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.

How Do I Clean THAT up???

I was trying to think of my crowning moment for mother of the year.  I had to really think hard because there are so many moments.  I opted for the moment that proved that the book What to Expect: The Toddler Years could never contain enough information to adequately prepare a mother.  I may have to pen my own self-help bible called Holy Crap! Are You Kidding Me?.  Let me start with a disclaimer.  This post in NO way contains poop. It may begin to sound as if it does, but stay with me.  THERE IS NO POOP!  Trust me ;)

It's like this, I have these 3 daughters.

Oh, you need more?

Well, one fine fall afternoon my eldest offspring decided to go play in her room.  She was 3 and this did not seem odd.  The baby, 1 year old at the time, needed a nap and had boycotted her own crib, so it was off to Mom and Dad's bed for her.  I laid down with her, stroked her sweet, baby soft cheeks and hummed beautiful lullabies straight into her delicious little ears.  Well, I sing a GREAT lullaby, because soon I had dozed off.
Fast-forward 20 minutes later and I wake up PANICKED!  Holy crap!  I left a 3 year old alone for 20 minutes.  Bolt up, run down the stairs round the corner to her room and...
What is that?  Why is she buck-ass naked?  Why is there brown runny stuff going down her leg?  And why, is she holding a cup under herself?  She IS potty trained.

Here's where you must trust me.  Remember?

"Child #1, what are you doing?" (In a sing-song/scared/anticipating the worst kind of voice)
"Nothin'"
"Really? Cause it looks like somethin'" (Still in sing song mode)
"Oh, Mama, I peein' in dis cup." (Matter of fact)
Quick flash through my mind of a doctor's appointment the day before.  She had to pee in a cup.
"Why is there brown stuff on the back of your legs?"
"I was doin' a speriment." (experiment)
Another quick flash.  Dang you public television and the ideas you give my kids! All I could THINK of was poop.
"So, what is this experiment, honey?"
"I put da chocowat sywup in da cup.  I goed pee in da cup and..."
SHRIEK, from me of course!
Grab child #1, step in pee puddle, put child in the shower, as I go into a tirade.
I kept singing to myself, "Thank GOD it's not poop, Thank GOD it's not poop."

Now, I know that it does not do any good to have a long conversation with a 3 year old about how cups are not for peeing in and the doctor's office is the only place you should do that.  But I had just woken up from a little tease of a nap, I was groggy and I was anticipating the pee puddle clean up.
I looked at my sweet little child who was now crying as she was standing in the shower looking all wet and bedraggled.  I actually said to her, "You weren't going to drink it, were you?"
"Ewww, no Mommy!"
"Good because I was going to have you look through the newspaper for a new place to live.  Maybe a nice 2 bedroom townhouse."
"What Momma?"
"You know, I cannot have you living here if you are going to pee in all our cups and use up all the chocolate syrup with your foolishness."
"What Momma?"
"We all really enjoy our chocolate milk in the morning, so what do we do if you have used it all up with your pee-pee experiments?"
"Momma, I so sowwy."

After it was all taken care of, I thought back to the conversation I had with child#1 while she was in the shower.  I flipped through my copy of What to Expect: The Toddler Years.
Damned if there was NOT a chapter about peeing in cups filled with chocolate syrup.
Welcome to motherhood.

Let me introduce you to MIL-lie...

It’s Christmas.  I should probably wait until tomorrow to post this, but I enjoy being a rabble-rouser. 

There is a woman in my life, whom I shall name MIL-lie.  Look very carefully at those first three letters.  Then see if you can figure it out.  This MIL-lie woman is the source of much angst and entertainment for everyone in her family.  I enjoy her over-the-top behavior.  Her inappropriate comments, followed by a naive denial that she could ever have offended anyone on purpose, are a means of never-ending conversation starters. 

You want to laugh?  Let me tell you about my MIL-lie.  I mentioned angst and entertainment.  That seems to be an oxymoron.  It’s a carefully woven skill built from many years of driving her children into the world of over indulgence and gluttonous behavior.  It was the 1980’s, so I am sure blaming her for their overindulgence is up for debate.  Perhaps it was their penchant for heavy metal, long hair and chicks with no moral compass.  Maybe, but I like to blame her. 

