It has come to my attention that after I wander up to bed at night, Kiah the Wonder Dog jumps on the couch to sleep. I caught her the other night. She wasn’t even repentant. She looked at me smugly, stretched and curled up like a cat in the corner, yawned, and then I think she drooled on a pillow. This is a total breach of trust and our relationship is suffering.
My relationship with the kids’ school is also suffering. This has been a long yawn of a week. Ella came home with an inevitable cold and I’ve kept her home two days. This has totally messed up my home-alone routine, which does NOT consist of watching What Not to Wear on the tv because that would be a complete waste of time, no matter how valuable I think the information provided might be. (I am in serious danger of becoming a 30-something frump, according to the pretty people on the tv.)
Ella could have gone to school. I could’ve slathered Vaseline under her nose, armed her with lotion-infused tissues, and sent her on the big yellow bus. But I fear she annoys her teacher when she is well; a sick Ella might push the poor woman over the edge.
I cannot tell you how weary I am of receiving e-mails detailing Ella’s many crimes and misdemeanors. This is a completely new experience for me! My first two children were, of course, perfect in every way, and remain perennial favorites among the staff at the local elementary school. You can imagine what a shock it is to have spawned an imperfect daughter, one who colors on the desk and dances at inopportune moments during the day, say during computer time.
Apparently, the good people at the elementary school have never seen the likes of an Ella! They remain baffled and are constantly asking me why it is that she refuses to flush the toilet. My answer, “she’s terrified of flushing toilets,” does not go over well with them. Is it so inconceivable that a child with a sensory disorder might be unnerved by the sound of a flushing toilet? What sounds like a mere whoosh to me sounds like freaking Niagara Falls to her. If every time you flushed the toilet it felt like you were about to make a watery descent into the Niagara River, you might be reticent to push the lever too. Even if you’d just gone #2. (It is a felony, apparently, to go #2 at the local elementary school and not flush. A felony, I tell you!) As I imagined, the first fire drill of the year did not go over well, either.
There was a note home about that, let me tell you. That was the day after I received a terse e-mail informing me that “Ella refused to say the Pledge of Allegiance today.”
Holy crap! Refused to say the Pledge of Allegiance??? Stop the presses! This is truly newsworthy.
There are other concerns. Ella does not transition well. Ella always wants to be first. Ella cries a lot. Ella eats glue. Ella randomly takes off her shoes and flings them in the general direction of the door. (Because that’s where shoes go, by the door.)
Ella showed her belly button to the entire class and said, “I naked! Ha ha ha ha!”
I, a worrier by nature, am not sleeping at night. Not even after taking Benadryl! This is unprecedented.
So this afternoon, I told Ella she had to take a nap so I could take a nap, but the child would not sleep. Noises came from her bedroom. After twenty minutes, I wandered in and caught my chapped-lip daughter rolling around in her bed, eyes squeezed shut, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance with panache.
I wandered downstairs to make some tea and caught a sheepish Kiah lying on the couch. After some consideration, I decided not to let it bother me.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Friday, September 7, 2012
Why I Cried in the Wegmans Check-Out Line
“I see you’re purchasing medium-bristled toothbrushes,” said the cashier.
“Yes?”
“Actually, it’s best to purchase soft-bristled toothbrushes. Dentists recommend them because they’re a lot gentler on your gums.” She ceased scanning the remainder of my items as she waited for me to have a come-to-Jesus moment about my toothbrush selection.
I stood my ground.
“So you want to stick with these, then?”
“I think so,” I said. She sighed.
“Okay.”
The gum-destroying toothbrushes went into a bag, along with other assorted items she did not pass judgment on, including non-organic spinach and a bottle of Mountain Dew. Her disapproval was implied, however, in the way she handled my peanut butter.
“Do you want your milk in a bag?”
“No, that’s okay,” I sniveled. I tried to forcibly send the tears back into the ducts from whence they came, but, alas, it wasn't happening.
I mean, who was she to pass judgment on my toothbrush choices? I feel like my teeth are smoother and cleaner when I use the medium-bristled toothbrushes. It’s not like I’m forcing them on my kids. I’m not pushing a medium-bristled toothbrush agenda on my friends and family. I’m not making it a topic of debate in the upcoming presidential election.
Emotions are raw. The kindergarten teacher has already had the school psychologist come in and observe Ella. This happened on the first day! I’m concerned this is some kind of school record that will be discussed in the faculty lounge for years to come. Yesterday, the school counselor came in to assist with Ella because the teacher was unable to handle her on her own. Meetings are being scheduled, IEPs are being revised, and an emergency school-wide assembly about how to handle my daughter is being organized. They’re doing it on the same day as the first fire drill.
Dear God, I can’t imagine how Ella’s going to respond to the fire alarm. I hadn’t thought about that.
Every single fear I had about Ella and kindergarten has already come true. (Except the fire-drill concern, which just came upon me 20 seconds ago.) The first week, and all my fears were realized. As you can imagine, I am ridden with anxiety and have been rendered physically unable to do any housework. Also, I cry a lot.
Like on the phone with the secretary at the Kirch Center.
I told her I needed to get in as soon as possible, that Ella was having serious problems at school.
“I can get you in March 9th at 2:00,” she said. My heart dropped, like, into my feet. This was unacceptable!
“This is-“ (snivel) “unacceptable,” I said. Then I threw a minor tantrum. As I said, emotions were raw. But you’ll never guess what. The secretary found an opening on October 2nd! Isn’t that amazing?
