "discretionary budget" of our state, and thusly faces being cut due to the current deficit. Governor Gregoire is considering imposing an extra "sin tax" to keep it in existence, and I implore all of you to take a quick moment and send her an email in support of this decision. An extra few cents on cigarettes (I need to quit anyways!), or liquor (c'mon, seriously, 10 cents on a bottle ain't bad, folks) is NOT to much to pay for the benefits of a program like this.
So, here's why ECEAP needs to stay, in ways even a fiscal conservative can appreciate!
1) The educational benefits: My son had to attend this program when he was 4. I had called the district regarding his noticeable delay, and they sent out a team of folks to assess him. It was confirmed that he was behind, developmentally (this was in the beginning of our diagnosis process), and determined that being placed in the ECEAP would perhaps bring him up to speed. While my son's delays were more serious and have since required continued special education, many children placed in this program early on are indeed able to be caught up. Those children may have otherwise needed to go into special education for their first few years of schooling, but because this program was there to help, did not need further assistance. So, there's a big reason for you: Keeps a large amount of children out of special education. That's a lot of budget dollars saved right there.
2) the low-income benefits: Ok, I know a TON of you are against any welfare assistance of any sort. But here's a damn good reason to continue this one...it keeps people off of other assistance programs. They've proven this very clearly already. Parents who qualify for their children to be placed in these schools based on income are then able to work and stay OFF of other assistance programs. Often times people forget how incredibly expensive child care is, and often times this single expense can force a single parent onto another government assistance program, such as welfare of TANF. With the cost of putting a child into daycare eating into basic household budgets, many parents are forced to look into assistance programs. It's a vicious cycle, really. You work your butt off to put a roof over your heads and food on the table, but to work you have to put your child into care. You can't afford to put your child into care, so you end up not being able to "afford to go to work". It's brutal, really. But with a program like this, you can instead spend all that childcare money on your actual needs, instead of having to ask the govt to pay for HUD housing or foodstamps. Once the child goes into school, the daycare needs are alleviated, and you are able to remain working, paying your bills, and OFF govt handouts. Keep in mind, the schooling is only for preschool, ages 2-4. But those 2 years can make or break a household, especially that of a single parent.
So, if you think these types of programs are worth a few measily dimes on your vices, I urge you to write the governors office. Here's a link, it takes just a few minutes to send a message!!
http://www.governor.wa.gov/contact/
And if you still feel like this government program is a waste of tax payer dollars, please think for a moment how many dollars it saves. Reducing the number of children in SPE programs, reduces the amount of families on other assistance programs, allows parents to get back to work...seriously, how can you not support this???
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Monday, November 02, 2009
Book Fair awesomeness
So, Friday afternoon I had signed up to volunteer setting up the scholastic book fair at kiddo's school. I remember them from when I was younger, and couldn't wait to relive that loveliness; the giant metal rolling racks with new special books I couldn't wait to tear into, the thrill of having my special envelop of book money that my parents bestowed upon me. Back then, my favourite thing was the cardboard box sets of advanced readers that contained 4 or 5 chapter books. Granted, my poor folks had to deal with me voraciously reading through all of them in a matter of a week or two, but the thrill of that day, picking out the new set...ah, that was childhood.
I only remembered a 2 or 3 rack set up from my youth, so needless to say I was a bit overwhelmed when we set up more than 12 racks and tons of covered tables for this thing! Book fairs have definitely come a looooong way since I was coming up! This one had everything from the early reader board books and beautiful hardcover Caldacott winners to shelves of advanced readers (no more sets, tho), and even a section of adult books. Definitely impressive! The parent horrifiers tho were the "school supplies", also known as stupid little eraser chochkies, scented highlighters, and pens with googly eyes. God there was a bunch of that crap. We had to set up two racks of just that junk, and I had horrible visions of children wasting their money, and frazzling teacher nerves.
As we set up, there were two other moms there, and I got to see a little more variety of the "volunteer mommy" clique. One was a very sweet gal who oogled the star wars books with me (yay for nerd parents!), and of course, one was a horrible gal who felt the need to talk down to me at every damn turn. She had to set up her display just so, and make damn sure we knew she had sat in many a book fair in the past. The talking down was the most ingratiating, because this woman had no idea who I was or what I did, she just automatically assumed that since I'm wearing giant boots and double braids, I must be a blithering idiot (and illiterate, no less). No, I am not up to speed on any of the young readers, my child's only in first grade. It's not like she read the entire Harry Potter series, now did she?! Pht, amatuer.
The librarian, a gloriously gay man with a delightfully bitter sense of humour and probably a higher-brow education than a normal elementary librarian would be afforded, asked if I would be willing to come in and "work" the book fair come Monday. Well, because of this gal's holier than thou attitude, and a few of the other sour puss parents I had met, well, I almost said no. But the poor dude looked a little on the desperate side, and I didn't want to damn a well meant event just because I had to deal with a Miss Pissypants or two. So I said yes, I'd make myself available for the morning session.
When I wandered in this morning, thankfully no Pissypants were around, only my fellow nerdamom. I had such a great time, I happily stayed through the whole day. The kids! Ah, those awesome kids. Our first set was a group of 5th graders. They hovered over the advanced readers and interactive books, oohing and aaahing, and frantically scribbling on their wishlists (a piece of paper the kids can write their desired titles and prices on, then take home to hound their parents for cash for, since the fair went on all week). I was very impressed by the selection they offered, from Neil Gaiman's Graveyard book to some other great "spooky" selections I'd never heard of. The offerings actually seemed quite scifi/fantasy heavy (thankfully no Stephanie Meyer), and I was tickled to see a few of them asking about the latest tales. Of course the girls went gaga over the personalized journal sets, and stocked up on some new hot title called The Lightening Thief.
We quickly worked through lunch, and as other classes poured in, a few of the kids I recognized from Anthony's bus would come scampering over and say hi. They are such sweet kids! They would ask which books I was getting, and I showed them the bulging bag I had already picked out. I love having formed a little relationship with those kids, because they are definitely some amazing lil tykes.
The best, tho, was when the first graders came in. My son's class isn't due until wednesday, but many of these kids recognized me (and I them) from the walkathon when I had signed off on their lapcards and cheered them on like a goofball. Right before the class entered, the Pissypants came in for her shift. She was shocked to see me there, and moreso to know I had been there all day. I guess she just came to the realization that with all my free time, I can be a "super volunteer" as much as she. But before she could get out a snarky "oh, it's you", the class came pouring in, and I was on the receiving end of excited hand waving and leg hugs. As I had little hands pulling me around to help them fill out their wishlists, I looked over to see her stationary behind the counter, looking a little bewildered. And it dawned on me...be it my younger appearance and dress, or just simply that I am as bouncy as they are, these kids have deemed me to be one of the "cool moms". And I don't think she's received that honor. HA!
My knees are killing me right now, from all the time I spent bent over helping random 7 year olds figure out what they could buy with their exact amount of cash. It cracks me up to see how far they will attempt to stretch those bucks! They'd sit there, vexing over which title to get, then eventually settle on 2 books for $8 rather than 1 for $15, and then calculate how many little pencils and erasers they can get with their change. Many of them would scribble onto their wishlist a variety of books, and the smaller ones would politely come up to me carting a few titles and ask me to record it on their list for them. My favourite little asian track star was there, too, and I discovered she is apparently a voracious overacheiver in every aspect; she filled out 5 wishlists. If I was her mom, I swear I'd probably buy every damn title on there, too, she is just head poppingly adorable. Yes, she wears pigtails.
One little girl almost broke my heart. Her parents had given her a check for $15, so she came in on her regular session and her recess trying to decide what she wanted. She completely ignored the money sucking stationary sets, chosing to instead ponder some lovely thick books (she was only about 10, so I applauded her ambitious titles). She finally settled on two, but couldn't seem to wrap her head about the tax, so she held her breath, hoping she had enough. The total came to $15.31, and she looked about ready to cry. I quickly shoved my hands into my back pocket and fished out my coffee change from the morning, and whispered "Look who has .35 cents! I'll play fairy godmother today." The beaming smile on her face was worth so much more than worthless change collecting lint.
The librarian and I had a great time, and he eagerly accepted my offer to come back midweek. I'm chaperoning the feild trip tomorrow, and then will return to the book fair on Wednesday. Funny, the snarky mom could hardly figure out how to ring up anything (thank you, years of retail experience), and was noticeably absent from the rest of the volunteer schedules...
I only remembered a 2 or 3 rack set up from my youth, so needless to say I was a bit overwhelmed when we set up more than 12 racks and tons of covered tables for this thing! Book fairs have definitely come a looooong way since I was coming up! This one had everything from the early reader board books and beautiful hardcover Caldacott winners to shelves of advanced readers (no more sets, tho), and even a section of adult books. Definitely impressive! The parent horrifiers tho were the "school supplies", also known as stupid little eraser chochkies, scented highlighters, and pens with googly eyes. God there was a bunch of that crap. We had to set up two racks of just that junk, and I had horrible visions of children wasting their money, and frazzling teacher nerves.
As we set up, there were two other moms there, and I got to see a little more variety of the "volunteer mommy" clique. One was a very sweet gal who oogled the star wars books with me (yay for nerd parents!), and of course, one was a horrible gal who felt the need to talk down to me at every damn turn. She had to set up her display just so, and make damn sure we knew she had sat in many a book fair in the past. The talking down was the most ingratiating, because this woman had no idea who I was or what I did, she just automatically assumed that since I'm wearing giant boots and double braids, I must be a blithering idiot (and illiterate, no less). No, I am not up to speed on any of the young readers, my child's only in first grade. It's not like she read the entire Harry Potter series, now did she?! Pht, amatuer.
The librarian, a gloriously gay man with a delightfully bitter sense of humour and probably a higher-brow education than a normal elementary librarian would be afforded, asked if I would be willing to come in and "work" the book fair come Monday. Well, because of this gal's holier than thou attitude, and a few of the other sour puss parents I had met, well, I almost said no. But the poor dude looked a little on the desperate side, and I didn't want to damn a well meant event just because I had to deal with a Miss Pissypants or two. So I said yes, I'd make myself available for the morning session.
When I wandered in this morning, thankfully no Pissypants were around, only my fellow nerdamom. I had such a great time, I happily stayed through the whole day. The kids! Ah, those awesome kids. Our first set was a group of 5th graders. They hovered over the advanced readers and interactive books, oohing and aaahing, and frantically scribbling on their wishlists (a piece of paper the kids can write their desired titles and prices on, then take home to hound their parents for cash for, since the fair went on all week). I was very impressed by the selection they offered, from Neil Gaiman's Graveyard book to some other great "spooky" selections I'd never heard of. The offerings actually seemed quite scifi/fantasy heavy (thankfully no Stephanie Meyer), and I was tickled to see a few of them asking about the latest tales. Of course the girls went gaga over the personalized journal sets, and stocked up on some new hot title called The Lightening Thief.
We quickly worked through lunch, and as other classes poured in, a few of the kids I recognized from Anthony's bus would come scampering over and say hi. They are such sweet kids! They would ask which books I was getting, and I showed them the bulging bag I had already picked out. I love having formed a little relationship with those kids, because they are definitely some amazing lil tykes.
The best, tho, was when the first graders came in. My son's class isn't due until wednesday, but many of these kids recognized me (and I them) from the walkathon when I had signed off on their lapcards and cheered them on like a goofball. Right before the class entered, the Pissypants came in for her shift. She was shocked to see me there, and moreso to know I had been there all day. I guess she just came to the realization that with all my free time, I can be a "super volunteer" as much as she. But before she could get out a snarky "oh, it's you", the class came pouring in, and I was on the receiving end of excited hand waving and leg hugs. As I had little hands pulling me around to help them fill out their wishlists, I looked over to see her stationary behind the counter, looking a little bewildered. And it dawned on me...be it my younger appearance and dress, or just simply that I am as bouncy as they are, these kids have deemed me to be one of the "cool moms". And I don't think she's received that honor. HA!
