Human Poop

I have waited long enough for this post.  It's time.

The human poop story.

I was reading through some of my older posts and realized that a tremendous amount of my posts deal with bodily fluids/materials.  It's life.  My life.  God, that's pathetic.

I guess I will begin this tale with the description of my husband, since he is the reason for the human poop debacle.  I am going to call him Homer.  Yes, that's it!  Homer!  He'll LOVE it!

Homer is a man who was happily living his bachelor life and happened to stumble upon love (me!) while at work.  I was a goofy waitress and he was a line cook at the restaurant that I worked at during college.  Homer is 15 years older than me and had never been married or had kids.  Bless his heart!

I married Homer and we had our first child the day after I graduated from college.  Ok, I married him AFTER we had the child.  I am not good with sequencing and I would like to pretend that I am wholesome.

Homer was not experienced with the little tricks of parenting and he often screwed things up royally, especially when dealing with poopy diapers.

One lovely summer afternoon after our second child was born, we had to go for a check-up at the pediatrician.  When our name was called Homer offered to stay in the waiting room with our 2 year-old.  After what seemed like 20 minutes, the nurse came in and began our appointment by complaining that the waiting room smelled like poop.  There were like 5 toddlers and the fathers were all pretending that there was no problem.

Now here is where mommies and daddies differ.

Daddies ignore poop.  I am not sure if this is on purpose or what, but they seem to have 0% of their olfactory sense in working order when there is the possibility that they might have to actually LOOK at the poop.

Mommies will take any opportunity to grab their running child by the waistband of the pants, pull like there might be treasure down there and shove their nose in for good measure.  This happens like every 10 minutes at any Chuck E. Cheese (AKA Typhoid Mary's Diarrhea and Pizza Parlor), library or park.

I just knew it was my kid with the stinky drawers.  So, I poked my head out of the exam room while the nurse was away and I shot my husband a look.  He knew what it meant, it meant there would be no "relations" EVER if I had to change Child #1's pull-up.

Homer actually looked scared.  I think he was still under the awe and amazement of seeing me give birth.  He may have actually thought that I could pull some super-human shit and squish his head with my thumb and forefinger.  I mean I had recently squeezed a whole entire human out of my woman part.  Anything was possible.

So Homer left and went out to the car.  I finished my appointment and was on my way out to the car.  I was very mommy-like.  I had overalls and Birkenstock sandals.  My hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was glowing from the report that my baby (Child #2) was clearly going to be advanced.  Ok, so maybe I had imagined that part, but the possibility was there.

As I approached the car, I saw Homer's face contort into a combination of both fear and amusement.  He attempted to speak but I was more concerned with discussing the results of our newborn's exam.  It was then that he doubled over in laughter and with labored breath tried to tell me something.

"Hon, you just... (Uncontrollable laughter)"
"Hon, stop, just stop... (He is now crying and hooting)
"No, Hon, really... poop... you poop...Birkenstock..."

WTF?

The only thing that made sense was the word Birkenstock and the frantic pointing at my feet.  So, I looked.

I was standing in the middle of the parking lot, carrying my newborn baby, while my husband laughed at my sandal that had a GIGANTIC BALL OF HUMAN POOP stuck to the side.

I have no idea what I said to Homer.  I am sure it was laced with profanities.  I do remember screaming and wondering (loudly) why there was poop in the parking lot.

My husband attempted to explain.

You see, he had to change the pull-up of Child #1.  It is important to say pull-up, because we all know that these go on like "real kid underwear".  However, mothers know that you CAN rip the sides and take them off like a diaper when there is a "mishap".

Homer did NOT know this helpful piece of information.  He pulled the pull-up off while my daughter was standing in the sliding door area of our mini-van.  The offending poop had fallen out into the parking lot.  My husband just left it there.

HELLO!!!  If you have to clean-up your dog's poop, you most certainly have to clean up your little human's poop!

He claimed he did not know what to do.  So he left it there for me to deal with.

Which is now why my husband only has to hear the word "Birkenstock" and he is reduced to a puddle of laughter and tears.  When this happens around other people, he is more than happy to oblige them with the story.  His overly dramatic portrayal of how I looked standing there with a confused look on my face and human shit on my shoe always brings the crowd into rip-roaring hysterics

I am still not amused.

The Killer Chipmunk, Poison Ivy and a Mysterious Bruise...

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If one more person says, “Leaves of three, let them be.” I am going to shove my fist deep down their throat.

Really?  Leaves of three, huh?  Could you be more specific?  Do I look like a friggin’ girl scout? It’s the mother flipping woods.  Everything has leaves, hell they all look like groups of three. 