There’s a method to Ella’s madness, at least in the tantrum department.
Caleb had a bone scan last week and his results came in on the first day of school. He has a rather severe bone growth delay. He is 9 ½, but his bones think he’s 6.
Stupid bones.
The tears came forth. Ramona was perplexed.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind putting the milk in bags,” she said.
“I have kids,” I blubbered. “and it’s the first week of school.” Ramona nodded. An unspoken understanding passed between us. She is a mom as well. Her kids are lucky, to have a mom so passionate about gum health.
My kids are lucky, too. Because when she’s done crying, their mom is going to move mountains to make sure they get the help they need. Then, and only then, she might clean the house.
Might.
“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” Elizabeth Stone
“Yes?”
“Actually, it’s best to purchase soft-bristled toothbrushes. Dentists recommend them because they’re a lot gentler on your gums.” She ceased scanning the remainder of my items as she waited for me to have a come-to-Jesus moment about my toothbrush selection.
I stood my ground.
“So you want to stick with these, then?”
“I think so,” I said. She sighed.
“Okay.”
The gum-destroying toothbrushes went into a bag, along with other assorted items she did not pass judgment on, including non-organic spinach and a bottle of Mountain Dew. Her disapproval was implied, however, in the way she handled my peanut butter.
“Do you want your milk in a bag?”
“No, that’s okay,” I sniveled. I tried to forcibly send the tears back into the ducts from whence they came, but, alas, it wasn't happening.
I mean, who was she to pass judgment on my toothbrush choices? I feel like my teeth are smoother and cleaner when I use the medium-bristled toothbrushes. It’s not like I’m forcing them on my kids. I’m not pushing a medium-bristled toothbrush agenda on my friends and family. I’m not making it a topic of debate in the upcoming presidential election.
Emotions are raw. The kindergarten teacher has already had the school psychologist come in and observe Ella. This happened on the first day! I’m concerned this is some kind of school record that will be discussed in the faculty lounge for years to come. Yesterday, the school counselor came in to assist with Ella because the teacher was unable to handle her on her own. Meetings are being scheduled, IEPs are being revised, and an emergency school-wide assembly about how to handle my daughter is being organized. They’re doing it on the same day as the first fire drill.
Dear God, I can’t imagine how Ella’s going to respond to the fire alarm. I hadn’t thought about that.
Every single fear I had about Ella and kindergarten has already come true. (Except the fire-drill concern, which just came upon me 20 seconds ago.) The first week, and all my fears were realized. As you can imagine, I am ridden with anxiety and have been rendered physically unable to do any housework. Also, I cry a lot.
Like on the phone with the secretary at the Kirch Center.
I told her I needed to get in as soon as possible, that Ella was having serious problems at school.
“I can get you in March 9th at 2:00,” she said. My heart dropped, like, into my feet. This was unacceptable!
“This is-“ (snivel) “unacceptable,” I said. Then I threw a minor tantrum. As I said, emotions were raw. But you’ll never guess what. The secretary found an opening on October 2nd! Isn’t that amazing?
There’s a method to Ella’s madness, at least in the tantrum department.
Caleb had a bone scan last week and his results came in on the first day of school. He has a rather severe bone growth delay. He is 9 ½, but his bones think he’s 6.
Stupid bones.
The tears came forth. Ramona was perplexed.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind putting the milk in bags,” she said.
“I have kids,” I blubbered. “and it’s the first week of school.” Ramona nodded. An unspoken understanding passed between us. She is a mom as well. Her kids are lucky, to have a mom so passionate about gum health.
My kids are lucky, too. Because when she’s done crying, their mom is going to move mountains to make sure they get the help they need. Then, and only then, she might clean the house.
Might.
“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” Elizabeth Stone
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Summer Tales Part 2: The Terrible Reign of Ella
Ella and I watch Little House on the Prairie together. We both agree Almanzo was seriously miscast.
Ella has exhausted me this summer. Between her and the three-legged wonder dog, I think this house has gone significantly down in value. Not that we’re thinking of selling anytime soon.
Kids across this suburban landscape are headed back on the big yellow bus next Wednesday. When I think of Ella getting on that bus, I get a little anxious. And by anxious I mean that I burst into tears and hide in a closet.
Ella is doing great! Ella is thriving! Ella has not had any speech therapy this summer because she showed no signs of regression throughout the year! Ella’s hearing is perfect! Her hearing loss was due to chronic fluid build-up, which seems to have resolved itself.
Ella still has a “severe’ speech delay. She talks. A lot. You just can’t be sure what she’s saying. My friends smile and nod politely when Ella speaks, in an animated fashion, about her small, important life. She finishes her speeches with a jump and skips away, happy as a clam.
“Did she say hairspray?” my friend asks.
"I dunno. Maybe.” I pause. I rush to my bathroom.
Over the summer my daughter has changed my house from what it was to something so much more colorful. Like a puppy, if you don’t consistently corral this child’s energy, she will use that energy for evil.
First, she thoughtfully painted her brothers’ bedroom carpet with a variety of watercolors. After much scrubbing, the beige carpet looks like it was tye-dyed.
Last month, she took a sharpie marker to my beige couch. Red sharpie. She spelled Ben’s name on it and drew a man with a disembodied head and rectangular-shaped eyeballs.