My knees are killing me right now, from all the time I spent bent over helping random 7 year olds figure out what they could buy with their exact amount of cash. It cracks me up to see how far they will attempt to stretch those bucks! They'd sit there, vexing over which title to get, then eventually settle on 2 books for $8 rather than 1 for $15, and then calculate how many little pencils and erasers they can get with their change. Many of them would scribble onto their wishlist a variety of books, and the smaller ones would politely come up to me carting a few titles and ask me to record it on their list for them. My favourite little asian track star was there, too, and I discovered she is apparently a voracious overacheiver in every aspect; she filled out 5 wishlists. If I was her mom, I swear I'd probably buy every damn title on there, too, she is just head poppingly adorable. Yes, she wears pigtails.
One little girl almost broke my heart. Her parents had given her a check for $15, so she came in on her regular session and her recess trying to decide what she wanted. She completely ignored the money sucking stationary sets, chosing to instead ponder some lovely thick books (she was only about 10, so I applauded her ambitious titles). She finally settled on two, but couldn't seem to wrap her head about the tax, so she held her breath, hoping she had enough. The total came to $15.31, and she looked about ready to cry. I quickly shoved my hands into my back pocket and fished out my coffee change from the morning, and whispered "Look who has .35 cents! I'll play fairy godmother today." The beaming smile on her face was worth so much more than worthless change collecting lint.
The librarian and I had a great time, and he eagerly accepted my offer to come back midweek. I'm chaperoning the feild trip tomorrow, and then will return to the book fair on Wednesday. Funny, the snarky mom could hardly figure out how to ring up anything (thank you, years of retail experience), and was noticeably absent from the rest of the volunteer schedules...
Thursday, October 29, 2009
My child is Epic
So, I had kiddo's parent teacher conference last night. Man, those things are short now! Or maybe I just think they are. Since he's in special education, it's not just me and a teacher. It's me, his general ed class teacher, the special ed teacher, 2 para-educators, a speech therapist, and a behavioralist. Crowded room! But we still only get a half an hour to discuss everything, form his math progress (which is a llittle behind, but that was expected), reading progress (which the teachers couldn't stop gushing over how awesome he is), writing progress (moving at a fast clip as well), and the clincher...behavioral progress. It's a slow road there. They find it next to impossible at times to get him to focus, and have resorted to a rather interesting method of scripting to get him to fall in line. They give him little cards that say step by step what he's supposed to be doing, like "Circle time: I will sit on the floor. I will put my hands in my lap. I will listen to the book quietly. I will not get up and run around. I will wait til the end of the story to speak. I will raise my hand before I speak". Apparently this is working pretty well for them, especially considering he can read the entire card on his own. His special ed teacher said she will see him staring at the cards and repeating the instructions back to himself, over and over. He really does want to behave. He just has an incredibly hard time focusing. The teachers said it's like his mind is going a mile a second and he's struggling to wrangle it under control. Ha! I can definitely say I know where he gets it. Some people have said talking to me is liking trying to talk to a hyperactive kitten who keeps finding string.
So, after we get over the initial progress stuff, the special ed teacher takes me into the other room to BS. As we walk in, she asks me if I knew about the "wet paper towel story". I cautiously said no, but realized wuickly I was in for a doozy when three other teachers came in giggling "are you telling the paper towel story? I loved that!!!" Dear god, my child is legendary...
She followed him into the bathroom, where he proceeded to proudly show her his discovery that if you fling a wet paper towel onto the wall, it will stick. This discovery led him to create a massive tactile mural across the entire bathroom wall. Trees and smiley faces. With mushy wet paper towels. She said she felt awful trying to admonish him for it, because he was just so damn PROUD of this accomplishment.
So, a few days later, when kiddo requested to use the bathroom, they decided to head off the potential for disaster by sending him with another student. This student was very "prim and proper, and a model of reserved behavior", so they were sure he'd keep kiddo in line. Ha!
As time passed, the teacher got worried, so decided to go see what was going on. As she pushed open the door, the first thing she sees is this other student standing in the middle of the bathroom with a look of abject horror across his little face. On the other side of the bathroom is kiddo, proudly creating another masterpiece. He looked up and saw the teacher, and gleefully cried, "Ms. Young, watch THIS!" thwaaaaaaaack. Apparently he thought she'd be just as fascinated as he was. At this point, Ms. Young pointed out is is very hard to admonish a child for misbehaving when they are so dang proud of their accomplishment (also, when you are trying not to laugh so hard you are tearing up).
A few days later, kiddo was allowed to go to the bathroom on his own, being excused from the gen ed class. Now, because of kiddo, there is a little blue line taped onto the floor from the gen ed room (and the specialist room), going directly to the bathroom. He tends to get easily sidetracked, so they put the little track there for him to follow. Since the specialist room is between the gen ed and bathroom, Ms. Young can look up and see kiddo trucking by on his little line. Often times she'll hear him repeating his "going to the bathroom correctly" script to himself as he shuffles. This is the hilarity she witnessed:
Step step step. pause in front of specialist room.
"do we stop and go in room 3? Nooooo..." little wag of the finger.
step step step. pause at hallway intersection.
"do we go running down the other hall? Nooooo...." little wag of the finger.
step step step. pause in front of bathroom door.
"do we throw wet paper towels at the bathroom wall? no no no no no!" in a little sing songy voice, before a little jump, and pushed open the bathroom door.
At this point, she, and two other teachers who witnessed his little jaunt, fell over laughing in tears.
So, after we get over the initial progress stuff, the special ed teacher takes me into the other room to BS. As we walk in, she asks me if I knew about the "wet paper towel story". I cautiously said no, but realized wuickly I was in for a doozy when three other teachers came in giggling "are you telling the paper towel story? I loved that!!!" Dear god, my child is legendary...
THE WET PAPER TOWEL INCIDENT
Anthony went to the bathroom by himself, and was taking an unusually long time. The para-ed was getting a little worried, when all the sudden kiddo ran into the room, grabbed her hand, and said "Ms. Hanthorn, do you want to see something wonderful???"She followed him into the bathroom, where he proceeded to proudly show her his discovery that if you fling a wet paper towel onto the wall, it will stick. This discovery led him to create a massive tactile mural across the entire bathroom wall. Trees and smiley faces. With mushy wet paper towels. She said she felt awful trying to admonish him for it, because he was just so damn PROUD of this accomplishment.
So, a few days later, when kiddo requested to use the bathroom, they decided to head off the potential for disaster by sending him with another student. This student was very "prim and proper, and a model of reserved behavior", so they were sure he'd keep kiddo in line. Ha!
As time passed, the teacher got worried, so decided to go see what was going on. As she pushed open the door, the first thing she sees is this other student standing in the middle of the bathroom with a look of abject horror across his little face. On the other side of the bathroom is kiddo, proudly creating another masterpiece. He looked up and saw the teacher, and gleefully cried, "Ms. Young, watch THIS!" thwaaaaaaaack. Apparently he thought she'd be just as fascinated as he was. At this point, Ms. Young pointed out is is very hard to admonish a child for misbehaving when they are so dang proud of their accomplishment (also, when you are trying not to laugh so hard you are tearing up).
A few days later, kiddo was allowed to go to the bathroom on his own, being excused from the gen ed class. Now, because of kiddo, there is a little blue line taped onto the floor from the gen ed room (and the specialist room), going directly to the bathroom. He tends to get easily sidetracked, so they put the little track there for him to follow. Since the specialist room is between the gen ed and bathroom, Ms. Young can look up and see kiddo trucking by on his little line. Often times she'll hear him repeating his "going to the bathroom correctly" script to himself as he shuffles. This is the hilarity she witnessed:
Step step step. pause in front of specialist room.
"do we stop and go in room 3? Nooooo..." little wag of the finger.
step step step. pause at hallway intersection.
"do we go running down the other hall? Nooooo...." little wag of the finger.
step step step. pause in front of bathroom door.
"do we throw wet paper towels at the bathroom wall? no no no no no!" in a little sing songy voice, before a little jump, and pushed open the bathroom door.
At this point, she, and two other teachers who witnessed his little jaunt, fell over laughing in tears.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Ups and Downs, and the Little Bus
I'd never been on the inside of the "short bus", so it was interesting. That is a LOT of seatbelts! As kiddo's companions got on, I had the realization that not all the children who ride these buses would be classified as special needs. Now, kiddo could never be left on his own at a bus stop, nor dropped at one and be expected to make it back on his own. Also, the seatbelts are needed because he has a tendency to get up and wander. He's been on special transit ever since he started kindergarten.
His adorable friend Anika is in a similar state, but perhaps even more so with a much more severe disorder (I've never asked her mom what the diagnosis is, but, well, while painfully sweet and instantly endearing, it is very clear immediately that there's a severe delay). She's probably one of the sweetest little gals you'd ever meet, always ready to run up and greet you with the biggest grin ever and a big "HIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!" I love her to pieces, and since I know her so well, I always try to look out for her whenever I'm with the school children.
There's also his friend Patrick, whose delay seems similar to kiddo's, with a more pronounced speech delay. These are all the types of kids I would expect on special transit, as well as physical disabilities (of which there are none at kiddo's school, as far as I know). So I guess I was a bit bewildered when I saw approximately four cihldren on his bus with no apparent signs of disability, physical or otherwise. Granted, I'm not a trained therapist, so it's hard to say if there wasn't anything just not readily noticeable. But other than being awfully wound up, these kids seemed fine. In fact, the eldest girl on there, a sweet looking mixed girl, spoke with an articulation I would've expected from a much older child. A child with a european accent seemed to be attempting to instigate a conversation with her, and a younger black girl with an adorable little poof of a pigtail on top of her head that sat in front of me and kiddo. She turned around a few times to brightly smile and say hi to us, and I found her to be charming. Then there was the boy who the driver demanded sit in the very front, and I could quickly see why.
This little...tyrant was loud and quite obnoxious. And I'm not just talking in the typical kid with too much energy way, I'm talking unruley, trying to pick fights with the other kids verbally, and shouting at his topmost volume. Behavioral issues was a minor description. The poor bus driver had to pull over twice to et him to shut up, and seemed to be at his wits end trying to get this kid to just chill out.
Now, obviously I wouldn't be freaking out over a kid who was mouthing off. Hey, it's grade school. It happens, right? But what shocked me was the crap coming out of this kid's mouth. I'm not talking about a few curses here and there.
I'm talking about racial slurs. The poor girl in front of me was beside herself trying to brush it off, I felt so bad for her. The elder one was smart and kept ignoring his incitements. Then finally, he screeched "My dad told me never to talk to black people!!!"
I calmly looked at Anthony and said very loudly, "That is very wrong thinking. I never EVER want you to repeat whatever that boy says". He looked sweetly up at me, oblivious as to what transpired. Thankfully Anika seemed to be in her own little world at the time, and I don't believe Patrick was on the bus when it was uttered. See, those three kids are at a point where they don't yet know about racial differences, or lack thereof. As far as kiddo's concerned, everybody's the same, some might just be a little more tan. I like it that way. I was raised that way, too.
Now, the driver did nothing, and I realized that he probably didn't hear it. The engine noise is pretty concentrated around the front of the bus. I didn't say anything as we got off, I was still pondering the entire event. I thought of what to say to an authority there, who I would be able to talk to, and what, if anything, they could do.
I could tell a teacher, but if that horrible thinking is comng from Daddy, well, it's not like a call home can realy do a lot of good, right? It's sad when you think of how ignorance and hate propagate so quickly through a child's upbringing. Even if they tried to discipline the child for it, if Dad's a racist, then he'd probably protest any backlash.
*sigh* The only thing I can do is indeed write a letter, and express my deep concern about the other children being exposed to this kind of behavior. I understand why kiddo, An, and Patrick ride that bus, but all the more reason to want to protect them from a child like this. I wrote to the teacher, and intend to follow through with an identical complaint to the principal. Luckily I knew the offending child's name.