And FYI, if you tell me to stop scratching, which is the only source of satisfaction I have in my whole misery filled day, I am going to rub a big section of oozing mess right in your face.  Promise. 

I have developed an allergy to this particular weed in my late 30’s.  It seems ridiculous.  But in the past year I have gotten a disgusting poison ivy rash three times.  Never in my whole childhood have I had it, not my wild keg party in the deep woods teen years, not while I was dating my earthy, granola boyfriend Ethan and pretending to LOVE nature by camping out every weekend in college, but in my sedentary 30’s.  It’s a cruel joke.  

I have the most heinous case of poison ivy right now that goes from my nose to my ankles.  I have endured steroid shots and a steady dose of oral steroids that I am currently using as my excuse to be a colossal bee-otch.  (Silver Lining!!)

This is what I get for drinking a "beverage" in the middle of the afternoon.  I had a bottle of "adult liquid refreshment" and was enjoying the view in my gorgeous backyard, when I noticed some ivy growing up the trunk of my favorite tree. 

Oh, poo. 

I’ll just rip that down. 

Wait, look at that tree, I’ll rip some more. 

What is that vine on my peony plant? 

Wild strawberry?  

I’ll just get that too! 

Look at me!  I am a landscaping genius! 

Rip, rip, rip. Fling, fling, fling.

24 hours later.  SHIT!

I will stop whining about this long enough to tell you that I am loving me some Ben-a-dryl!  What a modern medicinal marvel that shit is!

I take Benadryl every night.  I will stop after the poison ivy goes away.  (Well, maybe…) 

One particular night, I had taken my elixir of peaceful slumber and itch eraser and headed to bed at 8 pm.  I was sleeping soundly when there was the sound of frantic pounding on my bedroom door. 

“You had better be bleeding or on fire.”  I garbled in my antihistamine stupor.

“Mom, Dad… There is a chipmunk in my room.”  The middle one, yelled this.  4 times, in rapid succession. 

My only sound reply was, “Really?  Is it alive?” 

My husband jumped out of bed mumbling something profane, and I followed, bumping into every piece of furniture and doorway on the way to our middle daughter’s room.

We pulled all the furniture into the middle of the room and used the cat to sniff out the chipmunk.  We cornered it and captured it with a pool skimmer.  We covered the top of the skimmer with a stuffed parrot and thought our ordeal was soon to be over.

Well… not so fast.

Chipmunks are crafty little rodents and they like to climb. 

This one, I will call him Alvin, had moves like Bruce Lee and did some crazy kung fu acrobatics and jumped out of the skimmer and was then loose in my downstairs.  The cats just sat on the stairs and watched us stumbling around like idiots shouting at each other about whose fault it was and accusing each other (profanely, of course) of some sort of conspiracy meant to deprive the rest of the family of sleep. 

It was just quality family banter, no big whoop.

There was now 3 times the amount of area for this pain in the ass to hide in. 

Fast forward 30 minutes.  We have moved every piece of furniture, disassembled every baseboard heater and… nothing.

Frig this nonsense.  Let’s go to bed and let the cats deal with Alvin.  I would rather sleep and clean up rodent guts when I am NOT drugged up and sleep deprived.

“Wait”, says my brilliant husband.  “The coat closet is ajar.  Let’s check and see if the chipmunk (he never warmed up to the name “Alvin”, I believe he is more of a “Simon” fan) is in there.”

“Good idea” I replied. 

No dumbass, not a good idea.

As my husband and I crouched in front of the small door, blocking any sort of escape for little Alvin, this shit stain ran up my naked leg and sent me into hysterics and some sort of epileptic fit! 

Oh, it was at this point that I began to involuntarily squeal the word, “Rabies, Rabies, Rabies.”  I shoved my husband to the ground, kicked over a shelf and began to climb the doorframe in some weird attempt to escape from a 4 inch rodent who had already run into the next room.  Where the hell did I think I was going?

As I was clawing my way to the top of the doorframe, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. 

Holy Hell. 

I was wearing a t-shirt and underwear.  I had hair that was so wild, that I looked like some 1980’s Long Island mall rat on my way to a Bon Jovi concert. 

But the best part was the effect the poison ivy rash had on the whole scene.  I looked like a heroin addict in some sort of withdrawal.  Because, remember, I was hanging from a door frame screaming, “Rabies!”

It gets better. 

I looked away from the mirror long enough to see my 15 year old daughter, Child #1, standing on the stairs, staring at me with a sick sense of joy.  She was enjoying herself.  A little too much.