I know what you’re thinking. Stop it with the beige.
There was a lot of crayon doodling on walls. Caleb had bouncy-ball making kit. That was a sticky mess, let me tell you what.
There was the bead incident, the sand hoarding incident, and the toothpaste-smearing incident. She decorated her rug, her door, and her vanity mirror with blue, sparkly Crest.
She took a large, fully loaded orange pixie stick and dumped in on her carpet. Pixie sticks, apparently, stain beige carpets.
Her hair has yet to recover from the great summer haircut of 2012.
I’m exhausted.
I'm learning, at a snail's pace, to let things go.
I will never have a Pottery Barn house. It will it ever be spanking clean. That’s not me. That’s not us. I’m not good at it- housekeeping- I don’t like it.
I wish my carpets were, well, just beige. I wish Kiah would stop shedding so much. I wish I didn’t have this overwhelming sense of guilt- why does (fill in the blank) have it so much more together than I do? Why can’t I keep up? Why do they have so much energy and I feel like sleeping 14 hours a day?
Why is Almanzo such a whiny chauvinist jerk?
Ella and Dan are going to school. When Caleb was born, I felt like I’d lost myself- that I would never gain footing as a mom. That I’d never be me again. Nearly ten years later, I feel the same way, because they are all moving on, growing up, and I'm still here, in this house, needing to be needed.
Who will wipe the peanut butter off of Ella’s face after lunch?
That question kept me awake last night.
I suppose if she came home with peanut butter on her face, the world would not come to an end. We’d go on.
I’d wipe it off when she got home.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Summer Tales Part 1
Every morning, I look at the clock and wait for an appropriate time to gulp down a Diet Pepsi. According to a book I’m reading, Diet Pepsi has been linked to cancer and something else horrible, maybe scurvy. But damn you, Diet Pepsi. I just can’t quit you. Somehow it’s perfectly acceptable to gulp down a coffee at 8am, but pop open a DP and your husband raises his eyebrow at you and says, “A little early, isn’t it?” as though you are an alcoholic. There would be a lot less judging if I were a coffee drinker.
We’ve recently acquired an extra refrigerator- now permanently situated in the garage- which my husband promptly filled with root beer, Diet Pepsi, beer, and a large bottle of nearly empty lemonade/iced tea that had been taking up a lot of room in our regular kitchen fridge. In the freezer there are about 100 freeze pops I’ve been doling out to all of the children in the neighborhood, who have all heard about our new fridge and the wonders inside it. Which brings me to our other recent acquisition: a child named David.
My kids have come of the age where they go out to ride their bikes around the neighborhood and return with hanger-ons who want to climb our front pine tree and eat freeze-pops in the garage.
I won’t let them in the house.
David arrives at the front door promptly at 9 and stays until about 4. He is perfectly comfortable peering into my house and asking for a drink.
“Mrs. Jennings, are you drinking a Diet Pepsi? It’s not even 10 o’clock yet!”
I resist the urge to tell him he’s a leech and to get lost. I'm short-tempered due to lack of sleep. We've been watching episodes of The Walking Dead before bedtime. This is an apocalyptic show about zombies who roam the streets looking for things to eat, acting much like elementary school kids during long, hazy summer days. “I want a snack,” they tell me, in monotone voices with hungry eyes. I chase them away with a garden rake.
Two nights ago, something woke me up in the middle of the night. It was in my bath tub, it was staring at me, and I was pretty sure it wanted to eat my brains. Turned out it was Kiah the Wonder Dog, who is absolutely infatuated with the cool acrylic surface of the bathtub. She was reluctant to go back downstairs. I was very put out and, thanks to the initial fright, my heart was beating rapidly.
“My heart is beating so fast,” I told John.
“Oh baby,” he mumbled, and turned over in the bed.
“It’s probably all the caffeine you’ve been drinking during the day!” David called from down the street.
It’s going to be a long summer.
We’ve recently acquired an extra refrigerator- now permanently situated in the garage- which my husband promptly filled with root beer, Diet Pepsi, beer, and a large bottle of nearly empty lemonade/iced tea that had been taking up a lot of room in our regular kitchen fridge. In the freezer there are about 100 freeze pops I’ve been doling out to all of the children in the neighborhood, who have all heard about our new fridge and the wonders inside it. Which brings me to our other recent acquisition: a child named David.
My kids have come of the age where they go out to ride their bikes around the neighborhood and return with hanger-ons who want to climb our front pine tree and eat freeze-pops in the garage.
I won’t let them in the house.
David arrives at the front door promptly at 9 and stays until about 4. He is perfectly comfortable peering into my house and asking for a drink.
“Mrs. Jennings, are you drinking a Diet Pepsi? It’s not even 10 o’clock yet!”
I resist the urge to tell him he’s a leech and to get lost. I'm short-tempered due to lack of sleep. We've been watching episodes of The Walking Dead before bedtime. This is an apocalyptic show about zombies who roam the streets looking for things to eat, acting much like elementary school kids during long, hazy summer days. “I want a snack,” they tell me, in monotone voices with hungry eyes. I chase them away with a garden rake.
Two nights ago, something woke me up in the middle of the night. It was in my bath tub, it was staring at me, and I was pretty sure it wanted to eat my brains. Turned out it was Kiah the Wonder Dog, who is absolutely infatuated with the cool acrylic surface of the bathtub. She was reluctant to go back downstairs. I was very put out and, thanks to the initial fright, my heart was beating rapidly.