I probably never would've even known about any of this had I not ridden the bus with him that afternoon. Anthony doesn't know well enough to tell me about something like this, because he wouldn't understand any of it. And since it seems the driver never heard it (or at worse, chose to ignore it), nothing would've been done to acknowledge it.
Well, here's hoping some good can come out of this. I'm still mortified, I guess I had hoped that being close enough to a metro area, we wouldn't face rampant racism. But at least I was there to hear it, and hopefully help tamp it down.
His adorable friend Anika is in a similar state, but perhaps even more so with a much more severe disorder (I've never asked her mom what the diagnosis is, but, well, while painfully sweet and instantly endearing, it is very clear immediately that there's a severe delay). She's probably one of the sweetest little gals you'd ever meet, always ready to run up and greet you with the biggest grin ever and a big "HIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!" I love her to pieces, and since I know her so well, I always try to look out for her whenever I'm with the school children.
There's also his friend Patrick, whose delay seems similar to kiddo's, with a more pronounced speech delay. These are all the types of kids I would expect on special transit, as well as physical disabilities (of which there are none at kiddo's school, as far as I know). So I guess I was a bit bewildered when I saw approximately four cihldren on his bus with no apparent signs of disability, physical or otherwise. Granted, I'm not a trained therapist, so it's hard to say if there wasn't anything just not readily noticeable. But other than being awfully wound up, these kids seemed fine. In fact, the eldest girl on there, a sweet looking mixed girl, spoke with an articulation I would've expected from a much older child. A child with a european accent seemed to be attempting to instigate a conversation with her, and a younger black girl with an adorable little poof of a pigtail on top of her head that sat in front of me and kiddo. She turned around a few times to brightly smile and say hi to us, and I found her to be charming. Then there was the boy who the driver demanded sit in the very front, and I could quickly see why.
This little...tyrant was loud and quite obnoxious. And I'm not just talking in the typical kid with too much energy way, I'm talking unruley, trying to pick fights with the other kids verbally, and shouting at his topmost volume. Behavioral issues was a minor description. The poor bus driver had to pull over twice to et him to shut up, and seemed to be at his wits end trying to get this kid to just chill out.
Now, obviously I wouldn't be freaking out over a kid who was mouthing off. Hey, it's grade school. It happens, right? But what shocked me was the crap coming out of this kid's mouth. I'm not talking about a few curses here and there.
I'm talking about racial slurs. The poor girl in front of me was beside herself trying to brush it off, I felt so bad for her. The elder one was smart and kept ignoring his incitements. Then finally, he screeched "My dad told me never to talk to black people!!!"
I calmly looked at Anthony and said very loudly, "That is very wrong thinking. I never EVER want you to repeat whatever that boy says". He looked sweetly up at me, oblivious as to what transpired. Thankfully Anika seemed to be in her own little world at the time, and I don't believe Patrick was on the bus when it was uttered. See, those three kids are at a point where they don't yet know about racial differences, or lack thereof. As far as kiddo's concerned, everybody's the same, some might just be a little more tan. I like it that way. I was raised that way, too.
Now, the driver did nothing, and I realized that he probably didn't hear it. The engine noise is pretty concentrated around the front of the bus. I didn't say anything as we got off, I was still pondering the entire event. I thought of what to say to an authority there, who I would be able to talk to, and what, if anything, they could do.
I could tell a teacher, but if that horrible thinking is comng from Daddy, well, it's not like a call home can realy do a lot of good, right? It's sad when you think of how ignorance and hate propagate so quickly through a child's upbringing. Even if they tried to discipline the child for it, if Dad's a racist, then he'd probably protest any backlash.
*sigh* The only thing I can do is indeed write a letter, and express my deep concern about the other children being exposed to this kind of behavior. I understand why kiddo, An, and Patrick ride that bus, but all the more reason to want to protect them from a child like this. I wrote to the teacher, and intend to follow through with an identical complaint to the principal. Luckily I knew the offending child's name.
I probably never would've even known about any of this had I not ridden the bus with him that afternoon. Anthony doesn't know well enough to tell me about something like this, because he wouldn't understand any of it. And since it seems the driver never heard it (or at worse, chose to ignore it), nothing would've been done to acknowledge it.
Well, here's hoping some good can come out of this. I'm still mortified, I guess I had hoped that being close enough to a metro area, we wouldn't face rampant racism. But at least I was there to hear it, and hopefully help tamp it down.
The Ups and Downs of Volunteering at school
So, last week during the curriculum night at kiddo's school, they passed around a volunteer sheet for the school's annual walkathon. Since I'm technically a stay at home mommy right now, I jumped at the chance! I mean, how fun to watch all those little guys walkin' their tails off to support their school?
Soooooo...I hopped on the bus down there, attempting to be as timely as possible. I realized quickly that the transfer I had would expire before I got done, and prayed that kiddo's bus driver would allow me to hitch a ride back with the kids. They all know me from his drop off anyway, so it's not like I was a perfect stranger. As I walk up to the volunteer sign in, the gal marking off names seems quite relieved. "Your a first grade mom, so you'll be marking off the first grader lap cards. The SPE teacher was glad you came!" I know a couple of kiddo's classmates from all my time popping in there, so I was definitely excited to see all those glowing faces.
As I walk over to my purple (yay!) station across the feild, I realize I am the only parent there. All the other grade tables have 3 or 4 parents...where were my companions? Hmmm...maybe because it's first grade the parents aren't used to needing to help out at school? Ah well, here's hoping all the coffee I downed will give me the energy to keep up with them!
As I sit there and ponder my solitude and look across the feild, I also realize I am "not dressed appropriately" in comparison to the rest of the parents (who several of them decided to shoot me some oh-so-lovely looks from nearby stations). According to my observation, a mommy is supposed to be wearing yoga pants, a hideous parka, and track shoes. I am wearing a pink sweatshirt with skulls on it, rolled jeans, and a big bulky set of black boots. hmmm. Apparently the large hot pink Nightmare Before Christmas tote bag is getting a few glares, too. Greaaaat.
Finally another parent wanders over to my station, trailed by one of the office workers that appears quite frantic. I quickly discover the office worker is the only person who speaks spanish, and quickly explains the task at hand to my new companion. I stammer a greeting in my bastardization of this poor woman's language, and realize this now makes the day infinitely more interesting. Luckily she speaks about as much english as I do spanish, so we stumbled through small talk while waiting for the kids to get out on the field. While we're talking, another staffer walks up. She had one of those atrocious boxy pink sweaters (the kind Martha Stewart wears), and starts lamenting that had she known she'd be with us, she would've tried to match her clothes to the station. Really, lady? I just kind of laughed, and made introductions.
"oh, I am a sub teacher for the district, and I actually did the spanish class all day today!" she crowed.
My partner looked very relieved, and asked her which grades she taught (in spanish). Sadly she was greated by a blank look, because apparently Super Sub here didn't actually speak a lick of spanish. I am now thoroughly impressed with the district's idea of adequate substitutes.
As the kids are released, I discover that the little balls of energy that they be are interpreting "walkathon" as "run like hell for the next hour and a half", and get to giggle my head off as I watch the little buggers go tearing around the track. Anthony and his classmates all ran up to me and gave me high fives, and I cheered them on. As the first grades completed a lap around the track, they were supposed to come up to our station and get heir card marked. They were so cute! One little gal had me laughing so much. About a full size smaller than her peers, this precious little asian girl was giving her classmates a run for their money. Apparently she decided to train for a 5k, because as the others settled down to a walk by the third lap, she ran through 15. I think she had the most in her class, and would do this little hop to a halt in front of me every time to get her card marked. She must have been exhausted, but the grin on her face when she finished was priceless, right down to the two missing teeth. I swear to god I almost took her home.
The SPE teacher certainly had her hands full, trying to herd the little group around the track. My favourite little person, Anika, was trailing a lot, but since she knew who I was she'd eagerly come scampering over with her huge grin, screaming "mark meeeeeee!" Kids like her make life amazing, ya know??
Meanwhile, Super Sub and some other horrid little blond gal began cackling over teacher life, and scooting up away from myself and my spanish pal. Conveniently we were so distracted by all the kids, we were occupied enough not to worry about it, although it was mildly irritating that they were waving the kids away from us to sign off the cards. Apparently we were inferior box-crosser-outers.
As the time came to a close, Super sub and Blondie snatched up all the cards and started a weird form of organizing. When I asked what they were doing, they explained that they were alphabetizing them for the next round (parents were invited to come down and walk with their children's cards in the evening). As I watched, I discovered that they had invented a whole new way of arranging the alphabet, half from right to left, and a pile that was up and down. Sheesh, no wonder our kids are suffering in school.
I gave up, wished my spanish pal well, and wandered off to kiddo's bus. Now, there is a part two to this story, and it's one hell of a part two. But for now I shall sum up my lovely experience thusly:
First graders are awesome.
Grade schoolers in general have far more energy than we adults we could ever imagine.
Suburban parents are awful dressers.
When I become a teacher, no matter how temporarily, I will stick out like a sore thumb in their bad sweater wearing, obsessively controlling, awfully catty ranks.
Our district has some craptastic sub teachers.
Teachers like my son's SPE and general class ones make it ok, because they are awesome.
Soooooo...I hopped on the bus down there, attempting to be as timely as possible. I realized quickly that the transfer I had would expire before I got done, and prayed that kiddo's bus driver would allow me to hitch a ride back with the kids. They all know me from his drop off anyway, so it's not like I was a perfect stranger. As I walk up to the volunteer sign in, the gal marking off names seems quite relieved. "Your a first grade mom, so you'll be marking off the first grader lap cards. The SPE teacher was glad you came!" I know a couple of kiddo's classmates from all my time popping in there, so I was definitely excited to see all those glowing faces.
As I walk over to my purple (yay!) station across the feild, I realize I am the only parent there. All the other grade tables have 3 or 4 parents...where were my companions? Hmmm...maybe because it's first grade the parents aren't used to needing to help out at school? Ah well, here's hoping all the coffee I downed will give me the energy to keep up with them!
As I sit there and ponder my solitude and look across the feild, I also realize I am "not dressed appropriately" in comparison to the rest of the parents (who several of them decided to shoot me some oh-so-lovely looks from nearby stations). According to my observation, a mommy is supposed to be wearing yoga pants, a hideous parka, and track shoes. I am wearing a pink sweatshirt with skulls on it, rolled jeans, and a big bulky set of black boots. hmmm. Apparently the large hot pink Nightmare Before Christmas tote bag is getting a few glares, too. Greaaaat.
Finally another parent wanders over to my station, trailed by one of the office workers that appears quite frantic. I quickly discover the office worker is the only person who speaks spanish, and quickly explains the task at hand to my new companion. I stammer a greeting in my bastardization of this poor woman's language, and realize this now makes the day infinitely more interesting. Luckily she speaks about as much english as I do spanish, so we stumbled through small talk while waiting for the kids to get out on the field. While we're talking, another staffer walks up. She had one of those atrocious boxy pink sweaters (the kind Martha Stewart wears), and starts lamenting that had she known she'd be with us, she would've tried to match her clothes to the station. Really, lady? I just kind of laughed, and made introductions.
"oh, I am a sub teacher for the district, and I actually did the spanish class all day today!" she crowed.
My partner looked very relieved, and asked her which grades she taught (in spanish). Sadly she was greated by a blank look, because apparently Super Sub here didn't actually speak a lick of spanish. I am now thoroughly impressed with the district's idea of adequate substitutes.
