End of Story

I woke up this morning, and there wasn't a drop of coffee in the house. No grounds. No leftover swill in the bottom of the carafe. No-thing.

This made me very testy.

I told Owen he was eating his grapes too loudly. I muttered mild swear words under my breath when I couldn't find Joel's brand new shoe. (Which, by the way, I finally found in the recycle bin. Joel apparently thinks this bin is made of magic and moonbeams, so I will look there first from this point forward.) And, in a moment that makes me especially proud, I stood in a parking lot and told my preschooler to stop "flapping his gums and get [his] butt out of the car."

Perhaps Owen will learn better language and behavior at preschool. The bad influence, I fear, is looking right at me in the bathroom mirror.

Anyway, I got my coffee, and we went to the library. These are two things that never fail to improve my mood. At the library, I ran into a friend of mine. She is awesome times infinity. Her son has autism, and she was telling me about his experiences and some of the things that teachers have done to help him out.

One of the things a teacher did was mark squares on the carpet with tape for "circle time." This provided a boundary for kids, a safety zone for those who needed it. The teacher also used this strategy so that kids with ADHD were close to the teacher, and kids who needed space were towards the back of the room. Here's the key to this strategy: it was easy, and she used it for everybody.

And this-this-is what kills me about some teachers--the basic lack of creativity and problem-solving. I'm not talking about the teacher in this example--quite the opposite. She found a way to meet the needs of her entire class, without singling kids out or making things harder than they needed to be. She didn't do something "special" for the kids with IEPs, or 504s, or whatever acronym you wish to use. She helped out every kid, simply by using some creative thinking.

One of the things that frustrated me about teaching were the annual meetings with the special education teachers to discuss accommodations. Accommodations, for those not in education-land, are the steps or practices teachers are asked to do to help certain students be successful. They include things like, "seat student towards the front of the room," "repeat directions, if asked," or "extra time on tests, as needed."

These are not unreasonable demands. But, OH! the grumbles and howls from these teachers! The whining! The excuses! You would think these were the most ridiculous requests ever. These meetings made me so depressed and frustrated. I couldn't believe that people found it so difficult to show a little empathy or, God Forbid, think outside of the box a bit.

And incidentally--these accommodations are LEGALLY MANDATED. They aren't up for discussion.

I'm not here to teacher-bash. For every bad teacher, there are many more caring, wonderful ones. And, I know that there are accommodations that are either outdated or just plain abused. In particular, I once had a student with sensory issues that had a "Take a break" pass. The idea was that he was to use the pass, no questions asked, whenever the environment became too stimulating for him. This was to prevent meltdowns.

As a concept, it's wonderful. Kids, especially students with these kinds of issues, need to learn healthy self-regulation strategies to be successful in school, and in life. This kid, however, was not over-stimulated by anything, except for, perhaps, his girlfriend. He attempted to use his pass each day, coincidentally during her lunch period.

One call to his very cool, with-it mother, and he no longer felt so overwhelmed in my class.

But, you see, I didn't blame this issue on his IEP. I looked at the larger issue and figured out a solution. That is what I see good teachers do.

They teach in different ways---using visuals, lists, music, movement, and conversation---not because it helps the kids with IEPS or 504s, but because it helps everybody.

They employ subtle strategies---grouping certain kids together because it is a mutually beneficial arrangement, seating charts, general vs. specific checks for understanding---not because it helps the kids with IEPS or 504s, but because it helps everybody.

They work with the special educators, and learn strategies, such as ways to make a worksheet less overwhelming---not because it helps the kids with IEPS or 504s, but because it helps everybody.

And finally, good teachers just get it. I mean, any person who has ever learned to ski, or dance, or play an instrument, or speak another language, has encountered a suffocating, powerless frustration. (If you've never felt this feeling, then you're too perfect to be reading this blog--away with you and your perfection!) Good teachers never forget that power of frustration, and take it as a moral and personal responsibility to temper this frustration, and make it more manageable.

I may be ranting here, but this really touches my core. People need to be cared for. And if the caring comes in different ways for different people, than that's just what needs to happen. End of story.

A humorless prig

Public schools have been back in session for a couple of weeks now.

Most of the local preschool programs start tomorrow.

For whatever reason, Owen doesn't start his preschool program until September 22nd.