“My heart is beating so fast,” I told John.
“Oh baby,” he mumbled, and turned over in the bed.
“It’s probably all the caffeine you’ve been drinking during the day!” David called from down the street.
It’s going to be a long summer.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Summer Reading Post!
I have some wonderful news. I have been diagnosed with hypotension, which is a fancy way of saying I have ridiculously low blood pressure. Today I told my friend I was “hypoglycemic.” I became confused as to why she kept bringing up sugar levels, and then I fainted. Such is the life of a hypotensive. The doctor told me to increase salt intake, and practically wrote me a prescription for all the pistachios I can consume in a single sitting. Pistachios might be my all-time favorite food, right after frosting and butter.
Dizziness is the enemy of standing, so I’ve been getting started on my summer reading. Right now, I’m in the middle of three books, and am slowly compiling a list I want to tackle over the next couple of months. They include:
Paris in Love by Eloisa James: James is a Shakespeare professor and a writer of romance novels. She and her family left their U.S. home to spend a year in Paris. This book mainly comprises the Facebook status updates she wrote over the course of the year, along with some essays. I’m halfway through the book and find it charming, and also I am thoroughly jealous. (How annoying would that be, by the way, to get a daily reminder of your friend’s glorious life in the city of light, eating cheese and crème de fraiche and visiting art museums and sipping hot chocolate under the Eiffel Tower. I don’t know what crème de fraiche is, but it sounds delightful. )
Faith by Jennifer Haigh: I’m about 30 pages into this and, from what I gather, it’s about a sister whose brother, a priest, behaved badly. We’ll leave it at that.
The Night Strangers by Chris Bohjalian: This is supposed to be creepy- a good old fashioned ghost story? I wish I knew how to pronounce Bohjalian.
7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess by Jen Hatmaker: Ms. Hatmaker simplifies her life seven different ways. (Gwyneth Paltrow’s severed head does not make an appearance in this book.) I am looking to simplify MY life! Maybe Ms. Hatmaker, who has an even cooler last name than Nabokov and Bohjalian, can help!
Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn: Everyone is talking about this book, written by popular suspense novelist Ms. Flynn. I’m trying to expand into some genre fiction for fun, after a disastrous attempt at reading a David Foster Wallace novel, and this has been described as “addictive.” (Infinite jest, my foot.)
Middlemarch by George Eliot: An old favorite that needs to be revisited.
I am open to suggestions! My book choices as of late have been uninspiring. Ho-hum. Blasé. What book(s) have grabbed your fancy as of late? (I’ve read The Hunger Games, The Help, and 50 Shades of Grey.)
Yes, the nice Christian girl read (most) of 50 Shades of Grey. (Did she skip ahead to the sex parts? Why yes, yes she did.)
In case you are totally out of touch with popular culture, 50 Shades of Grey is about a super-rich guy who meets a bland virgin who bites her lip a lot. Guess what drives the rich guy absolutely CRAZY with desire? When our virginal protagonist bites her lip. Like, so crazy that he wants to spank her. And she’s left with this decision- do I let super rich guy spank me every time I bite my lip, or do I hold on to my self-respect? And that, essentially, is the plot of the story. I’m not even joking.
I tried out the biting my lip thing on John and it didn’t go over well. He wanted to know what was wrong with me.
“You’re weird. Are you fainting again?”
Why yes, yes I am.
I do not recommend this book. Why did I read it? Because I am curious, naturally, and wanted to see what all the fuss was about.
I submit that if the book had been about a gas attendant with a secret sex room in his basement, it would have probably been a suspense novel by James Patterson. Alas, what 50 Shades of Grey shows us is that lots of money makes anything seem… sexy. (Imagine a dramatic step off of a very tall soapbox now.)
And this concludes my summer reading post!
Friday, June 22, 2012
On Bullying or A Humble Defense of the Town of Greece
I’ve been religiously following the story of Karen Klein, the bus monitor who was verbally abused and humiliated by a bunch of middle-schoolers from my hometown, Greece, NY. I have spent the last 15 years defending my hometown to those who live on the east side of the city. This story hasn’t helped my cause, much.
Why Greece should be cast in such a negative limelight is beyond me; it’s not as if bullying is limited to the boundaries of western New York, though it sometimes feels like it. Caleb was recently excommunicated from his lunch table by a bunch of bullies, who suddenly and inexplicably turned on him at the end of the year. He came home at the end of each day, eyes brimming with tears, with a story of a new name he was called. “Midget, little girl, midget lady…” And I was filled with righteous anger. Spankings were in order! We should line up these kids and berate them like drill sergeants! Their parents should be fined hundreds of dollars!
These kids are nine.
Instead of throwing a hissy fit and marching into Caleb’s school with purpose, I quietly reminded Caleb he was better than the way he was being treated, that kindness is always the best policy, and that summer was right around the corner. That he can’t control the way he is treated, but that he can control the way he responds. I read from the bible:
Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” To the contrary, “if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink; for by so doing you will heap burning coals on his head.”
“Burning coals on his head?”
Maybe that wasn’t the best verse to read.
In the interim, I have donated to Karen Klein’s “vacation” fund. I have cried. I cried for Caleb, and for kids who are too scared to speak up for what is right, and I cried for kids who are so weak that they spew evil things from their mouths in order to fit in. I cried because next year I have to put my babies on the bus, or rather, on the big yellow den of iniquities.