And so the above picture makes sense to me, now.  After trying to piece together the events of that evening, I can see the perfect alignment of the bruise to the doorframe and my frantic attempts to escape from the killer chipmunk.

I am pretty sure this story, will be told at every family event from now to eternity. 

Much like the time I stepped in human poop outside the doctor’s office.  But that story is for another day….

Slacker Mom? Yes, that's me!

So, it has been an eventful summer so far. 

Child #1 turned 14 and is entering high school.  (No, I don't feel old, I feel like she is one year closer to getting a job and buying her own damned Hollister/Abercrombie/over-priced clothes herself)  Child #2 turned 12 and is entering middle school.  Again, one year closer to being able to put more money into my retirement. 

The baby, has been a whole different proposition.  Let me regale you with the drama.  I can tell you are interested.

See, she has become very interested in the proper use of vulgar bathroom language.  She asked me, "Mom, do you shit, or is it shit?"  Charming, yup indeed. 

I have also heard her scream, "Bitch, Bitch, Bitchy Bitch!"  I am not sure, but child #1 and child #2 may have exposed her to that word during one of their infamous "Take that off!  That is MY (insert item of clothing)" arguments.  The baby screamed the Bitchy Bitch soliloquy while floating in the middle of the pool.  I was fully clothed, flapping like a deranged swan and trying to muffle her cuss tirade with squawks and promises of hiney spanking.  (I am all talk) 

Well, the piece de resistance of the summer so far has got to be the broken elbow.  The baby was climbing one of her Little Tikes slides and had taken a tumble off the first step.  Yes, she broke her elbow falling no more than 6 inches.  I have seen her fly, head-first, off the back deck with no more than a scratch.  Yet, this seemingly non-event had brought about a broken bone.  And she's the sturdy one!  This child is so thick, she should have bounced!  But alas, she is sporting a fiberglass splint and a sling. 

The elbow itself, is not the crowning moment of my slacker-dom.  No, it comes a few days later.  We had lost power for 14 hours on a scorchingly hot day.  We were not going to open the refrigerator in an effort to conserve the food inside.  So, like any good wholesome family, we made plans to go out for lunch.  The baby looked like Medusa with her hair all wacky and her arm was in the sling.  I bribed her with gum so I could try to tame her locks of un-love.  (Get it?)  I successfully did so and dressed her in a beautiful girlie sundress.  Oh, how sweet!  Child #1 and Child #2 dressed in their most Abercrombie-est ensembles and off we went.

As we drove across the bridge I heard a discussion emerging from the back seat.  "Well, I didn't give her gum, so you must have!"  "No, I didn't.  Why are you being a bitch?"  Ah, yes the B-word!  So, I whipped around and glared my best mommy-glare.  "Stop saying that word!  I will wash your mouths out with soap!"  (Again, all talk.)

"Mom, the baby has gum in her hair!" 

Crap.  I gave her the gum. 

"I will get it out at home.  You can barely notice it."  No big deal!  I mean really, she has a broken elbow for pete's sake!  Let's keep things in perspective.

We arrived at the restaurant.  Ate our food and went to the bookstore.  The baby sat on the floor to read her books.  I browsed.  I overheard people laughing at how cute she was lying on the floor, with her sling just reading her book. 

Here is where the other shoe drops.

I hear a shriek from Child #2.  In the middle of a bookstore, on a Saturday afternoon (this is prime shopping time). Child #2 shouts to me, "Mom, didn't you know that the baby had no panties on?" 

In my defense, I had put panties on her.  She just takes them off when she uses the potty and then neglects to put them back on.  What am I the "panty police"?

I mean, we have no shame in this house.  As I write this, she is completely naked playing Barbies.  I call it "airing out".  My husband calls it naked palooza.  Well, it saves me money on laundry and I don't care what the neighbors think.  If they think I am crazy, they won't come by looking to borrow sugar.  Am I right? 

Mortification set in pretty quickly.  My baby is lying on her stomach, girlie sundress askew, with her entire bum exposed to the patrons of this dignified establishment.  What a sight.  Arm in a sling, gum in her hair and her rear-end (with about 10 mosquito bites) shining in the fluorescent lights. 

Slacker mom?  I win. 

Much Love to the Paraprofessionals

I have had much opportunity to think lately and I have come to a conclusion that many of my colleagues, and friends who are parents, would readily agree with.  Not enough gratitude is showered onto the paraprofessionals who work in our schools.  I believe that most people, outside of the education field, see them as glorified secretaries to “overpaid” teachers.  Well, let me tell you something...