Here’s the thing.  MIL-lie is quite unique.  She has an undeniable case of OCD and her favorite pastime is chatting up perfect strangers and asking them their opinions on blatantly personal issues.  Not always “personal” issues like the TMI kind.  But, well you know, the kind of things other people REALLY do not care about.

Let’s flashback 8 years.  I had accidentally invited MIL-lie to join us on our family vacation.  I had indulged in a few glasses of cabernet and was feeling sympathetic to my newly widowed MIL-lie.  My mother was also in attendance when I made the invitation.  She just smiled and savored the realization that I had just inserted my foot deep down my own throat.   My mother is whom I get my sense of humor from, so I should have read her giddy amusement as a warning.   

Flash forward 4 months to the actual vacation.  We made our way to the airport with no incidences.  I was sitting way in the back of our mini-van and was dealing with tired, hungry children so maybe I just did not notice.  I did hear my DH sighing.  He was sighing and shooting me death looks in the rearview mirror.

We arrived at the airport and we all filed out of the car.  My husband smiled at me.  A very suspicious smile. 

He whispered in my ear, “MIL-lie is obsessing about the size of her carry-on bag.” 

I calmly replied, “Well, she can check-it at the baggage counter, or she can see ask the desk person if it is the right size for a carry-on.  No big deal, right?”

“Sure Hon, no big deal.  If she were a NORMAL person.”

Oh crap.  What have I done?

We received repeated confirmations from the desk agent that MIL-lie’s bag did qualify as a carry-on.  However, MIL-lie’s OCD was in full effect.  On the trek to our gate, she stopped at 10 (I kid you not!) gates to ask every agent and flight attendant she could find.  She stopped a PILOT on his way to his plane.  She asked families who were on their way to board their flights.  She also used the little kiosks that allow you to self-check the size of your carry-on bag.  She used every one of those self-checkers from one end of the airport to the other.  I was pushed over the edge.  I would be asking for a seat FAR, FAR away from her.  Either that, or I was going to empty my bank account to pay for those little bottles of liquor on the plane. 

Well, we finally got on our plane and the flight to Atlanta was uneventful.  The kids were wonderful and MIL-lie made some “friends” on the plane.  I am sure she regaled them with tales of her bargain shopping at Macy’s and the details of her investment portfolio.  Who in the world bargain shops at Macy’s?  Her, I guess.

OK, we are in Atlanta.  We deplane and guess what?  YES!  On the way to our connecting flight MIL-lie stopped no less than 12 people to ask about the appropriateness of her carry-on.  Which she of course got at a cut-rate discount at Macy’s. 

We had to go to a completely different section of the airport and it was necessary to take the subway-like train.  As we were boarding the train, which was clearly going to take us to our gate, MIL-lie LOST HER FLIPPING MIND!  She was yelping so loudly that she was unable to hear the automated voice tell us that we were going to GATE 4C in terminal F.  Or whatever the heck it was saying.  I could not hear on account of her squawking.  It’s a good thing I can READ!

MIL-lie began hyperventilating and saying over and over, “What?  Where are we going?  We need to get on a plane.  Not a TRAIN!  Why are we on a TRAIN?” 

My husband and I tried to convince her that we were, indeed, going in the right direction.  She began frantically asking EVERYONE on the train if this was the “train to Cancun, Mexico.”  Embarassing?  Um, yes.

Really?  Train to Cancun?  From Atlanta?  Lord help me. 

She finally accosted a pilot who reassured her that she was just using the airport’s transportation system to get to the correct gate.  He looked very amused by her.  I was not. 

Neither was my husband, who said sarcastically, “Why don’t you ask the pilot if your carry-on bag is the right size?”  Touche!

My husband then looked at me and said, “I don’t think you should drink anymore when we have dinner with MIL-lie.” 

Child Safety? Um, Not quite.

I never imagined that I would ever need to have a locked cabinet in my house until my children were in their teens.  You know liquor and what not.  I am not stupid.  I was a teenager, I did stuff.

Naughty stuff.