As the kids are released, I discover that the little balls of energy that they be are interpreting "walkathon" as "run like hell for the next hour and a half", and get to giggle my head off as I watch the little buggers go tearing around the track. Anthony and his classmates all ran up to me and gave me high fives, and I cheered them on. As the first grades completed a lap around the track, they were supposed to come up to our station and get heir card marked. They were so cute! One little gal had me laughing so much. About a full size smaller than her peers, this precious little asian girl was giving her classmates a run for their money. Apparently she decided to train for a 5k, because as the others settled down to a walk by the third lap, she ran through 15. I think she had the most in her class, and would do this little hop to a halt in front of me every time to get her card marked. She must have been exhausted, but the grin on her face when she finished was priceless, right down to the two missing teeth. I swear to god I almost took her home.
The SPE teacher certainly had her hands full, trying to herd the little group around the track. My favourite little person, Anika, was trailing a lot, but since she knew who I was she'd eagerly come scampering over with her huge grin, screaming "mark meeeeeee!" Kids like her make life amazing, ya know??
Meanwhile, Super Sub and some other horrid little blond gal began cackling over teacher life, and scooting up away from myself and my spanish pal. Conveniently we were so distracted by all the kids, we were occupied enough not to worry about it, although it was mildly irritating that they were waving the kids away from us to sign off the cards. Apparently we were inferior box-crosser-outers.
As the time came to a close, Super sub and Blondie snatched up all the cards and started a weird form of organizing. When I asked what they were doing, they explained that they were alphabetizing them for the next round (parents were invited to come down and walk with their children's cards in the evening). As I watched, I discovered that they had invented a whole new way of arranging the alphabet, half from right to left, and a pile that was up and down. Sheesh, no wonder our kids are suffering in school.
I gave up, wished my spanish pal well, and wandered off to kiddo's bus. Now, there is a part two to this story, and it's one hell of a part two. But for now I shall sum up my lovely experience thusly:
First graders are awesome.
Grade schoolers in general have far more energy than we adults we could ever imagine.
Suburban parents are awful dressers.
When I become a teacher, no matter how temporarily, I will stick out like a sore thumb in their bad sweater wearing, obsessively controlling, awfully catty ranks.
Our district has some craptastic sub teachers.
Teachers like my son's SPE and general class ones make it ok, because they are awesome.
Friday, October 02, 2009
Death of Innocence
So, I went to my son's curriculum night at school last night, where we parents get to hear from the teachers their overall plan for the school year. Note, I hate these types of events, because Edmonds is very yuppified, and my weird little self tends to stick out in the sea of Eddie Bauer clones like a bright red..er, thumb?
Everything from science kits to vocabulary studies were discussed. I dutifully wrote down all of the important info, since I will of course be researching all of the lesson plans at home. They've changed a lot of this stuff since I was a kid, but it seems like the ways they are teaching are definitely more improved, and designed to tap into all the alternate ways the kids learn. I filled out a parent volunteer pack, too, which apparently requires all parents going into classrooms to have a complete bacground check. Scary, but necessary.
Since my son is in special ed, I got to actually go to two different sessions, one with his general classroom (approximately 25 children in first grade), and one for the special ed group (12 kids total, ranging from 1st through 3rd grade). Since the second session was smaller and less formal, we got to ask about more of the extra curricular activites offered for our students. Ya know, fundraisers, feild trips, that sort of thing. I asked about donating books to the library, since I was hoping to secretly insert a few about alternative families.
Towards the end of the session, I asked, "So, what all do the kids get to do for Halloween? Did you need any donated mini pumpkins for decorating or anything?" .....dead silence in the room. The horrified looks on the other parents' and the teachers' faces made me shrink in my seat. You'd think I had just asked about sacraficing baby chickens in the lunch room.
"We are NOT allowed to acknowledge that holiday in any such fashion whatsoEVER!!" was the teacher's eventual stammered response. All the other parents nodded in unison. Apparently I was the last person to know about this.
Needless to say, I was quite incredidulous. I started listing off what I thought were seemingly innocuous activities...and then was firmly told the rules of the new regime.
I was then told if my son was dressed up, he would be sent HOME. There would be no trick or treating, no little ghost paper maches, no "spooky stories" read. Nothin. In the teacher's own words, "Halloween has been banned from public schools for a few years now". I am completely, utterly appalled. Halloween is a cultural afront? To WHO?!
Halloween time for the kiddies at school was friggin awesome when I was a kid. All our classmates would dress up, and there were pictures galore. One of the best parts was seeing what your friends whipped up in the ol' costume closet. after giggling over who had the best He-man costume, we'd read Casper-like stories, ya know, innocent enough not to scare the pants off a 7 year old, but still with a friendly "skeleton", or a vampire that was afraid of the dark. Hello, anyone remember Bunnicula?! Best Halloween story EVER. And of course, there were the decorated cookies, craft paper haunted houses, and mini pumkins with glitter. I even remember my elementary school would have a Halloween festival that night with all the teachers dressed up and little games the kids could play. It was a great way for the younger kids to have some innocent halloween fun in a safe environment, obligatory bobbing for apples included.
Now, granted, I will probably now just be doing all of this at home with kiddo. I always like to let him paint a small pumpkin, and I guess this year I'll have to get some sugar cookie dough together for him to get his decoratin' groove on. But now he'll miss what I considered to be one of the best parts, which is sharing the holiday with his peers. Halloween is fun, but it's a memory-making moment when it's surrounded by 12 other little ghosts and goblins giggling over a jackolantern cookie with M&Ms for eyes. It's the one holiday that isn't wrapped in religious sentiment or serious moral undertone. Yes, I know it is technically a pagan celebration of the harvest, and butts up next to the hispanic Dia De Los Muertos, but to most every modern individual, it's a day celebrating goofiness and all things "spooky". It's a day to laugh at the things that go bump in the night. It's one of the classic moments of childhood that I thought crossed all cultural lines, at least, when I was young it did.
But now, thanks to lord only knows what stick-up-the-ass group of lameo individuals, this priceless moment of childhood has been robbed from our offspring. People seem to be so DAMN eager to get upset and offended over every little thing, that we allow our children no exploration whatsoever.
Grrrr.....I have half a mind to dress up like a giant pumpkin on the friday preceding the day, stand outside of kiddo's school, and just start pelting kids with smarties.
Everything from science kits to vocabulary studies were discussed. I dutifully wrote down all of the important info, since I will of course be researching all of the lesson plans at home. They've changed a lot of this stuff since I was a kid, but it seems like the ways they are teaching are definitely more improved, and designed to tap into all the alternate ways the kids learn. I filled out a parent volunteer pack, too, which apparently requires all parents going into classrooms to have a complete bacground check. Scary, but necessary.
Since my son is in special ed, I got to actually go to two different sessions, one with his general classroom (approximately 25 children in first grade), and one for the special ed group (12 kids total, ranging from 1st through 3rd grade). Since the second session was smaller and less formal, we got to ask about more of the extra curricular activites offered for our students. Ya know, fundraisers, feild trips, that sort of thing. I asked about donating books to the library, since I was hoping to secretly insert a few about alternative families.
Towards the end of the session, I asked, "So, what all do the kids get to do for Halloween? Did you need any donated mini pumpkins for decorating or anything?" .....dead silence in the room. The horrified looks on the other parents' and the teachers' faces made me shrink in my seat. You'd think I had just asked about sacraficing baby chickens in the lunch room.
"We are NOT allowed to acknowledge that holiday in any such fashion whatsoEVER!!" was the teacher's eventual stammered response. All the other parents nodded in unison. Apparently I was the last person to know about this.
Needless to say, I was quite incredidulous. I started listing off what I thought were seemingly innocuous activities...and then was firmly told the rules of the new regime.
I was then told if my son was dressed up, he would be sent HOME. There would be no trick or treating, no little ghost paper maches, no "spooky stories" read. Nothin. In the teacher's own words, "Halloween has been banned from public schools for a few years now". I am completely, utterly appalled. Halloween is a cultural afront? To WHO?!
Halloween time for the kiddies at school was friggin awesome when I was a kid. All our classmates would dress up, and there were pictures galore. One of the best parts was seeing what your friends whipped up in the ol' costume closet. after giggling over who had the best He-man costume, we'd read Casper-like stories, ya know, innocent enough not to scare the pants off a 7 year old, but still with a friendly "skeleton", or a vampire that was afraid of the dark. Hello, anyone remember Bunnicula?! Best Halloween story EVER. And of course, there were the decorated cookies, craft paper haunted houses, and mini pumkins with glitter. I even remember my elementary school would have a Halloween festival that night with all the teachers dressed up and little games the kids could play. It was a great way for the younger kids to have some innocent halloween fun in a safe environment, obligatory bobbing for apples included.
Now, granted, I will probably now just be doing all of this at home with kiddo. I always like to let him paint a small pumpkin, and I guess this year I'll have to get some sugar cookie dough together for him to get his decoratin' groove on. But now he'll miss what I considered to be one of the best parts, which is sharing the holiday with his peers. Halloween is fun, but it's a memory-making moment when it's surrounded by 12 other little ghosts and goblins giggling over a jackolantern cookie with M&Ms for eyes. It's the one holiday that isn't wrapped in religious sentiment or serious moral undertone. Yes, I know it is technically a pagan celebration of the harvest, and butts up next to the hispanic Dia De Los Muertos, but to most every modern individual, it's a day celebrating goofiness and all things "spooky". It's a day to laugh at the things that go bump in the night. It's one of the classic moments of childhood that I thought crossed all cultural lines, at least, when I was young it did.
But now, thanks to lord only knows what stick-up-the-ass group of lameo individuals, this priceless moment of childhood has been robbed from our offspring. People seem to be so DAMN eager to get upset and offended over every little thing, that we allow our children no exploration whatsoever.
Grrrr.....I have half a mind to dress up like a giant pumpkin on the friday preceding the day, stand outside of kiddo's school, and just start pelting kids with smarties.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The meaning of "wrong"
I know I've posted many a times about my frustrations regarding my ex and my son. Everyone by now knows the story, my son has a developmental disorder, my ex can't handle it, nor does he wish to try. And of course, his selfishness and lack of concern for his son's needs cause undue stress on my part. Then I yell, and we begin the vicious cycle anew.
I had a very frustrating conversation today. I'm not sure if he was expecting me to be "understanding", or pity him, or what. I have no empathy left inside me for him as an individual, and I'm honestly surprised that he would expect otherwise.
Apparently he wants to change the visitation schedule...AGAIN...because it doesn't suit his living situation. At first, he wanted the visits to line up with his girlfriend's kid. The girl has a boy close to Anthony's age, and while I suspected this arangement was basically to allow the kids to keep themselves entertained, I did have a few concerns because at one point the other child beat up Anthony pretty bad.
But now, apparently, it's causing too many "problems". The kid doesn't understand Anthony, and therefor gets all kinds of pissy. Ex actually felt the need to convey to me how this "poor kid" gets upset with Anthony because he can't understand why there's something "wrong" with him. The girlfriend doesn't understand Anthony, and therefor gets all kinds of pissy. She's frustrated with Anthony being different, and takes it out on Daddy. And apparently the ex hates it when everyone gets pissy, and so starts bemoaning the fact that there's "something wrong" with his kid. He's worried about his own damn anxiety, because he's getting too frustrated with there being a "problem" with kiddo. Of course, when I tell him he needs to get his own damn therapist, and deal with that, he shrugs it off. I can't believe how he doesn't see that he's putting his relationship before his child. He says he's doing this for his own sanity. I asked what he's proposing, but he hasn't decided. I'm quite frankly thinking we'l ned to cut his visitation even more. Because, apparently, 2 days a month is too damn much.
Now granted, he has of course never bothered to ask me if I'm affected. Ya know, the person who Anthony actually lives with the vast majority of the time. So I'm going to answer it here.
No. It doesn't. Three years ago when we discovered there was an issue, I began the trek down the long road for help for him. But as a parent, I said "ok, well there's that." And that was it. My son having a disability is like having a mole on his face, it is what it is. Can he be frustrating at times? Sure, what kid isn't??? But do I find parenting just as rewarding and wonderful? You betcha. My kid's a litle different, and you know what? He's friggin AWESOME.