I threatened to homeschool.
I thanked God to be done with the public school experience, which wasn’t my favorite time of life.
I took courage in my faith, and in God’s word, which really has more wise words to say on the subject than the talking heads at Fox News, The Washington Post, and CNN.
2 Timothy 1:7
For God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.
Matthew 5:38-41
“You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles.
Deuteronomy 31:6
Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you.”
Ephesians 4:29
Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.
Mark 12:31
The second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”
1 Peter 3:8-9
Finally, all of you, have unity of mind, sympathy, brotherly love, a tender heart, and a humble mind. Do not repay evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary, bless, for to this you were called, that you may obtain a blessing.
Micah 6:8
He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?
Romans 12:18
If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.
Power, love, self-control, strength, courage, generosity, tenderness, sympathy, humility, justice- peace. If my children can foster even half of these attributes, they will be blessed.
Life is hard. And despite what those commercials say, it might not get better. But, if my kids live admirably and in accordance with the verses above, I believe God will bless them. If possible, so far as it depends on them, I will admonish my kids to live peaceably with all. And if they make the wrong choices anyway, then they will see the righteous anger.
See? People from Greece aren’t all bad. Also, we are a biodiverse community with many excellent Italian restaurants and lovely lakefront homes. So there you have it.
Why Greece should be cast in such a negative limelight is beyond me; it’s not as if bullying is limited to the boundaries of western New York, though it sometimes feels like it. Caleb was recently excommunicated from his lunch table by a bunch of bullies, who suddenly and inexplicably turned on him at the end of the year. He came home at the end of each day, eyes brimming with tears, with a story of a new name he was called. “Midget, little girl, midget lady…” And I was filled with righteous anger. Spankings were in order! We should line up these kids and berate them like drill sergeants! Their parents should be fined hundreds of dollars!
These kids are nine.
Instead of throwing a hissy fit and marching into Caleb’s school with purpose, I quietly reminded Caleb he was better than the way he was being treated, that kindness is always the best policy, and that summer was right around the corner. That he can’t control the way he is treated, but that he can control the way he responds. I read from the bible:
Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” To the contrary, “if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink; for by so doing you will heap burning coals on his head.”
“Burning coals on his head?”
Maybe that wasn’t the best verse to read.
In the interim, I have donated to Karen Klein’s “vacation” fund. I have cried. I cried for Caleb, and for kids who are too scared to speak up for what is right, and I cried for kids who are so weak that they spew evil things from their mouths in order to fit in. I cried because next year I have to put my babies on the bus, or rather, on the big yellow den of iniquities.
I threatened to homeschool.
I thanked God to be done with the public school experience, which wasn’t my favorite time of life.
I took courage in my faith, and in God’s word, which really has more wise words to say on the subject than the talking heads at Fox News, The Washington Post, and CNN.
2 Timothy 1:7
For God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.
Matthew 5:38-41
“You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles.
Deuteronomy 31:6
Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you.”
Ephesians 4:29
Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.
Mark 12:31
The second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”
1 Peter 3:8-9
Finally, all of you, have unity of mind, sympathy, brotherly love, a tender heart, and a humble mind. Do not repay evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary, bless, for to this you were called, that you may obtain a blessing.
Micah 6:8
He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?
Romans 12:18
If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.
Power, love, self-control, strength, courage, generosity, tenderness, sympathy, humility, justice- peace. If my children can foster even half of these attributes, they will be blessed.
Life is hard. And despite what those commercials say, it might not get better. But, if my kids live admirably and in accordance with the verses above, I believe God will bless them. If possible, so far as it depends on them, I will admonish my kids to live peaceably with all. And if they make the wrong choices anyway, then they will see the righteous anger.
See? People from Greece aren’t all bad. Also, we are a biodiverse community with many excellent Italian restaurants and lovely lakefront homes. So there you have it.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
An Examination of the Home Library
I’m working on a “summer reading” post. This is a pre-summer reading post examination of home libraries. It’s adapted from a post I wrote a while ago for Scribophile.com. No, it’s an interesting post. Please don’t go.
The Wonder Dog has ruined the carpet in the “library,” which means we will soon be tearing up the carpet and replacing it with something more dog-friendly. And child-friendly. And John-friendly. Packing up the books and the bookshelves is going to be a pain- I will have to choose what to put aside and what to stow away in the basement. Who knows what I might feel compelled to read? It’s summer! Time for reading in the sunshine and screaming at your kids not to splash you as they jump into the kiddie pool! (Which is just one of the reasons I don’t frequent the library that often.) I am a firm believer in the “whoever dies with the most books wins” mantra. Unfortunately my husband is, too. I think we’re “collectors.” Others call us “hoarders.”
As I was deciding what to pull from the shelf, I was astonished how many of the books I hadn’t gotten around to reading yet. I wanted to read at least 50 books this year. I believe I am up to 13. If I don’t step up my game this summer, I’ll feel sheepish. In other words, my home library, as expansive as it is, is not an actual representation of all the books I’ve read.
A couple of years ago, we went with friends to the enormous book sale in Ithaca. While perusing the kids’ books, I overheard a college student say the following to his friends:
“Guys. You don’t know how important this is. We’re going to graduate soon. This is the time we need to really start thinking about our home libraries. Did you know you can walk into someone’s house and learn more about them by looking at their library than by talking with them?”