Stuff my mother does not need to know about, and yes, she does read this. So, I won't tell you.  There is a 30 year statute of limitations on when it is funny to tell your parents about all the hootenannies and shenanigans that went on in their house when they were on vacation. I am sure she would kick my ass should I divulge the info any sooner. My mom is stronger than me.  I possess only raw wit and, frankly, wit is nothing compared to her "you are in deep shit" voice. Just her facial expressions send me into cold sweats.  That, my friends, is why she is my role model/hero.  She never spanked me,she just gave that look.  The look that was better than truth serum.  I was no match.  But, I tried.

I guess you are still wondering about the locked cabinet.  Well, you know about my kids.  Child #1, Child #2 and the baby.

Child #1 has been bringing us unmitigated joy lately.  She has written and received over 12,000 text messages in the span of 20 days.  Her grades are like some sick and twisted roller coaster and she has clothing strewn about her room that I am sure have hissed at me as I entered to look for MY make-up.  Oh, the joy that sugar and spice bring!

Child #2 is an emotionally disregulated mess.  She bit her sister, child #1, in the booble (pronounced boo-blay, like Michael Buble) and drew blood.  Why?  Her sister, child #1, put on child #2's shoes to take the trash out.  So, it's cannibalism as a defense, I suppose.

I was just waiting for child #1 to demand some sort of plastic surgery to correct the teeth marks in her little chesticle.  (I make up words for body parts.  Get used to it.)

The baby, bless her sweet, delicious little face!  She has taken to stripping off all her clothes at every inopportune moment while slapping her bum and yelling (in a sing-song way), "Look at the Naked Butt!" 

CHARMING!  I don't care anymore.  So roll your eyes and look disapprovingly somewhere else.  These are my monsters and I love them.  (Especially after a glass of fermented grape juice)

LOCKED CABINET! Sorry, I am very distracted.  My husband has just unlocked the cabinet and is handing out Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies.  You read correctly, the locked cabinet is the FREAKING SWEETS CABINET!

This should not surprise my sister, who lovingly refers to at least one of my children as "The Queen of Crap".  We have had to put a lock on the snack cabinet.

I am sure this goes back to when they were toddlers and I found them, one sunny day, scaling the cabinets like little MacGuyvers.  They had chairs on top of the counter and Tupperware containers turned upside down as little make-shift ladders.  They were hanging precariously by their finger tips hunting for the Halloween candy, and like little piggies searching the ground for truffles, they were going to find the treasure!   It was like a spelunking mission. Excavating through the kitchen in search of the elixir of everlasting life.

I joke, but it's maddening.  One minute we have a gallon of ice cream and then like voodoo magic, it's gone!  There are wrappers shoved in every conceivable nook and cranny in my house.  If we didn't have a cat, I am sure there would be a family of obese, Smartfood crumb-eating mice living quite happily in my couch.

So, here we are almost 14 years after bringing our sweet child #1 home, all swaddled in a pink fuzzy blanket.

We now have a lock on our junk food cupboard.

Cheers to the Queen of Crap!  I just hope I don't ever have to use the bolt cutters to get at my newly acquired Thin Mints.

Oh, and don't try to be clever and tell us not to buy sweets and that would solve the problem.  I have seen these kids mix bowls full of sugar and cinnamon and lick it straight from the bowl.

They are evil geniuses.  Just like me...

Keep it real Facebook!

I am crazy.  I know I am. 

I know I am crazy because I feel an intense loathing toward status updates on Facebook.  Not just any status updates.  The really condescending, albeit unintentionally, pretentious ones.  I just don’t care about your intense love for your children.  I assume you love your kids.  I want to hear the drama and the chaos.  It’s like the army.  I want a comrade to share the battle scars. 

I am so sorry to all my lovely friends who figure out that it is them that I speak of.  I just can’t take it.  I mean really, how does your day remain so friggin’ organic and virtuous?  It is so obvious. 

Case in point...

Organic friend’s post:

“Today my daughter and I made the most wonderful tiramisu, from scratch!  Organic and gluten-free, of course.  After that we created paintings out of homemade, non-toxic, bio-degradable water colors.  I love my family!”

Really?    REALLY?!  Girl, you need a drink.  Or maybe you are drunk and that is why you are making your own paints with $30 dollars worth of materials when Wal-mart sells the little trays of paints for 99 cents!