Does it cause problems in my relationship? Well, I guess you'd ultimately have to ask Scott. But I can say we've never fought over it. He's never gotten upset with me over Anthony's issues. And not once in the three years we've been a family has Scott ever said there's something "wrong" with him. Not to put words in my man's mouth, but it seems he loves and accepts Anthony just as much as I do. As a parent should.
I know, I need to stop letting my ex-husband's shortcomings piss me off so bad. I think part of I is I feel embarassed that this reject is who I chose to be my son's father. I wanna tell him, "sorry, kiddo, I didn't know it'd be like this", and sweep the problem under the rug. As I hear the panic in my ex's voice rise, I worry that Anthony will pick up on his father's inability to, well, be a father. Anthony can't comprehend complex emotions, so I can only hope that he doesn't know his father is selfish enough to be "ashamed" of him. I'm afraid to subject kiddo to having to deal with this guy for the next 18 years, because he clearly doesn't want to "deal" with being a parent of a child with special needs.
I "deal" with it every day of my life. But I don't bemoan my fate. To do so would be shameful. I am a parent, and I'd like to think a damn good one. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for my son, there's nothing too great to give, no sacrifice I won't make. Lord only knows I've given a lot, but I would do it again thrice over. And I say "deal" because frankly, it doesn't feel like that. Being a mother, being his mother, is the best thing that has ever happened to me. The only thing about him I really have a hard time "dealing" with is his damn father. He's the one who causes my stress and anxiety. Not only has he gone out of his way to make my life difficult, but then he thinks I will actually listen to him whine about how difficult it is to be a father two days a month? Um, how about no.
Everytime we have one of these conversations, he gets upset because I'm not being "understanding". Then I get upset, hang up, and just sit here. I want to throw a vase against a wall, send thunder upon him, then curl up and cry. Then go hug my son, my sweet, loving son, and tell him "There's nothing wrong with you. But there is with your Dad, and that's my fault for picking him".
I had a very frustrating conversation today. I'm not sure if he was expecting me to be "understanding", or pity him, or what. I have no empathy left inside me for him as an individual, and I'm honestly surprised that he would expect otherwise.
Apparently he wants to change the visitation schedule...AGAIN...because it doesn't suit his living situation. At first, he wanted the visits to line up with his girlfriend's kid. The girl has a boy close to Anthony's age, and while I suspected this arangement was basically to allow the kids to keep themselves entertained, I did have a few concerns because at one point the other child beat up Anthony pretty bad.
But now, apparently, it's causing too many "problems". The kid doesn't understand Anthony, and therefor gets all kinds of pissy. Ex actually felt the need to convey to me how this "poor kid" gets upset with Anthony because he can't understand why there's something "wrong" with him. The girlfriend doesn't understand Anthony, and therefor gets all kinds of pissy. She's frustrated with Anthony being different, and takes it out on Daddy. And apparently the ex hates it when everyone gets pissy, and so starts bemoaning the fact that there's "something wrong" with his kid. He's worried about his own damn anxiety, because he's getting too frustrated with there being a "problem" with kiddo. Of course, when I tell him he needs to get his own damn therapist, and deal with that, he shrugs it off. I can't believe how he doesn't see that he's putting his relationship before his child. He says he's doing this for his own sanity. I asked what he's proposing, but he hasn't decided. I'm quite frankly thinking we'l ned to cut his visitation even more. Because, apparently, 2 days a month is too damn much.
Now granted, he has of course never bothered to ask me if I'm affected. Ya know, the person who Anthony actually lives with the vast majority of the time. So I'm going to answer it here.
No. It doesn't. Three years ago when we discovered there was an issue, I began the trek down the long road for help for him. But as a parent, I said "ok, well there's that." And that was it. My son having a disability is like having a mole on his face, it is what it is. Can he be frustrating at times? Sure, what kid isn't??? But do I find parenting just as rewarding and wonderful? You betcha. My kid's a litle different, and you know what? He's friggin AWESOME.
Does it cause problems in my relationship? Well, I guess you'd ultimately have to ask Scott. But I can say we've never fought over it. He's never gotten upset with me over Anthony's issues. And not once in the three years we've been a family has Scott ever said there's something "wrong" with him. Not to put words in my man's mouth, but it seems he loves and accepts Anthony just as much as I do. As a parent should.
I know, I need to stop letting my ex-husband's shortcomings piss me off so bad. I think part of I is I feel embarassed that this reject is who I chose to be my son's father. I wanna tell him, "sorry, kiddo, I didn't know it'd be like this", and sweep the problem under the rug. As I hear the panic in my ex's voice rise, I worry that Anthony will pick up on his father's inability to, well, be a father. Anthony can't comprehend complex emotions, so I can only hope that he doesn't know his father is selfish enough to be "ashamed" of him. I'm afraid to subject kiddo to having to deal with this guy for the next 18 years, because he clearly doesn't want to "deal" with being a parent of a child with special needs.
I "deal" with it every day of my life. But I don't bemoan my fate. To do so would be shameful. I am a parent, and I'd like to think a damn good one. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for my son, there's nothing too great to give, no sacrifice I won't make. Lord only knows I've given a lot, but I would do it again thrice over. And I say "deal" because frankly, it doesn't feel like that. Being a mother, being his mother, is the best thing that has ever happened to me. The only thing about him I really have a hard time "dealing" with is his damn father. He's the one who causes my stress and anxiety. Not only has he gone out of his way to make my life difficult, but then he thinks I will actually listen to him whine about how difficult it is to be a father two days a month? Um, how about no.
Everytime we have one of these conversations, he gets upset because I'm not being "understanding". Then I get upset, hang up, and just sit here. I want to throw a vase against a wall, send thunder upon him, then curl up and cry. Then go hug my son, my sweet, loving son, and tell him "There's nothing wrong with you. But there is with your Dad, and that's my fault for picking him".
Monday, August 31, 2009
You're studying what, exactly?
So, quite a few people have asked me what on earth it is I am planning to go to school for, and each time I answer it starts with taking a very deep breath. It's a long and complex answer, but if you stay in for the whole She-bang, it's worth it. But to tell it even once probably requires a little history.
My son was loosely diagnosed with a developmental disorder 3 years ago. Each time I've asked for a more defined answer, I keep getting the same run around. Trying to get him into behavioral therapy recently, I hit so many roadblocks I wanted to throw myself off the balcony. Calling no less than 50 different therapy/counseling offices (I'm not exaggerating, I kept a flippin' log), I couldn't find one person who could take him in.
"I'm sorry, I'm completely booked" was the most common answer.
"Until you get a better diagnosis, we can't help you" kinda the reason I need help.
Why is it so godamn hard to get help for a child? I would imagine most parents would give up after this. But I'm unemployed, so I keep on callin' until my fingers turn blue and I kill the phone battery for the ninth time in a day. The more frustrated I get, the more phone calls I make.
I kept getting letters from the unemployment office, promising to "re-educate" my sorry butt, because apparently when they saw I was a career administrator, they discovered that particular job choice is yielding no jobs at the moment. I thought and thought about what I could possibly "re-educate" myself in that wouldn't lead to another dead end career. I need something stable, that allows flexible hours for my son's needs, and enough money to live on. Something that won't kill me by drudging through a day of meaninglessness might be nice, too. And if I'm going through the trouble of studying, well, it better be something I'm interested in.
Let's see...politics? Nah, "former stripper and video game fanatic" doesn't go to well on the campaign trail (well, maybe to an exclusive 18-35 year old male nerd demographic).
Art? Again? I laugh hysterically. Why advance my education for more worthlessness. My presentations are sooooooo pretty! Annnnnnnnd that's about all I got from THAT!
Computers? hmm...well, I could, but any education in that area requires math. And boy, do I hate math. Plus, educating myself in a hobby area could undo any pleasure I take in screwing with all things with circuitry. It happened with art the first time. I had to paint the same damn bird over and over and over again in different mediums. By the time the assignment was done I hated birds, hated 5 different art mediums, and hated art in general. I still to this day curse pictures of parrots.
Marketing...well, I've worked in the field endlessly, and I'm apparently damn good at it. But, well, there's something kinda skeevy in it all. Unless I could make a fortune marketing world peace, I feel a little dirty at the end of the day knowing I can "take pride" in convincing people to spend money on shit they weren't originally wanting to.
More administration classes...blegh. Glorified secretary at the end of the tunnel? Yea...not exactly what I'd want on my gravestone...
So, it comes down to the true question that seems to be on random surveys. "If you could do anything in the world, what would you really do?"
My answer, for the last 6 years, at least, has been "teach art to special needs children".
One person asked me why once, and I talked about my fascination with the study of neuroscience, and the theory that art can have a very positive impact on multiple levels with these kids. It can be used as therapy, as an outlet, as a means of simple joys.
Why not open an art camp for those kids, then?
Heck, let's go one step further, since we're still in the "anything in the world" dream state: Create an art camp for special needs children, a resource center for their parents, while also practicing therapy for special needs children with specialization on alternate therapies and enhanced education. Work with schools to develop in-house art-therapy programs, better special education programs.
huh...I better call a counselor.
STEP 1: Get Early Childhood Education certification. This'll just be an Associates of Technical Arts (ooh sounds fancy!), but it takes less than 2 years, lesser still with my previous credits from Cal, and allows me to start immediately working with these kids. Art camp can easily begin at this point, as I'd be teaching up to third grade in the school year and bored out of my skull come summer time. Pray my placement is in special ed! Also gives me foundation for the end goal, being able to create advancements in education for these kids.
STEP 2: Now that I'm working with the very kids I want to be helping, begin studies at UW in Developmental Psychology with a specialization in Neurolinguistics. Probably will take 4 years, because I'll only be going part time due to above-mentioned occupation. But teaching younger kids does allow a generously open schedule. Grading 2nd grader homework not as bad as trying to wrap my head around a high schooler's mangled essay, times 30.
I have a dog! His name is Spike vs. Yo, 'sup Dawg, so I reads t'tis book by that dead dude and it sux so hard.
At the end of the tunnel, I'm still young enough to have a thriving practice and accomplish these goals. It's weird when I can say "I'm only 30" instead of "crap, I'm already 30". I may not be done in time to help Anthony as a young child, but I can help others like him. And by doing this now, I have the internal strength I need to continue hammering away at the task of getting him the help he needs. I could just sit here feeling sorry for myself and him because help is so hard to find. But instead I will stand up and demand that help, and then make myself into better help for the next kid that this happens to. Give me my "save the world" cape, I got work to do!!!
My son was loosely diagnosed with a developmental disorder 3 years ago. Each time I've asked for a more defined answer, I keep getting the same run around. Trying to get him into behavioral therapy recently, I hit so many roadblocks I wanted to throw myself off the balcony. Calling no less than 50 different therapy/counseling offices (I'm not exaggerating, I kept a flippin' log), I couldn't find one person who could take him in.
"I'm sorry, I'm completely booked" was the most common answer.
"Until you get a better diagnosis, we can't help you" kinda the reason I need help.
Why is it so godamn hard to get help for a child? I would imagine most parents would give up after this. But I'm unemployed, so I keep on callin' until my fingers turn blue and I kill the phone battery for the ninth time in a day. The more frustrated I get, the more phone calls I make.
I kept getting letters from the unemployment office, promising to "re-educate" my sorry butt, because apparently when they saw I was a career administrator, they discovered that particular job choice is yielding no jobs at the moment. I thought and thought about what I could possibly "re-educate" myself in that wouldn't lead to another dead end career. I need something stable, that allows flexible hours for my son's needs, and enough money to live on. Something that won't kill me by drudging through a day of meaninglessness might be nice, too. And if I'm going through the trouble of studying, well, it better be something I'm interested in.
Let's see...politics? Nah, "former stripper and video game fanatic" doesn't go to well on the campaign trail (well, maybe to an exclusive 18-35 year old male nerd demographic).