I won’t get into the defense of my job.  I enjoy going to work every day and could imagine no better way to spend my time.  I have no qualms, however, about defending the role of some of the most compassionate and underappreciated people I have ever met. 

Of course, there are always people in any profession that are there for all the wrong reasons and just strive to do the minimum in order to collect a paycheck.  Unfortunately, these people are always the reference when judging the rest of the hard-working people who want to make a difference and could never imagine doing any less than their best.

I have a 3^rd grade class of 18 children who are beautiful and funny and sweet and - well, you get it.  They make me smile!  They talk too much, but they make me smile!

Here’s the kicker.  Not one of these sweet darlings has the same learning needs as any other child in the class.  Some need to learn how to decode words, others need to learn to read with more expression, some have trouble retelling stories.  There is even a small group that needs to be challenged with comprehension practice of texts that have a level of 5^th-7^th grade.  This is just reading.  The needs are just as varied in math, writing, science and social studies.  Challenging for one person to plan for, yes.  But again, it’s a challenge that keeps me thinking.  I wouldn’t want it any other way.  That’s the truth.

Public education has made a metamorphosis.  All children, regardless of their ability or disability, have the right to be included in the regular education class.  YAY!  It is such a better experience for all children!  Yes, there are some issues, but for the most part it is such a better way to do things.  These children, all of them, are some person’s babies.  Someone’s joy and hope for the future.  That’s how I see them when they walk through the door of my class.  That is how most paraprofessionals see them.

Well, since this is the case, and there are children who range in ability from 2^nd grade to 8^th grade in any given subject, it is necessary to have someone present who can assist the teacher when he/she is meeting with small groups.  (We very rarely stand in front of the entire class and deliver whole group instruction without there being a component of small group instruction that is targeted to a student or group of students needs.) 

Enter the paraprofessional. 

The paraprofessional is someone who is required to possess, at the very least, the equivalent of an associate’s degree.  If they do not have an associate’s degree, they must pass a test.  Yes, that is right.  Not just anybody can sit and work with your child.  They must be educated.  They do not make copies and file papers.  They are the person who clarifies directions, re-teaches when a child does not understand and the teacher is busy working with others. 

This paraprofessional often gives up lunch to comfort a crying child.  They have been known to buy winter coats for children.  Some have become certified caregivers who offer respite to families with highly involved children with special needs.  They open their home for a night or two to give parents the opportunity to re-connect and maintain a relationship that may become strained because of the stress of caring for a child with severe disabilities.

Not enough credit is given to these fine people.  Women and men who are some of the most special people I have ever met.  They allow me to be a successful teacher.  Without them, I could never spend the time with small groups, differentiating the instruction to match the needs of my students. 

So, please don’t judge anyone based on the misjudgment of a few bad apples.  They make the news because they are the exception to the rule.  This goes for us teachers too!

Here's What I Think of Your Standardized Test!

Dear State Dept. of Education and U.S. Dept. of Education,

I just got my 13 year old daughter’s CMT results.  I am thrilled!  She scored well above average in reading and math. 

I would like you to also know that she scored a paltry “proficient” in writing.  Oh freaking well!  I would like you to call the “No Child Left Behind” hounds off of my daughter’s school district.  Just look away.   Look...away.

My sweet pea has had spectacular teachers who exhibited stellar work ethic and a strong desire to help her achieve her potential.  Guess what?  She did, and I am proud.  If you think for one second that I am going to be outraged that she was below the state average in writing, then you are mistaken.  How dare you assign an acceptable score that each child must achieve in order for a district to make AYP!  My child will not be judged according to what you feel is acceptable.  She has talents but she has areas where she might not be (insert horrified, gasping noise here) gifted.

Not every person can be gifted at everything.  They might not be good at everything.  I would rather have a society of people who are superb at their craft or career, than a society of people who are “goal” at everything.  We would lose all our specialized professions.  Why can’t you see this?

There are quite a few children who perform well across the board.  Are they gifted?  Or are they skilled test takers?  Doesn’t matter.  Good for them, whichever they are.  I applaud their smarts, or their skilled bubble choosing.  It’s time to educate and cultivate the gifts that lie within every child.  Why should they spend endless amounts of time shooting for “goal” in areas that they do not find interesting.  Just perform proficiently and blow the roof off of the subjects that speak to you.  I am sure then that they would find school more interesting and engaging.

My daughter rocks at reading and math.  But don’t ask her to write a fiction story about the day she found a lost dog in the park.  You WILL be disappointed. 