This means, for a few more weeks, he is still all mine.

I don't think I'm going to be one of those boo-hooey mothers when I drop Owen off for his first day of preschool. I'll save all the histrionics for down the road, when I watch Owen step onto a school bus, with a backpack on his bony shoulders, and a lunch bag gripped in his small hand.

But preschool? It's only two days a week, and Owen is ready. We've been talking about school since he signed up back in March, and he's looking forward to play dough, painting, listening to stories, and "sharing toys."

We'll see about that last one.

I'm not worried about school. I do lose a little bit of sleep over Outside Influences. For example, yesterday, we took the boys shoe shopping. We were buying shoes for Joel, but Owen was naturally attracted to the shoe racks as well.

As mothers of boys know, girls sooooo win this round. Girl shoes are fun and adorable and there are lots to choose from--shiny Mary Janes, pink sneakers, fluffy boots, strappy sandals. I found a pair of green and pink striped Keds that left me swooning.

But boys? Owen's selections included pseudo-skater shoes, complete with skull and crossbones, the obligatory camouflage, and a variety of light-up sneakers. I didn't have a problem with the lights, but I did have a problem with the product placement. One shoe was advertising Transformers, and the other, GI Joe.

I realize that the following paragraphs are going to make me come across like a humorless prig, but I'm prepared to accept that label. Owen is three and a half. He cannot button his own shirts yet, is terrified of hand dryers in public bathrooms, and grows teary-eyed when Big Teddy has to take a bath in the washing machine. He is a little kid, just barely out of his toddler phase.

I'm not sure that I want my kid to know about GI Joe. I'm not sure he needs to be a huge fan of the Transformers, either. It's not as if these are terrible, soul-sucking toys that actively demean kids (I would put Bratz dolls in that category), but they aren't the most affirming things, either. Since we're already working on saying "please," not saying, "Go Away!" and asking for things (instead of barking orders), I'm not sure we need to add gun-toting soldiers or wise-cracking big rigs into the mix.

When school starts, Owen is going to hopefully make some good friends. He will also learn about Power Rangers, Batman, Star Wars, and whoknowswhat else. Where is my line in the sand?

Odds are, this is a lot of brew-ha-ha over nothing. We already have two Transformers toys (that Owen got for his birthday). The boys haven't shot anybody yet. Not even one person. And am I really going to wage war over Star Wars?

Maybe just Jar-Jar Binks. That thing is simply too annoying.

As a humorless prig, I need to prepare myself for the possibility that in addition to crafts and stories, Owen will be bringing the larger world home with him. And some of that world includes things that we simply don't value.

And so, I'll have to find my line, and hold firm. Am I up for it?

Hair and Mayhem

I wanted a change. I wanted DRAH-MA! I wanted EXCITEMENT!

So I scheduled the appointment to get mah hair did.

I was thinking bright red, except that it couldn't be too red, because I don't have one of those pale-beautiful Irish complexions.

I was thinking perhaps strawberry blond. Joel used to be a ginger kid, after all.

I even briefly toyed with burgundy or Southern MD-fabulous skunk stripes.

In the end, I went with the advice of my friend, Joanne: "Just tell the colorist that you trust her, and let her do what she thinks looks good."

And so, without further ado...BEHOLD!

This is before:



And this is after:



Can't tell the difference? It's okay. Paul really couldn't either. Since, in the end, I'm both cautious and lazy, we did caramel highlights and darker lowlights.

In other words, I basically kept my same hair, but paid a little over $100 dollars to have her flat-iron it really nicely.

Here's a back angle. Squint and you'll see highlights:



And once more with ATTITUDE!:



In other news, a monster has spread poop all over my stairwell:



Moving on...

Question: What is best in life?

Answer: To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.



It's on now, ants.

Finally, who doesn't love a baby eating ravioli?



I wish this was a one time thing, but Joel looks like this after most meals. It's hard to believe we have an ant problem...

Back to real posting tomorrow. Happy Labor Day!

Hoarder

According to my parents (specifically, my mother), I am supermodel hot, Einstein smart, and I poop solid gold nuggets.

That is perhaps an exaggeration, but my mother has told me, every single day of my life, that I am smart, or funny, or clever, or creative, or beautiful, or special. Mom has cooked me big heaping bowls of validation, and I've swallowed every bite.