Art? Again? I laugh hysterically. Why advance my education for more worthlessness. My presentations are sooooooo pretty! Annnnnnnnd that's about all I got from THAT!
Computers? hmm...well, I could, but any education in that area requires math. And boy, do I hate math. Plus, educating myself in a hobby area could undo any pleasure I take in screwing with all things with circuitry. It happened with art the first time. I had to paint the same damn bird over and over and over again in different mediums. By the time the assignment was done I hated birds, hated 5 different art mediums, and hated art in general. I still to this day curse pictures of parrots.
Marketing...well, I've worked in the field endlessly, and I'm apparently damn good at it. But, well, there's something kinda skeevy in it all. Unless I could make a fortune marketing world peace, I feel a little dirty at the end of the day knowing I can "take pride" in convincing people to spend money on shit they weren't originally wanting to.
More administration classes...blegh. Glorified secretary at the end of the tunnel? Yea...not exactly what I'd want on my gravestone...
So, it comes down to the true question that seems to be on random surveys. "If you could do anything in the world, what would you really do?"
My answer, for the last 6 years, at least, has been "teach art to special needs children".
One person asked me why once, and I talked about my fascination with the study of neuroscience, and the theory that art can have a very positive impact on multiple levels with these kids. It can be used as therapy, as an outlet, as a means of simple joys.
Why not open an art camp for those kids, then?
Heck, let's go one step further, since we're still in the "anything in the world" dream state: Create an art camp for special needs children, a resource center for their parents, while also practicing therapy for special needs children with specialization on alternate therapies and enhanced education. Work with schools to develop in-house art-therapy programs, better special education programs.
huh...I better call a counselor.
STEP 1: Get Early Childhood Education certification. This'll just be an Associates of Technical Arts (ooh sounds fancy!), but it takes less than 2 years, lesser still with my previous credits from Cal, and allows me to start immediately working with these kids. Art camp can easily begin at this point, as I'd be teaching up to third grade in the school year and bored out of my skull come summer time. Pray my placement is in special ed! Also gives me foundation for the end goal, being able to create advancements in education for these kids.
STEP 2: Now that I'm working with the very kids I want to be helping, begin studies at UW in Developmental Psychology with a specialization in Neurolinguistics. Probably will take 4 years, because I'll only be going part time due to above-mentioned occupation. But teaching younger kids does allow a generously open schedule. Grading 2nd grader homework not as bad as trying to wrap my head around a high schooler's mangled essay, times 30.
I have a dog! His name is Spike vs. Yo, 'sup Dawg, so I reads t'tis book by that dead dude and it sux so hard.
At the end of the tunnel, I'm still young enough to have a thriving practice and accomplish these goals. It's weird when I can say "I'm only 30" instead of "crap, I'm already 30". I may not be done in time to help Anthony as a young child, but I can help others like him. And by doing this now, I have the internal strength I need to continue hammering away at the task of getting him the help he needs. I could just sit here feeling sorry for myself and him because help is so hard to find. But instead I will stand up and demand that help, and then make myself into better help for the next kid that this happens to. Give me my "save the world" cape, I got work to do!!!
Monday, August 17, 2009
Death, War, and Cemetaries Part 2
So, after awkwardly bumbling through my first anti-climactic failure at explaining death, I prayed I would have a several year cushion before having to revisit this subject. Honestly, I think summing up sex will be an easier process.
But on Saturday, Dad asked me to come with him to the Vietnam Memorial that was temporarily being shown at the Acacia Memorial Garden. So, I figured I'll try and wing it when it comes to explaining this to kiddo...but praying he'll ust get distracted by geting to wave a flag and this will be a breeze (I know, baaaaad mommy thought).
We get to the cemetary, and I realize it's one of those ones that has the little flat headstones doting their landscape, eschewing the large monolithic headstones. On a personal note, I hate those kind. Granted, I plan on being cremated and scattered. But if you are going to go through the trouble of being planted in the ground for "eternal slumber" you should get one of those big wonkin headstones with the pretty carvings or witty epitaphs. If you are going to be permanently "around", do it with some dang fanfare! Subtle, dignified, and serene...pshaw.
Anyways, so now we are trying to tell Anthony those are NOT stepping stones, and he would face some severe consequences should he dare place a foot near one. As we walked up, I had to pull the mommy card and answer "BECAUSE I SAID SO" when he kept asking why.
So, we get to the wall, and my dad wanders over to the book to look for names of the people he had served with. The sheer size of that memorial can really get to you, just sitting there realizing how many names are on it. We saw people taking rubbings of names of loved ones, and some cried as they ran their fingers over the engraving. Anthony stared quizzically at his surroundings, not really saying much, just watching people walk along the wall. He walked over to it for his own inspection, and then asked what all the words were. I gently explained that they were names of soldiers (he does know this term, as Mommy has several friends in the armed forces and has shown him pictures). He asked where those soldiers were, and then if they were the ones standing over to the side.
I pulled him to the side and thought about this one. My answers here could lead to a cascade of complicated questions. "Honey, you know how Chunk got sick and had to go away and not come back?"
"uh-huh"
"Well, all these people went somewhere, and aren't coming back. Their names are on this wall so we can remember them, because they were very special people."
"They're soldiers"
"yes. and soldiers should be remembered, and they are special"
"is this all names?" ok, keep in mind, I'm kinda paraphrasing, because my son's grammar is a little off, and it takes a bit of practice to actually put together what he's trying to get out.
"yes"
"is a lot of soldiers"
"yes"
"where did they all go to not come back?"
War. Son, they went to war. That's what soldiers do. You see soldiers as people I'm friends with who put on funny outfits, and some have pictures with guns. But those outfits mean they go away and use those guns against other people wearing slightly different outfits, and hope that it's the other person who "won't be coming back". War is supposed to be when we're the good guys and we're making the bad guys stop doing bad things, and when I eventually get to explain this to you, it will be that black and white. I'll save the shades of grey on this subject for an even further day. But for now, or at least, now being when I say this all to you, war is good guys stopping bad guys. And eventually they'll build another wall, and Mommy will take you to that one, too, and you'll see her make a rubbing and cry, like those people there. And maybe when that happens you'll understand that the name is of the soldier that is in the picture on our wall, and you'l know why he's not coming back, and how very special it is to remember these names.
"They went away to a far away place"
pause...toddler thought process working...
"they are crying..." he was looking at a couple who were knealing by a lower name, taking a rubbing of it and quietly mourning. Going by ages, I'm guessing it was a sibling.
"yes, like when mommy cried because Chunk couldn't come back home. They are crying because they see the name of someone else that they loved who couldn't come home"
So I see the gears in my son's head clicking, and realize he has now decided this is actually a wall of pets' names. Or maybe he thinks that Chunk now has an awesome outfit and a gun, because he seems quite satisfied with my bungled answers, and I am most certain his comprehension is missing some key elements in this puzzle.
As we walk back to the car, Anthony wants to know why he can't use the "stepping stones". So I tell him that those stones have names on them, like the wall, names of people who went away and aren't coming back. He begrudgingly accepts this answer, and gets in the car.
As my father gets in the car, though, I see him break down. I don't see this often, and it's always the most jaring thing to me. He was upset, frightfully upset, because he couldn't remember how to spell the names of the person he served with, so we couldn't find him on the wall. It was a common name, so it wasn't like we could wiggle through a guess. And he could only remember one name, although many in his original unit died there.
I hugged Dad, and tried to tell him it was ok. He had just been through so much emotional stress, his brain just wasn't bringing up certain details. Not knowing the name didn't mean they meant less to him. I know this didn't help, and I felt damn stupid saying it. I dared not utter the obvious, that I was secretly saying a prayer while we were there thanking "to whom it may concern" that my father's name wasn't on there.
As I let Dad compose himself, I notice that Anthony has watched this exchange quietly. I'm guessing he chose not to ask any more questions because the last few answers Mommy lobbed didn't make a lick of sense. His little mind had already dismissed a wall of names, and stepping stones that weren't for stepping. And I'm pretty sure he's determined that adults crying must be tied to a recent meteorological oddity.
Give me a couple of years, kiddo. I'll read some more books, talk to some therapists, and hopefully I'll have enough time to formulate a better answer. But for the sake of that precious innocence, I pray that time doesn't come for a very long time.
But on Saturday, Dad asked me to come with him to the Vietnam Memorial that was temporarily being shown at the Acacia Memorial Garden. So, I figured I'll try and wing it when it comes to explaining this to kiddo...but praying he'll ust get distracted by geting to wave a flag and this will be a breeze (I know, baaaaad mommy thought).
We get to the cemetary, and I realize it's one of those ones that has the little flat headstones doting their landscape, eschewing the large monolithic headstones. On a personal note, I hate those kind. Granted, I plan on being cremated and scattered. But if you are going to go through the trouble of being planted in the ground for "eternal slumber" you should get one of those big wonkin headstones with the pretty carvings or witty epitaphs. If you are going to be permanently "around", do it with some dang fanfare! Subtle, dignified, and serene...pshaw.
Anyways, so now we are trying to tell Anthony those are NOT stepping stones, and he would face some severe consequences should he dare place a foot near one. As we walked up, I had to pull the mommy card and answer "BECAUSE I SAID SO" when he kept asking why.
So, we get to the wall, and my dad wanders over to the book to look for names of the people he had served with. The sheer size of that memorial can really get to you, just sitting there realizing how many names are on it. We saw people taking rubbings of names of loved ones, and some cried as they ran their fingers over the engraving. Anthony stared quizzically at his surroundings, not really saying much, just watching people walk along the wall. He walked over to it for his own inspection, and then asked what all the words were. I gently explained that they were names of soldiers (he does know this term, as Mommy has several friends in the armed forces and has shown him pictures). He asked where those soldiers were, and then if they were the ones standing over to the side.
I pulled him to the side and thought about this one. My answers here could lead to a cascade of complicated questions. "Honey, you know how Chunk got sick and had to go away and not come back?"
"uh-huh"
"Well, all these people went somewhere, and aren't coming back. Their names are on this wall so we can remember them, because they were very special people."
"They're soldiers"
"yes. and soldiers should be remembered, and they are special"
"is this all names?" ok, keep in mind, I'm kinda paraphrasing, because my son's grammar is a little off, and it takes a bit of practice to actually put together what he's trying to get out.
"yes"
"is a lot of soldiers"
"yes"
"where did they all go to not come back?"
War. Son, they went to war. That's what soldiers do. You see soldiers as people I'm friends with who put on funny outfits, and some have pictures with guns. But those outfits mean they go away and use those guns against other people wearing slightly different outfits, and hope that it's the other person who "won't be coming back". War is supposed to be when we're the good guys and we're making the bad guys stop doing bad things, and when I eventually get to explain this to you, it will be that black and white. I'll save the shades of grey on this subject for an even further day. But for now, or at least, now being when I say this all to you, war is good guys stopping bad guys. And eventually they'll build another wall, and Mommy will take you to that one, too, and you'll see her make a rubbing and cry, like those people there. And maybe when that happens you'll understand that the name is of the soldier that is in the picture on our wall, and you'l know why he's not coming back, and how very special it is to remember these names.
"They went away to a far away place"
pause...toddler thought process working...
"they are crying..." he was looking at a couple who were knealing by a lower name, taking a rubbing of it and quietly mourning. Going by ages, I'm guessing it was a sibling.
"yes, like when mommy cried because Chunk couldn't come back home. They are crying because they see the name of someone else that they loved who couldn't come home"
So I see the gears in my son's head clicking, and realize he has now decided this is actually a wall of pets' names. Or maybe he thinks that Chunk now has an awesome outfit and a gun, because he seems quite satisfied with my bungled answers, and I am most certain his comprehension is missing some key elements in this puzzle.