Super in love with her imaginary husband’s post: (he has to be imaginary)

“Hubby surprised me with a spur of the moment trip to a bed and breakfast.  For no reason!  I really did marry the man of my dreams!” 

This is the status like every other weekend.  It’s disturbing.  Who lives like this?  I can’t even go to the bathroom without a kid interrupting my peace and quiet.  This may be why I have a “shy bladder”.  And is anyone else suspicious as to why this man feels the need to take his wife away?  Is he hiding something?  HMMMMMM........

BLEEEEEECH!  There should be a rule that you can only post things that are funny and you cannot have status updates that could potentially make others want to gag.

I am guilty of letting these posts make me manic and question every move my family makes. 

At this moment, my absolutely true status update would be:

“Child #1 and her “boyfriend” are playing video games in the musty basement eating cheez-doodles.”   

Organic friend would just love that!

Another post would be”:

“I can hear the baby, calling child #2 a “poopyhead”.  While child #2 screams back that the baby needs an attitude adjustment.  Loud smack... child #2 is crying because the baby has bitten her on the finger.  My response?  “Well I guess you learned to never put your finger near her mouth, huh?  She sure gave you an attitude adjustment.  I love my kids!” 

I need a weekend vacation more than my “super in love with her imaginary husband” friend.   

Perhaps if I had spent the extra money buying all organic the baby would have not acquired a love for all words poop related.  

That’s it!  I am just about to make a life change to all organic.  But then status #3 occurs before my eyes...

“The baby just busted out of the bathroom, buck naked.  Well, except for her mismatched socks.  She has mascara painted all over her stomach and lip gloss caked on her eyebrows.  What a joy!” 

I am not sure giving her organic would fix this.  I need a devil dog and a long nap.

Sweet Baby Jesus

I cannot believe this.  Sweet Baby Jesus, save me.

I know I use Jesus in most of my rants.  I can’t even tell if I am actually asking for help from the Lord, or if it breaks the tension.  Today, I need the help.  My teenage daughter may indeed give me apoplexy.  (Honestly, I don’t know what that means.  It’s definitely a tension breaker, though.)

OK, my ADHD mind has successfully diffused the tension, so why don’t I take another look at the scene unfolding before my eyes. 

There is the unmistakable smell of soured milk.  It washes over me like the putrid morning breath of my toddler who insists on having pudding right before bed.  It’s a teenager’s room.  Need I say more?  The smell is why I no longer clean her room, do her laundry, or cross the thresh hold of her room without holding my nose and gagging.  When do they lose the ability to monitor their own smell? 

There is a lump in the middle of the bed that keeps jerking up and down.  If this were a teenage boy, I would have a horrified guess as to what was going on.  But this is my sweet baby girl.  She had contraband in there. 

She definitely had contraband in there.  I knew it.  Two days earlier, she had lost access to all technology.  No phone (my husband cracked it in half), no iPod, no computer, no television.  She was, in fact, channeling her inner Laura Ingalls.  And boy was she ticked about it!  You would have thought that we had pulled all her fingernails out.  She was PRETTY dramatic about the whole thing.  I am ashamed to admit that I found a deep sense of joy about the punishment.  Well, maybe not that ashamed.  Perhaps a tiny bit of indigestion. 

Syd is much like every other girl her age.  Mousy brown hair, with prerequisite “side-bangs”.  Skinny jeans and hoodie is always her uniform of choice.  Her eyeliner is  perpetually an inch below her lower lid.   The piece de resistance, for me, would have to be the ever-present, disgusted look on her face.  It’s always there.  Sometimes I think she just must be thinking hard.  Then I ask her to tell me about her day to which she snorts, grunts, groans, whatever.   

I try to be sensitive, I truly do. There are mornings that I have to pretend that a PBS film crew is following me around filming the life of a saintly mother parenting a teenage girl with ADHD.  In this documentary, it is up to me to model how to appropriately parent a child with organizational and attention issues.   This morning I am not succeeding in the role-playing.  It is 6:00 am I am just not brimming with patience. 