This is what parents are supposed to do for their children: build them up and provide reasonable challenges along the way. By meeting these challenges, the children develop a sense of self-efficacy. The kids learn to believe what the parents have known all along.

That's how it's supposed to work. Me? I'm my own unique recipe. First, take a perfectionist, type-A, first born pleaser. Add a depressive streak, and, just for fun, a bit of narcissism. Blend in a slightest bit of insecurity, and mix it all together. What do you get? Somebody who constantly wants validation.

I really, really, really like to be complemented. Of course, you're not supposed to be like that. I brush off complements when I get them, but deep down, I horde them. I walk around my cluttered mind, pulling out the kind words of others. I stroke the phrases or comments gently, as if they were one of my fifty cats.

This leads to a problem, because when I don't get complements, I assume something is wrong. I cannot tell you how many conflicts I have created in my mind with my in-laws. They are Midwest folk, who are not inclined to Constantly Kiss My Butt. When they don't tell me I'm doing a good job with the boys, or ask me about my writing, I immediately jump to the opposite conclusion: Clearly, they think I am a bad mother with no skills or talents.

You can imagine how healthy it is to live this way.

The fact is, I will never feel complete, no matter how much I try to fill that empty hole, because I've neglected to include the most important ingredient to my recipe: Grace.

If I step back and remind myself that I was made for a purpose, that God has great plans for me, and that God will use me to love Him and love others, I will find a contentment far beyond the momentary buzz of an "Atta girl."

God doesn't want me to have an inflated sense of false self-esteem. God wants me to have self-efficacy--the knowledge that He has made me capable.

Magic Juice

When I was pregnant with Joel, Owen couldn't have given a rat's ass.

We would say, "Your brother is growing in Mommy's tummy," and dutifully do bedtime prayers for "Baby Joel" each night. If we could get any response from him at all, it would be a one word answer like "Yeah," or nonsense like, "Swiper, no swiping!"

People would say to him, "Are you excited to be a big brother?"

He would reply, "Yeah!"

"What does it mean to be a big brother, Owen?" I would sometimes ask, as a follow-up.

He'd think for a moment, than reply, "It means....WEASEL!'

Right.

What a difference a year makes.

Owen has seen my sister-in-law, his Auntie Erin, grow larger and larger with each visit. He's been very curious, and I've attempted to explain to him that Baby Kiri is in Auntie Erin's tummy, and she'll come out when she's ready.

Then, on Sunday night, Baby Kiri was ready, and she's since come out.

Owen must have been mulling this over in his mind for a few days, because we had this conversation over Chef Boyardee:

Owen asked, "Mommy, how did Baby Kiri get out of Erin's tummy?"

"Well," I said, "Baby Kiri said, 'Hey Mom, I'm ready to come out!' So, she pushed and pushed and pushed until she came out."

Owen's eyes grew wide. "Did she slide out?" Owen's very into slides.

"No," I replied, "Erin probably had to push her out."

"Where did she push her out? Out of her leg?" he asked.

Well. How technical did I want to get? I decided to stay simple. "Out of her tummy."

Owen looked concerned, "Did it break her tummy?" He glanced quickly at his own tummy, putting his hands on it protectively.

Wishing to avoid potential late-night stalling regarding broken tummies, I decided to go for broke. "Kiri came out of Erin's vagina."

"Where is her vagina?"

"Between her legs. Where your pee-pee is."

Owen looked confused. "Where is Erin's pee-pee?"

Oh, Lord. "Do you want me to show you?"

"Yes!"

I sat on the chair, and hoisted my legs up. I did not drop my pants because if he wanted to know more than this, I would draw him a damn picture. "You see, honey," I said, pointing to my tummy, "Baby Kiri lived here until she got big enough. Then, she slid--I mean, went, down here," I said, pointing between my legs, "and came out here!"

"Oh," he replied, "Baby Kiri, came out of Erin's pee-pee!"

"No," I said, wondering why I was having this conversation already. This was so not on my radar. "Erin and Mommy have vaginas."

"PAGINA!" Owen said, shrieking. This is his newest annoying habit, YELLING! FOR NO GOOD REASON! AND NOW! HE'S YELLING VAGINA!