I bet he was a Cornell student.
While I suppose there’s some truth behind this statement, I would submit that it’s mostly malarkey. Here’s are some misconceptions and potential truths that hide behind a person’s library (or lack of a library):
1) This person has a lot of classic literature. He or she must be really smart. Very possibly. Or this person buys up classic literature and displays it on his bookshelf to appear smart or just because he’s an especially pretentious human being. He has, however, read the first two paragraphs of Decameron, Middlemarch, and The Art of War.
2) This person has a lot of romance novels. A person who reads such garbage must be really stupid. These women would beg to differ.
3) This person has no books in his house. He hates to read. Or he takes advantage of his local library. Or, he listens to books on tape in his car during his long commute to work. Or, he buys books and immediately gives them away. Not everyone believes that “whoever dies with the most books wins” mantra. Some believe that you can’t take them with you.
4) This person has so many books! She must read all the time! It is more than likely that this person has a book-buying compulsion that she has a hard time curbing, and that she buys a lot of books because she thinks “the covers are pretty!” This person is NOT me. Nope. Not me.
If I had the chance to take this kid aside, I might have suggested to him that perhaps he should keep trying to talk to people rather than just looking at their collection of books. And I mean really talking and not just gazing into the distance until the conversation drifts back to the subject that interests him the most- himself.
What does your library say (or not say) about you?
The Wonder Dog has ruined the carpet in the “library,” which means we will soon be tearing up the carpet and replacing it with something more dog-friendly. And child-friendly. And John-friendly. Packing up the books and the bookshelves is going to be a pain- I will have to choose what to put aside and what to stow away in the basement. Who knows what I might feel compelled to read? It’s summer! Time for reading in the sunshine and screaming at your kids not to splash you as they jump into the kiddie pool! (Which is just one of the reasons I don’t frequent the library that often.) I am a firm believer in the “whoever dies with the most books wins” mantra. Unfortunately my husband is, too. I think we’re “collectors.” Others call us “hoarders.”
As I was deciding what to pull from the shelf, I was astonished how many of the books I hadn’t gotten around to reading yet. I wanted to read at least 50 books this year. I believe I am up to 13. If I don’t step up my game this summer, I’ll feel sheepish. In other words, my home library, as expansive as it is, is not an actual representation of all the books I’ve read.
A couple of years ago, we went with friends to the enormous book sale in Ithaca. While perusing the kids’ books, I overheard a college student say the following to his friends:
“Guys. You don’t know how important this is. We’re going to graduate soon. This is the time we need to really start thinking about our home libraries. Did you know you can walk into someone’s house and learn more about them by looking at their library than by talking with them?”
I bet he was a Cornell student.
While I suppose there’s some truth behind this statement, I would submit that it’s mostly malarkey. Here’s are some misconceptions and potential truths that hide behind a person’s library (or lack of a library):
1) This person has a lot of classic literature. He or she must be really smart. Very possibly. Or this person buys up classic literature and displays it on his bookshelf to appear smart or just because he’s an especially pretentious human being. He has, however, read the first two paragraphs of Decameron, Middlemarch, and The Art of War.
2) This person has a lot of romance novels. A person who reads such garbage must be really stupid. These women would beg to differ.
3) This person has no books in his house. He hates to read. Or he takes advantage of his local library. Or, he listens to books on tape in his car during his long commute to work. Or, he buys books and immediately gives them away. Not everyone believes that “whoever dies with the most books wins” mantra. Some believe that you can’t take them with you.
4) This person has so many books! She must read all the time! It is more than likely that this person has a book-buying compulsion that she has a hard time curbing, and that she buys a lot of books because she thinks “the covers are pretty!” This person is NOT me. Nope. Not me.
If I had the chance to take this kid aside, I might have suggested to him that perhaps he should keep trying to talk to people rather than just looking at their collection of books. And I mean really talking and not just gazing into the distance until the conversation drifts back to the subject that interests him the most- himself.
What does your library say (or not say) about you?
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Baseball and Toads
Last night I was privileged to watch my oldest child play
baseball. My dad came to watch the game
as well.
Baseball is more confusing than I had originally
thought. Apparently, the first foul ball
you hit is a strike, but only if it’s the first or maybe second strike. I think.
Also, if a runner is on second and there’s a pop up, he (or she!) can
not progress to third until the ball is caught.
And if the catcher drops the ball after the pitcher throws it to him,
the ball is considered in play and the runner can advance bases, but it’s not
stealing. Stealing is when the pitcher
is holding on to the ball.
No one, not even God, knows what a balk is.
“I don’t know as much about baseball as I thought I did,” I
admitted to my dad.
“Quite frankly, I’m alarmed at how little you know,” he
said.
Caleb pitched for the first time last night, and during the
second inning, he struck out three kids in a row. I am proud as a peacock and a little hard to
be around at the moment. Caleb also hit
a kid in the foot, but that kid never made it home, so it didn’t really
matter. I mean home in the baseball
sense, not the physical embodiment of a dwelling place sense. No harm, no foul.
We came home, everyone had a popsicle, and went to bed. I let Kiah out to go to the bathroom and then
went out on the deck to escort her back in the house. Kiah demands an escort. She previously used her end-of-the-night
bathroom break to play the “let’s chase me around the yard like a looney-bird”
game, but although she can still gain speed when need be, the lack of her front
leg has made sudden turns and playful bounds difficult for her. She understands this and no longer waits for
me to come within two feet of her before she laughs like a hyena and vanishes
into the night. Instead, she stands
submissively and allows me to lead her back inside. This new routine has honestly been a lot
easier on my nerves. My blood pressure
has gone down and I swear a lot less.