Take my baby for all her gifts and let some other sweet child be the next Edgar Allen Poe.  It’s OK, I’ll live.

Sincerely,

Proud Mother of an Awesome, Well-Rounded Child

Mean Mommy!

Yes, it is a twofer special.  Two posts, one day.  Incredible!
I was driving in my car, waxing poetic, when I realized 2 things.  1) I need to wax the 2 hairs on my chin (Thank you slavic heritage!) and 2) I truly am a mother.
Let me explain, no let me sum up:
I spend my days planning the education of small people.  I won't give the age or any other identifying details.  I spend my evenings planning my revenge on the children who call me "Mom".  That is actually how I describe them.  People ask me, "How are your kids?"  I always ask them, "Which ones?  The ones who actually like me, or the ones who call me Mom?"
Revenge is a little harsh.  I don't seek revenge.  Just trying to give them a good reason to torture me.  I want to hear things like, "When I'm a Mom I'll never..." You fill it in.  The possibilities are endless.  Maybe they won't make their kids eat vegetables, brush their hair, pick up their rooms.  Who knows?  I want to live in infamy.  At their weddings, I want to hear them speak fondly about the time mom took their Christmas gifts back to the store.  WHILE they watched.  Stop gasping.  I rebought them.  But this is the game we play.  You push me to my limits.  I make threats.  The threats rise in severity until I am backed into a corner and actually have to deliver on whatever ridiculous promise/threat I made.
Case in point.  Last December child #1 backed me into my corner, or as I sometimes like to say, poked a caged animal.  I threatened the Christmas gift return.  She stared at me with disgust.  (God, I love that look!)  So I lost my mind.  I ran into my room like an escaped lunatic and proceeded to root around under my bed.  I admit under my bed is not the best place to hide Christmas gifts, but hey, I never said I was a genius.
Let's focus... Oh, yes, rooted under the bed and pulled out the fancy copy of Just Dance 2 for the Wii.  I ran back to daughter #1's room and shouted, no screeched, "Want to know the first gift that's going back to the store?  This one!"  I held it up and started singing, "Just Dance" (to the tune of David Bowie's song with the same name),I did not just sing this.  Noooooooo.  I also added some very HOT dance moves.  I cabbage patched my way across her bedroom and waved that game in her smug little face!  I moonwalked out the door, with a resounding, "Oh yeah!  Thank you, I'll be performing here 'til you turn 18!"  My mother must be so proud.

OK, so I have this theory...

I have a long standing theory about the decline of the morals and intelligence of some of the folks who currently live in the lower to lower middle socio-economic areas.  I said, "some" so please do not assume that I am making a blanket generalization.  I am not.  I come from this socio-economic situation myself.  So I know that there are plenty of exceptions to my theory.  Got it?  If you don't, then please stop reading.  I don't want to deal with you.
Ok, I feel better, so here is my theory:
The folks who are angry, bitter and unwilling to put forth the effort to better themselves should probably look at the choices that they have made in their lives.  This might give them the insight they need to accept and then move on with a renewed desire to rise.
Perhaps, though, it would be a good idea to take a look at some families and how they may be, in fact, teaching children to grow up to blame their life situations on anyone else, except for themselves and their choices.  If you give a child everything they desire without teaching them the cost or showing the work required to attain those things, then you may be to blame.  When people assume that they are entitled to have all their wants indulged just because they are alive, there is a problem.  They were never taught how to EARN and take responsibility.  Then, when they go out on their own, they become angry and don't understand why they don't have all that the Kardashians have.  This is why we now see a society of some folks who think it better to buy the newest iPhone, when they cannot pay the electric bill.  Why they feel it's OK to seek assistance from the state to buy food, but they refuse to get basic cable and then save the money for school so they can better their lives.  It's easier to blame others for your misfortune than to take any sort of responsibility and build resiliency in character.
So the next time your child says, "But Johnny made me do it.  I didn't want to, but he made me." Don't go fuss at Johnny's parents.  Make your child responsible for their actions.  The next time your child wants the newest and greatest electronic device, make them wait.  Make them see the value of budgeting and working to get what you want.  They may ultimately decide that the item is not worth it.  That's still a good lesson. Please, help them see the value of hard work and not always getting what you want.  You will do more good for them than you would if you bought them something they will grow tired of. The lesson you teach may effect them well into their adulthood.
I do not want to offend those families who have genuinely, and through no selfish fault of their own, fallen on hard times.  My heart does go out to you and I do not mind paying more taxes for your benefit. I pray nightly for your luck to change swiftly.