“SYDNEY! For the love of all that is holy!  Do you have your iPod?  Because I told you that you were to -under no circumstances- use it, or even possess it.  YOU are grounded.  Because YOU LIED!”

“Um, Mom.  I needed it to do my homework.”

Seriously, just kill me now.  In case you were wondering, this was another lie.  This would be a lie, to cover up the lie, that was cov.....oh you get it.

“You told me that you lost your iPod.  You have been looking for it since the moment I told you that you were not to use it.  Have you lied to me, yet again?”

“Mom, I just found it.”

My mind started racing.  When did you find it?  Did you sleep walk?  I’m getting confused.  Is this what you are trying to do?  If you push me into the throes of insanity, do you win?  Are we playing a game?    

“I was going to give it to you.  I promise.”

“Liar, liar pants on fire.”  I sang it to her.  It was the only thing I could think of. 

My husband was now standing in the hallway watching me behave worse than my 13 year old.  I could see that my daughter inherited her look of disgust from this man.  He was looking at me and calmly stated, “I need coffee.” 

Sweet Baby Jesus.   

Higher Level Thinking?

If you are a teacher, you will laugh.  If you are a parent, you may cringe. 

But if you are a kid, you are innocently oblivious.

I am not a fan of high stakes testing, nor am I a fan of testing every child according to their age level and some arbitrary benchmark level of “average”.   Some goony-goo-goo pencil-pusher/number cruncher who has either never been in a classroom or has been removed from the classroom since the 80’s is in charge of setting these benchmarks. 

I know that makes me feel better!  How ‘bout you?

How can children be compared to an average that does not take into account social and emotional development?  Did it ever occur to anyone that the reason I differentiate my instruction is because children are, in fact, NOT all the same.  Ok, so make me teach 18 different kids at least 5 different ways, but don’t assess them according to what they are working on. 

Makes sense, right?  (In case you were wondering, I am using sarcasm)

Well, let’s say that I am not at all impressed with the pencil-pusher/suit monkeys.  They love to pontificate, they do not seem to enjoy working out the logistics.  They want kids who have just learned how to decode 2 syllable words to use “higher-level thinking”.

I love my job.  I do.  Every day.  What drives me crazy is the impression that it is all so easy.  Easy for me and the kids.  Imagine that they were just born 8-9 years ago.  They learned to walk, talk and use the bathroom in that short time.  They learned the alphabet, words and sentences.  Now, they are learning to connect with text in a meaningful way.  That’s only a small part of literacy.  I haven’t even gone into numeracy!

Brings me back to the testing.  I administer this monster test every year and I am helpless.  These sweet little babies stare up at me and attempt to use ESP to get me to give me them the answers.  It can be heart breaking for a teacher.  You are paid to help.  Every bone in your body aches when they stare at the same problem for 5 plus minutes.  All you can do is say, “Don’t spend too much time on one problem.  Skip it and go back at the end.”  You smile, hand them sharpened pencils and fetch them tissues when you hear the muffled sniffle session. 

Terrible!  The most terrible part is when you know, with absolute certainty that a child is not going to do very well on a section.  That was putting it nicely.

During one of these sessions, I was walking around the room giving my “you can do it” smile.  I walked over to a little struggling sweetheart and glanced to make sure he was on the correct section. He was so nervous that he dropped his pencil.  No big deal. 

He leaned over, just about as far as he could without falling.  He pinched his pencil between his two fingers, braced himself on the table, gave a push to right himself and...

Let out the loudest, juiciest fart I have ever heard!  All with the biggest grin on his face!  Oh the joy!  The joy of teaching small innocent children with no shame!  I love them with all my heart!

I know that is gross.  I know it is inappropriate to laugh.  I am a grown-up.  But I will tell you that I was so tense about this particular test section that I NEEDED to hear that fart. 

I held in my laugh, no one else heard the “indiscretion”.  I did have to walk away and turn toward a wall.  I was red faced and crying from holding in my laughter. 

If only the pencil-pushers and monkey suits could’ve been there.  How’s that for higher-level thinking!?

  

You couldn't handle this. Not on your best day.

I would like to take a moment to explain a couple of the more interesting aspects of my job that no person outside of education would quite understand.

I can feel the eyes rolling already.  Settle down, Beavis, it’s funny.