When it rains, all the toads come out, hopping around like they own the backyard. In an effort not to step on one last night, I slipped on the deck and fell into a puddle as Kiah looked on and the toad hopped precariously close to the entrance of my house. I blacked out for at least twenty minutes.
That’s not true. I
did not black out at all. I added that
for dramatic effect. In fact, I was
fine, although quite damp. While I lay there,
stretched out on the slick deck, Kiah galumphed over my legs, went into the
house, and jumped with muddy feet onto the beige couch.
Sometimes I don’t like her.
I don’t like toads lately, either.
I do like baseball. In
the late hours of the evening, I changed into my comfy pajamas and climbed into
bed. I had just begun to read a book
when I heard Caleb talking in his sleep.
“OUT!”
I can only assume he was having baseball dreams and was blissfully
unaware of his mother’s close encounter with a brazen toad. If he had been awake, he would probably have
pronounced me out and Kiah safe at home.
Because that’s the way you think when you’ve got nothing but baseball on
your mind.
Don't tell me about the
world. Not today. It's springtime and they're knocking baseball around fields
where the grass is damp and green in the morning and the kids are trying to hit
the curve ball. ~Pete Hamill
Monday, June 11, 2012
The Best Days
These are the best days: the daylight stretching beyond bedtime, cokes out of bottles, children shrieking as they dodge sprinklers, retirees fussing over their straw-like lawns. Sunburns and sweat and pony-tails and graduation parties. Hot dogs and jello salads and the solace of a soft breeze. Griping about the lack of air conditioning, griping about rainy days. Plans of hikes and visits with friends and vacations to places with clear lakes and winding creeks and raging rivers. Picnics in the park and Shakespeare in the park and fireworks and campfires with marshmallows. Sticky kisses from kids who have eaten said marshmallows. Late mornings and later nights and dim fireflies in jars because your kids don’t want to ever let the light go. The groan and whirr of the window air-conditioner; tank tops showing off bare shoulders and arms freckled from the sun. Bare feet and dirty floors and dandelions in cups. Dancing with your husband beneath starlight to Ryan Adams or The Righteous Brothers or Melody Gardot. The aromas of a day well done blending together in the bathtub like soup: a mélange of dirt and sweat and hard play. Boys dilly-dallying in the bathtub. Light snores mingling with the cacophony of crickets chirping, bullfrogs croaking, beagles howling, teenagers laughing, that retiree mowing his lawn at 8:30 because it’s cool enough to stand it.
A good book, cool sheets and nimble dreams.
The moon in the window like in a fairytale.
Two cats hissing and fighting and screaming like they’re dying at 2am in your backyard. And no, I really couldn’t get back to sleep after that.
And let me tell you what- if they do it again, summer be hanged, I will shoot them with John’s BB gun.
A good book, cool sheets and nimble dreams.
The moon in the window like in a fairytale.
Two cats hissing and fighting and screaming like they’re dying at 2am in your backyard. And no, I really couldn’t get back to sleep after that.
And let me tell you what- if they do it again, summer be hanged, I will shoot them with John’s BB gun.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Gratuitous Pics of My Kids Accomplishments: A Very Special Thursday Post
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| TROPHIES! |
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| Ben examines his very first piano trophies. |
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| I'm not saying I'd ever be a pageant mom, but I can see the allure. |
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| I think little girls who cut their own hair are frowned upon in the pageant industry. |
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| Then again, she has star quality, I think. |
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| Ella is third from the left. |
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| In a mad rush from the recital to the graduation, the audience doesn't know that Ella wears only a leotard beneath her gown. |
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| She waits for us. *** The story of our wonder dog's return from the dead is currently down due to "technical difficulties" but will be back up shortly. And finally, revel in the cuteness: (I'm firing my camera person. She is a disgrace to dance recital moms.) |
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
And they all lived happily ever after.
Ben, doped up on Benadryl, lay next to me on the couch determined to keep his eyes open. He was suffering from, I think, an allergic reaction to strawberries. His ears were bright red, he had a fever, and he spoke in a raspy voice.
“Are you having trouble breathing?” I asked, loudly. When I get nervous, I say things loudly.
“No,” he whispered.
“Does your throat feel funny?”
“No. Except I can’t swallow and there’s a lump in it. Like a ball.”
“DON’T PANIC BEN! I, YOUR MOTHER, WILL SAVE YOU WITH THIS HERE BENADRYL!”
I bundled him in a blanket and put him on the couch and commenced staring at him, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.
“Do you know how my friend Adam got those two broken bones in his arm?” he asked, drowsily.
“No. How?” I answered.
“He was kicked by a Sith Lord,” Ben said, casually, as if getting kicked by a Sith Lord was a common everyday occurrence. Ben will believe just about anything anyone tells him. Eventually, convinced tonight was not the end for little Ben, I lugged my little guy upstairs and put him to bed. Downstairs, John, Caleb, and Kiah the Wonder Dog came in from the backyard.
Yes, THAT Kiah the Wonder Dog.