After a good talk-to about VOLUME and MOMMY'S SENSITIVE HEARING, Owen resumed a conversation that I had hoped had died its merciful death.

"Mommy? How did the baby get in Erin's tummy?"

Please do not judge my answer. I didn't think we would be discussing reproduction before preschool. So, off the top of my head, I said, "Magic juice."

All together now: Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Owen said, "That's enough, Mommy."

Indeed, Owen. That is enough. Let's never speak of this magic juice again.

Writing Wednesdays--The One Paragraph Challenge

A big ups to Coby, Corrie, and Paul (not husband Paul---California Paul) for trying out last week's Writing Wednesday. Take the time to read their pieces---they are all different, and all wonderful.

I would love to hear from you---writing, if nothing else, is fantastic therapy. I know I walk away from the keyboard lighter and happier. It's mind yoga, and it's possible for everybody. Om.

Without further ado...this week's Writing Wednesday:

The One Paragraph Challenge.

Details make a piece of writing soar. The lack of details makes it sour. Like the difference between "a" and "u," good details can set the tone of a piece or reveal a character more fully, while bad or lacking details can leave the reader hungry, or worse yet, indifferent.

The Prompt

1. Think back on your week and take a quick mental snapshot. Take one moment or person and freeze it.

2. Your mental camera has the ability to zoom in and out. Zoom out and notice the big details---colors, textures, postures, etc. Zoom in closer and note the specific details---the condition of the subject's fingernails, any bruises or scabbing, specific pieces of jewelry, etc. You can list these if that works for you, or simply note the details in your mind.

3. Write one descriptive paragraph, starting out big and zooming in small.

4. Read over your paragraph and see if a tone or if certain tropes arise. If you notice, for example, a sense of joy, examine your word choices and figurative language to see if you can intensify this tone.

5. Read-Revise-Publish

The Sample

Paul, still crisp in his sky-blue button-up and khakis, stands in the doorway, holding Joel in his arms. Joel's arms are wrapped tightly around his neck, and his legs are twisted around Paul's torso. A loving corset. Joel rubs his head into the small of his daddy's neck, repeating "Daaaa Da! Daaaaaaa Da!" like a holy mantra. He sighs. Paul rocks him slowly, as the tension of deadlines and responsibilities retreats for another day. He closes his eyes and murmurs, "I missed you, Joel-Joels," then smiles softly.

Reflection

I ended up focusing less on physical details, and more on the body language. I hesitate, generally, to focus too much on clothing choices, unless they add to character. In this case, I thought the image of Paul in his work clothes helps the reader understand that this is a time of transition.

I made this trickier than it needed to be, because I was focusing on Joel's single-minded devotion and Paul's attempts to cleanly separate his two worlds to focus upon his son. I'm not sure if I was successful here, and of course, appreciate your feedback.

Hope to see your work--be in it comments, Facebook comments, your own blog, or via email!

Naptime

There are times when I wish poetry came easier to me, because some events seem almost too sacred to force into paragraphs and sentences. Prose is bricks and mortar, and I'm not building a house.

I'm out there with my net, trying to capture the incandescent perfection of butterfly words, and missing.

And thus, here is my brick butterfly.

Joel At Naptime

Already, I feel him slipping away. My baby is now a toddler, and his world is too big to see from my arms.

I feel him kicking and turning, in my womb, in my dreams. I'll see a pregnant woman, full like a ripe plum, and ache with longing.

I give away the clothing, the breast pump, the blankets. "We're done! Let's clear this junk out," I'll say. Then, with the doors closed, I'll rub a baby blanket and smell the babies I once knew. It all comes rushing back.

The impossible softness. The hands, unlined, slightly curved. The beautiful symbiosis of my son and I, rocking gently in the still of the night, as he eats, sighs, and returns to his restorative slumber.

Joel rests now on the bed, clutching his bottle. He gulps contentedly, as I gaze at his heavy-lidded eyes, and stroke his golden hair. His belly rises up and down, and his legs do a restless dance all of their own.

At this moment, he is still my baby. His bottle drained, I pick him up and rock him gently. He looks to the crib, ready to nap. I kiss his forehead, once, then again. Placing him down with exquisite tenderness, I close the door and walk away.

He always wakes up a rowdy, ready-to-go toddler. Yet, in these fleeting afternoons, I tuck in my precious baby boy.