I am not going to whine about how hard my job is.  I spend 6-7 hours a day in direct contact (within sneezing distance) of 9 year olds. 

I think the whining is implied, don’t you? 

As for the difficulty?  It’s not a “hard” job.  It’s just, well, kind of like spending 7 hours in a room where there are about 10 sentences/requests being repeated ad nauseam. 

The sentences are burned into my brain.  They are, in no certain order:

1.     “Mrs. Smith, (insert child’s name), stole my (insert some sort of banned toy).”

2.     “Mrs. Smith , can I go to the bathroom?”

3.     “Mrs. Smith, can I have a (insert school supply)?”

4.     “Mrs. Smith, can I go to the nurse?”

5.     “Mrs. Smith, can I have a band-aid?”

6.     “Mrs. Smith, is it time for snack/lunch?”

7.     “Mrs. Smith, what is for lunch?”

8.     “Mrs. Smith, my mother forgot to put my homework in my backpack.”

9.     “Mrs. Smith, will you tie my shoe?”

10. “Mrs. Smith, I NEED A TISSUE RIGHT NOW!!!”

11. “Mrs. Smith, (insert child’s name) is touching me!”

Do you see a pattern?  Do you see the first 2 words in EVERY sentence/request? 

My name.  Repeated.  Over and Over and Over.  It makes me a little cuckoo.  I get silly and fantasize about responding to them in some foreign language.  You parents think it’s so easy.  You would snap like a twig.   

I get these 10+ sentences every 2 minutes from 18 children. 

Sometimes I just mess with them and say, “I have changed my name.  I am no longer Mrs. Smith.  You only have one chance to guess my new name and if you get it wrong, you will no longer be allowed to ask me ANYTHING.”

I laugh.  They laugh.  They get it. 

I am glad I don’t work in the corporate world.  Adults don’t get it. 

Hard job? 

No. 

Fun job. 

A chance to stretch my comedic muscles with the little pumpkins that truly appreciate the tension release of a good laugh! 

Now, my all-time favorite child request. 

Why is it that school age children who spend all summer with skinned knees and splinters come to school in September with the idea that every hangnail requires a trip to the nurse’s office? 

I let them go to the nurse, so don’t send me hate mail and descriptions of the time you got gangrene from stapling your finger to a piece of paper. 

But really?  That poor woman! (or man) 

In the middle of cleaning up vomit and comforting a hysterical child with a bee sting, a child comes in needing an ice pack for some phantom pain that just appeared out of nowhere and is located on the smallest part of their knuckle.  

The job of a school nurse sounds so tame.  But let me tell you, she (or he) is dealing with a clientele that doesn’t understand that sometimes you get a pain and there is no need for an ambulance.  Don’t apply unless you have a strong stomach.  Because children have no sense of humility when they are sick.  AND, they are biologically unable to figure out the correct time to head to the bathroom when they feel the urge to puke.  They will also let loose all over the floor even though there are about 3 appropriate vomit receptacles within two feet of them. 

I am not joking about this.  The school nurse deserves combat pay. 

I deserve a bonus every time I read that, “Oh crap, I don’t feel so good!” look on a child’s face, jump over desks like hurdles and shove that garbage can under their pale white face just in time.  All while holding their hair and successfully guiding 17 other horror-stricken children into the hallway without one of them doing a sympathy puke.  AND, one time, I was 7 months pregnant when all this nastiness went down.  So, take that!   You might not be strong enough to do what I do.  If you are, you are already doing it.

I have now resorted with a stock response to the question of, “Can I go to the nurse?” 

I only use this response with healthy children so DON’T yell at me!

 My response goes like this:

“Are you bleeding?  Are you going to throw up?  Do you feel dizzy or lightheaded?  Would your mother/father bring you to the doctor for this?  No?  Ok, then let’s wait about 20 minutes and see how you feel.”

Most of the time, they forget that they “needed” the nurse.  Other times, they are insistent and they come back with an ice pack. 

The ice pack. 

Somehow, when you walk through the doors of elementary school, the ice pack offers the same comfort as a mother’s kiss.   The next time I am sad, I am going to grab an ice pack and...

Use it to hold my beer.