As we walk back to the car, Anthony wants to know why he can't use the "stepping stones". So I tell him that those stones have names on them, like the wall, names of people who went away and aren't coming back. He begrudgingly accepts this answer, and gets in the car.
As my father gets in the car, though, I see him break down. I don't see this often, and it's always the most jaring thing to me. He was upset, frightfully upset, because he couldn't remember how to spell the names of the person he served with, so we couldn't find him on the wall. It was a common name, so it wasn't like we could wiggle through a guess. And he could only remember one name, although many in his original unit died there.
I hugged Dad, and tried to tell him it was ok. He had just been through so much emotional stress, his brain just wasn't bringing up certain details. Not knowing the name didn't mean they meant less to him. I know this didn't help, and I felt damn stupid saying it. I dared not utter the obvious, that I was secretly saying a prayer while we were there thanking "to whom it may concern" that my father's name wasn't on there.
As I let Dad compose himself, I notice that Anthony has watched this exchange quietly. I'm guessing he chose not to ask any more questions because the last few answers Mommy lobbed didn't make a lick of sense. His little mind had already dismissed a wall of names, and stepping stones that weren't for stepping. And I'm pretty sure he's determined that adults crying must be tied to a recent meteorological oddity.
Give me a couple of years, kiddo. I'll read some more books, talk to some therapists, and hopefully I'll have enough time to formulate a better answer. But for the sake of that precious innocence, I pray that time doesn't come for a very long time.
Death, War, and Cemetaries, Part 1
When I was 8 years old, my Grandmother died of cancer. I knew that she was dying, as I had been flown down in haste to be able to say goodbye, and I did grasp what was going on. Shortly after, there was a funeral, and I cried along with the rest of the family. We visited her grave a few years later, and I understood that Grandma was behind the stone in the Mausoleum, unmoving. This was my first experience with Death, as well as a cemetary.
When I was about 10, our country joined the Gulf War, and I watchedsome footage on the news, we talked about it in class, and my father explained his being a Veteran of the Vietnam Conflict. My little brain pondered all of the meanings of these realities, much more clarity was brought to previous grade school studies of wars, and I grasped the difficulties and gravities that war brings to a world. This was my first experience with War.
Unfortunately, my son has had a rather odd indoctrination into all three of these, and does not have the cognitive abilities to understand any of them. Perhaps I am thankful that he still retains these innocences.
When we first took Chunk to the vet, I explained that our feline was sick. Just like when Anthony had croup and went to see a doctor, Chunk was going to see a Kitty Doctor. The next day, the day we had to put Chunk down, I was crying uncontrollably. Anthony asked why mommy was crying.
"Mommy is crying because Chunk is sick. I love Chunky, and I don't want to see him sick and hurt. Sometimes when people we love very much are hurting, we hurt, too."
This was the best answer I could come up with.
My dad came with us, and quietly ushered kiddo away so that I could say goodbye. In the car, Anthony asked why we didn't take Chunk back from the vet.
"Chunk is still sick. Chunk is so sick that he's going to have to go away, and we won't be able to see him again"
"Is that why you said Goodbye? Because he's going away?"
"Yes. But he won't come back with us again, and that makes Mommy sad"
"But maybe when he's better, he can come back"
"Sometimes people, or kitties, don't get better, dear. And they just stay...gone"
"Oh. He'll stay with vet then"
So, basically my son thinks that Chunk has taken up residence at the vet clinic. I don't quite think permanent absence is a concept he can really wrap his head around. I think he has a bit of an idea of actual permanence, because he knows that Mommy and Daddy won't live together again. This sad truth he accepted head on at a very early age. It' amazing when you see how such a heavy concept can seem simple in the eyes of the very young. But to him it's a simple fact of his life, and has never been the worse for it.
But, when you think about it, this is a rather easy permanence to explain.
We lived together when you were born. Now we don't. You still see both of us, are loved by both of us, and your life goes on, just on a different path than it originated. Through the eyes of a child, this is a relatively simple concept, especially since it's a common truth for many families.
But permanently gone...well, that one's different. There is no alternate route there, that pathway just...stopped. To a child, all paths go forward, in front of him, indefinitely. There can't be an end when we're still at the beginning. To him, I'm not older, or further along my path. I'm just a much taller version of him, and it's only my height that lends me the ability to use knives or the stove. To him, I must be at the beginning of my path, too, because that's where he is, and I'm standing right beside him. Mommy was always Mommy, and will always be Mommy. He knows I have birthdays, and assumes that with having them, I will get bigger, too. In his mind, I should be the same size as Scott aaaaaaaaaaaaany day now...
I wish I could bottle that innocence. Only seeing many paths that go on forever, each one as rich as the next, and none have an end to halt me. It's a bittersweet momment seeing that innocence stare back at you. I thought of Bob, and how nice it would be to think of him eventually coming around, that giving up was a temporary problem. I thought of Josh, who could just be on the mend at some desert hospital tent, and there would still be a bear hug in the future. And of Victor. Quietly sitting in a hospital bed, he'd soon return to the apartment in Belltown, and we'd all go sit around the dingy little apartment that would always be there. And he'd get tired of the "Swiss Army Prosthetic" jokes, so he'd just regrow it and move on. Like all of the toys before that get mended (or secretly re-purchased).
Because in the eyes of a child, things don't go away forever. They can change, shift, switch directions. But there's no such thing as gone.
When I was about 10, our country joined the Gulf War, and I watchedsome footage on the news, we talked about it in class, and my father explained his being a Veteran of the Vietnam Conflict. My little brain pondered all of the meanings of these realities, much more clarity was brought to previous grade school studies of wars, and I grasped the difficulties and gravities that war brings to a world. This was my first experience with War.
Unfortunately, my son has had a rather odd indoctrination into all three of these, and does not have the cognitive abilities to understand any of them. Perhaps I am thankful that he still retains these innocences.
When we first took Chunk to the vet, I explained that our feline was sick. Just like when Anthony had croup and went to see a doctor, Chunk was going to see a Kitty Doctor. The next day, the day we had to put Chunk down, I was crying uncontrollably. Anthony asked why mommy was crying.
"Mommy is crying because Chunk is sick. I love Chunky, and I don't want to see him sick and hurt. Sometimes when people we love very much are hurting, we hurt, too."
This was the best answer I could come up with.
My dad came with us, and quietly ushered kiddo away so that I could say goodbye. In the car, Anthony asked why we didn't take Chunk back from the vet.
"Chunk is still sick. Chunk is so sick that he's going to have to go away, and we won't be able to see him again"
"Is that why you said Goodbye? Because he's going away?"
"Yes. But he won't come back with us again, and that makes Mommy sad"
"But maybe when he's better, he can come back"
"Sometimes people, or kitties, don't get better, dear. And they just stay...gone"
"Oh. He'll stay with vet then"
So, basically my son thinks that Chunk has taken up residence at the vet clinic. I don't quite think permanent absence is a concept he can really wrap his head around. I think he has a bit of an idea of actual permanence, because he knows that Mommy and Daddy won't live together again. This sad truth he accepted head on at a very early age. It' amazing when you see how such a heavy concept can seem simple in the eyes of the very young. But to him it's a simple fact of his life, and has never been the worse for it.
But, when you think about it, this is a rather easy permanence to explain.
We lived together when you were born. Now we don't. You still see both of us, are loved by both of us, and your life goes on, just on a different path than it originated. Through the eyes of a child, this is a relatively simple concept, especially since it's a common truth for many families.
But permanently gone...well, that one's different. There is no alternate route there, that pathway just...stopped. To a child, all paths go forward, in front of him, indefinitely. There can't be an end when we're still at the beginning. To him, I'm not older, or further along my path. I'm just a much taller version of him, and it's only my height that lends me the ability to use knives or the stove. To him, I must be at the beginning of my path, too, because that's where he is, and I'm standing right beside him. Mommy was always Mommy, and will always be Mommy. He knows I have birthdays, and assumes that with having them, I will get bigger, too. In his mind, I should be the same size as Scott aaaaaaaaaaaaany day now...
I wish I could bottle that innocence. Only seeing many paths that go on forever, each one as rich as the next, and none have an end to halt me. It's a bittersweet momment seeing that innocence stare back at you. I thought of Bob, and how nice it would be to think of him eventually coming around, that giving up was a temporary problem. I thought of Josh, who could just be on the mend at some desert hospital tent, and there would still be a bear hug in the future. And of Victor. Quietly sitting in a hospital bed, he'd soon return to the apartment in Belltown, and we'd all go sit around the dingy little apartment that would always be there. And he'd get tired of the "Swiss Army Prosthetic" jokes, so he'd just regrow it and move on. Like all of the toys before that get mended (or secretly re-purchased).
Because in the eyes of a child, things don't go away forever. They can change, shift, switch directions. But there's no such thing as gone.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Chunkopotimus Maximus
Once upon a time my ex and I adopted two stray kitties. We were told they were littermates, and for some reason decided that meant they were boys, so named them after our favourite wrestling team, Buh-buh and Devon Dudley. Buh-buh was a quiet, timid little grey striped tabby. Devon was an outgoing but slightly awkward solid black tom. One night there was some strange noises, and we discovered, probably much after the two of them did, that Buh-Buh should've been Babette. So, we had a teenage mother on our hands, and a few months later I "midwifed" the three kitten litter she was carrying into the world. First came a little grey tabby, just like mommy! Then came a little black squirmer, just like daddy! Then came...a bright orange ball of fluff that more closely resembled a hamster with the legs of an overgrown jackrabbit. In our one bedroom apartment, we certainly couldn't keep 5 cats. Sadly, right after having the kittens, Buh-buh displayed alarmingly ferile behavior, attacking both us and her offspring. After multiple lacerations and heroic kitten resues, we carted her off to a no-kill shelter, suggesting she perhaps find an outdoor residence. We quickly found a home for the black kitten, who was a feisty little girl. The grey one took a bit longer, and we named her mouse due to her comically large ears. As I had my sights set on keeping the orange one, we attempted to name him Spike (third member of the Dudley team for you wrestling impaired readers). However, his furry-ness only expanded, to the point where it stuck straight out and he looked as if he had been gently electricuted, so he was nicnamed, then later rechristiened, Chunk.
We finally found a home for his other sister, and he quietly readjusted to life with just Daddy Devon and his two humans. They both had an odd obsession with plastic bags, crawling itno trash recepticals and borrowing in grocery bags (whether empty or not). Chunk was hardly an affectionate cat, preferring to be rather aloof and stare at us from the other side of the couch. When he decided he wanted a quick pet, he would gnaw on the back of his intended victim. He did have a very odd habit of meowing irritatedly if we picked Devon up, like how dare he lower himself to human contact. The only change fixing him brought was that he talked less.
He continued his standoffishness when we moved to Edmonds, and would really only cuddle up to me, and that was rare. We discovered he had an inate fear of squirrels, as they would scamper up to our windows and Chunk would lose his mind trying to get away from them. When I left Rick, we agreed that I would take Chunk and he would take Devon. He made it very clear how much he disliked the giant orange complaint machine. As soon as Chunk and I moved into the new apartment, he seemed to have a drastic change in personality. Suddenly he had to sleep everynight curled next to my chest (I feared if he actually curled up on my chest, I wouldn't be able to breathe). He would follow me from room to room, and would climb onto whatever lap was made available. We discovered the "self cleaning option" on him, basically, if you scratched the back of his neck, he would convulse for a second and then go into what seemed to be a compulsory licking of himself. The more you scratched, the more fervent his licking became. If you scratched his back, the licking would increase in velocity and include heavy breathing, so we called it light wash and heavy load. When Scott moved in, his cats seemed to delight in jumping out and Chunk to scare the daylights out of him. Eros attempted a play fight with him once, and was quickly on the receiving end of what we could only describe as a full body slam. When Chunk walked away, Eros sat there, looking quite dazed!