That awful Saturday, Kiah was severely injured after she tried to herd the riding lawn mower. In a prelude to a catastrophe, Kiah had broken out of her crate and slipped through the sliding glass door left open by some small person. After a difficult trip to the emergency vet, John was faced with some choices: he could have a) had Kiah put down b) gone thousands of dollars into debt trying to save her leg c) relinquished her to the local shelter, where she might have a chance.
He went with plan C. He came home without a dog and we understood we would never, ever see her again. We didn’t know if the shelter would give her the surgeries she needed to survive, or if they would choose to put her down.
To make a long story short, thanks to the kindness and generosity one incredible person, Kiah came home tonight. She is sleeping at my feet this very moment. She is happy, healthy, and has only three legs.
Which we think makes her even more of a wonder dog.
Life is never easy. Tonight was no exception. But we have our dog back.
We are blessed.
“Are you having trouble breathing?” I asked, loudly. When I get nervous, I say things loudly.
“No,” he whispered.
“Does your throat feel funny?”
“No. Except I can’t swallow and there’s a lump in it. Like a ball.”
“DON’T PANIC BEN! I, YOUR MOTHER, WILL SAVE YOU WITH THIS HERE BENADRYL!”
I bundled him in a blanket and put him on the couch and commenced staring at him, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.
“Do you know how my friend Adam got those two broken bones in his arm?” he asked, drowsily.
“No. How?” I answered.
“He was kicked by a Sith Lord,” Ben said, casually, as if getting kicked by a Sith Lord was a common everyday occurrence. Ben will believe just about anything anyone tells him. Eventually, convinced tonight was not the end for little Ben, I lugged my little guy upstairs and put him to bed. Downstairs, John, Caleb, and Kiah the Wonder Dog came in from the backyard.
Yes, THAT Kiah the Wonder Dog.
That awful Saturday, Kiah was severely injured after she tried to herd the riding lawn mower. In a prelude to a catastrophe, Kiah had broken out of her crate and slipped through the sliding glass door left open by some small person. After a difficult trip to the emergency vet, John was faced with some choices: he could have a) had Kiah put down b) gone thousands of dollars into debt trying to save her leg c) relinquished her to the local shelter, where she might have a chance.
He went with plan C. He came home without a dog and we understood we would never, ever see her again. We didn’t know if the shelter would give her the surgeries she needed to survive, or if they would choose to put her down.
To make a long story short, thanks to the kindness and generosity one incredible person, Kiah came home tonight. She is sleeping at my feet this very moment. She is happy, healthy, and has only three legs.
Which we think makes her even more of a wonder dog.
Life is never easy. Tonight was no exception. But we have our dog back.
We are blessed.
Friday, June 1, 2012
May: A Retrospective
May is my favorite month: it's sunny and flowery and I get to watch my kids get hysterical if a bee comes within 10 yards of them. Three of them have inherited my distinct screeching while flapping arms move. Caleb remains stoic under almost any circumstance. Two weeks ago, he sprained his finger in school and didn't tell me about it until five minutes before his evening baseball practice was over. It was swollen and a lovely shade of aubergine.
In early May, John and I went to NYC for the sole purpose of checking out the progress of the Freedom Tower. We had heard rumors a skyscraper was going up, but after ten years, one wants to see such a thing for oneself. John told me that when it's completed, it will be 1,776 feet. Two hours later, I got it. And honestly, I think it's a little hokey.
The real purpose for the trip was to attend a wedding reception at The Players Club in Gramercy Park, which is where I'm going to live after John dies and I land me a millionaire. Gramercy Park, not the Players Club.
The Players Club is not as risque as it sounds. I was disappointed, too. Apparently, it's the place where Mark Twain went to play pool. I know this because they had his pool cue on display above a fireplace.
The next day was Mother's Day. John took me to a Yankee's Game. On Father's Day, we're going to the NYC Ballet, because that's how a marriage works. It's all about give and take.
We hate the Yankees, but were well behaved and impressed with the beautiful stadium. We were also surprised to find that the Yankee fans seemed like normal individuals; none of them wore pants made out of one hundred dollar bills. We ate hot dogs and wrinkled our nose surreptitiously when A-Rod went up to bat. The Mariners won, so that was nice.
This is the last picture I took of Kiah before her accident: She's with her boyfriend, Charlie the Chow Chow.
The twins and their spider hats! (They won't go in the bathroom if there's even a remote possibility a spider is in there. Shrieking and flapping if they see one.)
I accompanied Ben on his class trip to the zoo! We had some important Ben and Mommy time. And Ben and Mommy and sea lion time. And Ben and Mommy and polar bear time.
Hello, you.
The twins had their end-of-the-year school picnic!
On Memorial Day weekend, we met friends in Olcott and rode the carousel and threw rocks in Lake Ontario. My kids could throw rocks into Lake Ontario for the rest of their lives and feel they'd lived lives full of joy and purpose.
The next day, we had a barbecue at our friends' house. They have a pool. Ella and Dan floated for a long time. This picture is taken after Daniel started to sink. I was successfully fishing him out of the pool when my husband dashed across the patio and plunged into the water, soaking me and ruining his iPhone. He dubbed himself a hero. I dubbed him... something else.
Ella cut her own hair this month. I bought some headbands to hide the problem areas. This is how she likes to wear her headbands. She also likes to wear socks in the summer. Those are not bruises on her arm, but sticker residue. Sticker residue is the worst.
And that was May. Where are the pictures of Caleb? This is a good question. I'll ponder that over the course of June.
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