For the last three years, pretty much everyone who saw Chunk got "loved" by him. He was a glutton for food and affection. There was not a single night that cat wasn't right up in my face getting his purr on. It's genuinely hard to remember that at one point he wasn't this cuddly. His weight steadily grew, and he was definitely owning his name. Sadly, his weight also made him rather clutzy. He had trouble making it onto the bed sometimes, or the back of the couch, and we'd have to stifle our giggles watching him do his frantic scramble to get his heavy hindquarters to catch up with the rest of him. There is nothing more goofy looking that seeing his wide-eyed face pop up, fore-paws desperately clawing at the covers, then disappear with a THUD.
Even more ridiculous was Chunk's eating habits. He would only eat dry food, and would give you a disgusted look should you attempt to give him wet food. The one time I saw him try it he smacked his lips patheticly, like the texture was just freaking him out. He would, however, follow you if you had a bowl of ice cream, or...potatoe chips. Most cats saw tuna from a can as a treat, but to Chunk, it was goldfish crackers. Popcorn was also another favourite of his.
I don't want to go into details of his final days. Needless to say he had either a stroke or a brain tumor, either of which was causing his body to shut down rapidly. It took them a day to figure it out, and by then he lost all control of all function from the waist down. The vet did give me the option to try pregnazone, which could've possibly kept him alive for "up to a month", but his life would've been terrible in that month. I chose to let him go humanely, rather than prolong any misery. I hugged him goodbye, and sat there bawling into his fur for a few minutes. I don't think I've stopped crying, because sitting on the couch I keep thinking he should be next to me. Going to bed I kept reaching for him, expecting his firm headbutt on my shoulder.
I'm guessing people who don't have cats/pets would see this much grief for a furry one as odd. I guess I'm a crazy cat lady. But Chunk was my companion through so much. He was a part of my life. He was a damn cool cat, fat as hell, with the heart and mindset of a cat much more delicate. I don't want to replace him, because he was so unique, it's hard to imagine another animal taking his place. I'll be mourning for a while.
Last night I remembered Bob had loved Chunk (pretty much anyone who met Chunk fell in love with him). He sat on my couch for a while just triggering the self-clean reaction and laughing. That was two weeks before Bob took his life, actually.
I'd like to think he's taking care of Chunk for me now. Feed him goldfish crackers, Bob, and don't forget to scratch his neck.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Self-Awareness Based on Others
I've been oddly contemplative of other's comments about me lately, not in the Taking it to Heart way, but simply an inner dialog post-comment. If I built my actual self-image based on these comments, I'd probably be a pretty warped individual, because how the world sees me is apparently quite different than any reality I determined for myself.
"You sure are into some opposing stuff" comment made by regular cashier at Safeway upon seeing my PCWorld and Wired magazines next to a copy of Rachel Ray. So, I'm a nerd that likes to cook? "Well, but you get all the crafting publications, too. Come to think of it, I've never seen you buy a Cosmo or anything..." *sigh* ok, So I suck at being a chick.
"You have a great walk, did you used to be a model?" comment made by aging busdriver who was obviously trying to cover for staring at my ass at 7 o clock in the morning. I'm 5'4" with esteem issues, how the hell could I pull off modeling?! Maybe I should've told him the practice in heels was from when I was a pole dancer...
"You can't NOT live Radioshack, it's part of you" comment made by boyfriend after 5th call on a saturday from managers. Damn, this one's true, but I am trying really hard to extract that from my DNA, I swear.
"You are more masculine than any of the men in our district, face it" comment made by former peer when I was a manager. I was only one of three women in the district at the time, but apparently the presence of boobs was just a sidenote. This one actually stung, despite the fact that I think it was supposed to be a compliment.
"You are one of those people that is old, but doesn't look it." I wanted to hit my assistant for this one. He's in his early twenties. Of course, then he proceded after this to stammer out even more excuses as to why I am old, chief among them my being a parent aged me.
"We're terrified of you" one of my newer managers in regards to both of my districts. Probably because I ripped their heads off for not training their associates, knocking off all their excuses as I used to be in their position. Fine, let them be scared. Maybe they'll do their jobs.
"You calling yourself normal is like me saying I'm short" from 6'4" boyfriend. I still want to know why I'm NOT normal?!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
breathing easier
So, I got to spend the entire day in a lawyer's office, but it wasn't as painful as I expected. Granted, I cried in front of a total stranger and feel like a complete loser...but hey, I'm on the path to recovery (so the guy says). He's got me filing chapter 13, reorg, so I am not going full hog and I can keep my assets. Er, well, I would be keeping my assets if I had any. There's nothing more humbling than having to fill out a completed workup of all your worldly possessions and realizing that you don't own jack shit. I can't help it, I've always been rather fruegal when it came to home expenditures. The furniture in this apartment that's actually mine is all the stuff I had snagged at thrift stores, or garage sales and repainted. The most expensive stuff is my electronics (go figure).
But, I have a nice lawyer (seriously, they exist!), and only lost one day filling out the pile of paperwork. When it was all said and done, I just blew my nose and said "What do I do now?"
"Well, now I take it from here, and you can see me in court in about a month. But for now, go home, bash on one of those video games, and for God's sake...breathe"
He's even arranging to get the money BACK from the sonsofbastards United Collections Services (the evil cackling fuckers who garnished me), and ensure that I can keep my tax returns for the next three years. The only payment we could come up with to the trustee courts that I could actually afford was $100 a month (yea, I make jack shit now, so $100 is a big friggin deal).
But hey, now I don't have to cringe every time I see a blocked call appear.
I'll be able to have an actual bank account.
I can stop being afraid to open my mail.
I can take "worrying about 5,000 in medical debt" offof my list of crap to think about.
I'm still not going to get a credit card, though. I've lived my entire life without one, and still had to declare bankruptcy. *sigh*
I'm going to go back to that whole "breathing" thing he talked about. It feels kinda nice!
But, I have a nice lawyer (seriously, they exist!), and only lost one day filling out the pile of paperwork. When it was all said and done, I just blew my nose and said "What do I do now?"
"Well, now I take it from here, and you can see me in court in about a month. But for now, go home, bash on one of those video games, and for God's sake...breathe"
He's even arranging to get the money BACK from the sonsofbastards United Collections Services (the evil cackling fuckers who garnished me), and ensure that I can keep my tax returns for the next three years. The only payment we could come up with to the trustee courts that I could actually afford was $100 a month (yea, I make jack shit now, so $100 is a big friggin deal).
But hey, now I don't have to cringe every time I see a blocked call appear.
I'll be able to have an actual bank account.
I can stop being afraid to open my mail.
I can take "worrying about 5,000 in medical debt" offof my list of crap to think about.
I'm still not going to get a credit card, though. I've lived my entire life without one, and still had to declare bankruptcy. *sigh*
I'm going to go back to that whole "breathing" thing he talked about. It feels kinda nice!
Monday, February 16, 2009
The return to complet e abnormality
Well, I've come to realize that my life really isn't just happy having any resemblance to "normal" so I guess a complete clusterfuck is pretty much becoming my way of life. I was sooo hoping to quit smoking, but well, that just didn't want to happen.
Funny, every time I try to quit, my life just goes "Gotcha, Bitch!" and throws a few dozen train wrecks my way for shits and giggles. It's like Fate's way of saying, "Try and not have a cigarette while facing this!" which promptly results in me screaming in horror and running for the nearest Korean market. This time our line up of the insane consists of:
****Babysitter quit, had to find new one, ran out of time, settled for way too young and not too bright
****Lease ends in 1 month, can't afford rent hike, can't afford to move
Job fucking with me (oooh, shocker) by...
1) No raise as promised in October, but "you'll get the yearly in March"
2) Just kidding! No one's getting the yearly, but thanks for sticking around a few more months...
3) Hey, be grateful! We did tell you for 2 months we may have eliminated your position anyways! We didn't lay you off, you should be so happy!
4) By the way, we know we doubled your workload with the extra district, but, um, yeah, if you work overtime, that's on your head. NO OVERTIME. SO what if you do't have enough hours to do your job.
****No matter how many places I apply, there's about 175 other people applying for the same job. And since most of the time I'm overqualified, people don't want to interview me and just let me know "we couldn't meet your salary expectations." Sadly, they never let me get to the part where, because I work at Radioshack, I'm used to getting paid peanuts for 3 times the job I'm just supposed to do.
****I need to move forward and file bankruptcy because one of my creditors won't take a goddamn payment arrangement. I'm a single fucking mother, no child support, and
barely making a living wage, but this bastard would rather force me into bankruptcy than allow me to make a small payment of $50 a month. OK, so it's small, because I'm also paying off my craz as medical bills from last year, but jeez, at least I'm trying! But Nooooooo...United FUcking We Hate You Collection Agency said "Fuck you, we're garnishing". Chapter 11, here I come!!
-------------------------------sigh----------------------------------
-------puff puff---------------------puff----------------------------
Well, I'll try again, and again, and again.
I'll eventually get a job.
Then I can say Buh-Bye to the Big Red Screwshack.
We'll move, and I'll figure out a way to shell out rent. And hopefully it'll be a big enough place to give me a corner to paint in.
And, well, bankruptcy is pretty dang final, and will at least end my nightmare on that front.
And after the new job and setling into a new place, I can situate myself with a decent babysitter.
LoL...the other day we were running late, and I was whining in front of kiddo about not getting to work on time. He loked at me and said, very solemnly, "If Mommy's late she'll get a spanking". I laughed and explained that grown ups don't get spankings for being late to work.
But hey, at least Mommy would spank back!!!
Funny, every time I try to quit, my life just goes "Gotcha, Bitch!" and throws a few dozen train wrecks my way for shits and giggles. It's like Fate's way of saying, "Try and not have a cigarette while facing this!" which promptly results in me screaming in horror and running for the nearest Korean market. This time our line up of the insane consists of:
****Babysitter quit, had to find new one, ran out of time, settled for way too young and not too bright
****Lease ends in 1 month, can't afford rent hike, can't afford to move
Job fucking with me (oooh, shocker) by...
1) No raise as promised in October, but "you'll get the yearly in March"
2) Just kidding! No one's getting the yearly, but thanks for sticking around a few more months...
3) Hey, be grateful! We did tell you for 2 months we may have eliminated your position anyways! We didn't lay you off, you should be so happy!
4) By the way, we know we doubled your workload with the extra district, but, um, yeah, if you work overtime, that's on your head. NO OVERTIME. SO what if you do't have enough hours to do your job.
****No matter how many places I apply, there's about 175 other people applying for the same job. And since most of the time I'm overqualified, people don't want to interview me and just let me know "we couldn't meet your salary expectations." Sadly, they never let me get to the part where, because I work at Radioshack, I'm used to getting paid peanuts for 3 times the job I'm just supposed to do.
****I need to move forward and file bankruptcy because one of my creditors won't take a goddamn payment arrangement. I'm a single fucking mother, no child support, and
barely making a living wage, but this bastard would rather force me into bankruptcy than allow me to make a small payment of $50 a month. OK, so it's small, because I'm also paying off my craz as medical bills from last year, but jeez, at least I'm trying! But Nooooooo...United FUcking We Hate You Collection Agency said "Fuck you, we're garnishing". Chapter 11, here I come!!
-------------------------------sigh----------------------------------
-------puff puff---------------------puff----------------------------
Well, I'll try again, and again, and again.
I'll eventually get a job.
Then I can say Buh-Bye to the Big Red Screwshack.
We'll move, and I'll figure out a way to shell out rent. And hopefully it'll be a big enough place to give me a corner to paint in.
And, well, bankruptcy is pretty dang final, and will at least end my nightmare on that front.
And after the new job and setling into a new place, I can situate myself with a decent babysitter.
LoL...the other day we were running late, and I was whining in front of kiddo about not getting to work on time. He loked at me and said, very solemnly, "If Mommy's late she'll get a spanking". I laughed and explained that grown ups don't get spankings for being late to work.
But hey, at least Mommy would spank back!!!
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