I recently had an IEP with Kindsay's teachers. Oh, what an angel! Sweet sweet girl! They go on and on about how wonderful she is. Good--I tell them--better that she is an angel for you than have her treat you the way she treats me. Bup Bup! I DO get to see a wonderful Kindsay. Don't get me wrong! I have moments that are tender and lovely with her, but they are few and far between...trans-Atlantic if you will, trans-Pacific more likely, but because of my unconditional love for her and her overly comfortable feel in her own home, she allows all demons without inhibitions to cater to her every whim, and this tends to cross me...well, WRONG. I've asked her why she is so mean to me and not people outside the home and she never has an answer. I know how many parents are nodding their heads in condescending-type comprehension....all children do that. No, friends....I've already raised a child--and while she has already apologized for how she behaved towards her father and me, the fond memories of raising her outweigh, by galactic tons, the bitter ones. Kindsay makes every day of mine a challenge to rise in the morning and a fifty-meter dash to get to bed to finish the day every night.
However, she is funny. She has actually started, in her fifteenth year now, to develop a sense of humor. She laughs mostly at herself, and much of her laughter in the past was created by mania treated by medication she currently takes. (We can always tell when the meds wear off because the mania/hysteria grows exponentially.)
She is funny because she loves fashion and clothes and jewelry, and make-up, but not within any American convention...actually not within any Gentile convention that I know of. I stopped trying to intervene in her dressing rituals when I pulled a skirt out of the closet to suggest as something to wear one day and she told me off for trying to interfere--yelling at me that she was A N A D U L T. I had to remind her that she was indeed NOT an adult, but that was fruitless and I walked out having been defeated once and for all. So here she comes with a blue skirt polka dotted in white, purple chunky beads, "It's a girl!" red bow in the front of her untouched bed-head, blue sparkly make-up that places her on a roller rink somewhere in the midwest, a multi-design pink shirt decorated in pastels, shin-high fur boots, pink lipstick that draws Susan Lucci's character "Erica" to mind as the producers attempted to create far more lip than nature provided, and every bracelet she could find for under a buck from all dollar stores within a five-mile radius. Madonna, mixed with Punky Brewster, shaken and stirred by Erica Kane, rocked by a 1980s thrift shop and you have my dear girl dolled up for school. She then grabs her lunch bag which is covered in old food because she tells me "I needed to wipe my face after lunch", and her backpack that contains a hoarder's dream of absolutely nothing of everything and will...yes WILL knock you down if she turns around while wearing it and you are within two feet of her and off to the bus she goes! I know that no matter how much time has passed that the bus driver still does a double-take every morning. Don't tell me otherwise because I teach this population of child and have several teen girls in my class and NONE of them have any resemblance of Kindsay in any way possible. Yes, some are fashionable and some are not...but NONE of them remind me of Kindsay even in the tiniest way. Nevertheless, I used to want her to wear a little sign on her shirt that read "I am special" so when she threw her tantrums in stores and other public places people would look away realizing she was not a typical child, but now I don't need one.
Her clinical anxiety which causes her to retreat into herself in public adds to her mystique. She chews her nails, picks at her skin and her nose and her ears, shakes her knees up and down in anticipation of nothing, and will stare you into next year without a batting lash. Get her texting you on the cell phone and you are calling me pleading for her to stop, but face-to-face there's little if any response to your inquiries as to how she is. We will then walk into the house and every question, comment, tirade that was hiding behind those intense brown eyes unyields to itself and explodes in my face...literally within inches. She then strips to a tiny sporty bra and underwear that no matter how large I buy them or how they are really supposed to sit on her hips they are pulled clear up her back and into rear, thus causing me to reminisce of the Madonna/Punky Brewster times only moments before. Yes--she's a sweet sweet girl.
So she is funny in her style, in that she wants to use her creativity all at once and every moment, and most parents would smile and say, That's okay, but isn't it always "OK" when it's NOT your kid? I'm happy to let other children express themselves without judging the parents' sanity, but when it's my own...I'm judging my OWN sanity...what have I done?
But then Kindsay will have a moment of endearment, when she reveals her true maturity and age of understanding of life with her doll that pees in a diaper after she pours water in its mouth, her multiple posters hung on her wall with screws she hammered in (sigh), the writing of notes to a boyfriend she has never met and their eight kids that don't exist...I can go on and on...but when she asked me very insistently and matter-of-factly, "Mom--is this the only world we can live in? Is there another world where we can live?" I stumbled on answering that one..does she mean while we're on this earth...after we die...? She laughs upon sensing my confusion and to herself remarks--"Oh, what a funny question. Why did I ask that? I shouldn't have asked that." Then I laugh at her self-realization that she didn't even know what she meant and we both moved on without further ado.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
My Story
We have been advised to write "our stories" for future generations. I'm going to start writing mine, but I wonder if it is something worth sharing? I'd love your feedback about whether or not I should make this public. I know my kids will have to wait until I die before I'll reveal it to them because some information about our parents is too "ew" to know about as long as we can look them in the eye. So, here's my introduction of my "journal-in-a-bag" (since I don't keep a journal nor do I want to daily.)
My favorite kind of reading is history, even historical fiction as long as it’s strongly based on real events. I love knowing about how things work, what people have lived through, what the human race has accomplished, and so on. Not that my story is literature worth perusing, but it is therapeutic for the author, and I’ll take what I can get. In other words, I have read more than a few memoirs, and each time I think…how does that person remember that? It was thirty-five years ago and the very dialogue that took place back then is written verbatim?! It is very distracting while reading because those thoughts can’t hold themselves back from surfacing over and over, which gets in the way of some potentially juicy stuff. Needless to say, I will not attempt to recapture perfect conversations or recall what I was thinking in given instances if I truly don’t remember. I can tell you what I think about them now, but what weight that holds is irrelevant. The bottom line, and I’m very much a lover of the bottom line, is that I won’t share with the reader my version of my own fiction because I may end up on some cable show with people providing evidence contrary to my claims and I’ll wind up having to take back everything I said. No disclaimers, just satisfactory truth that I hold here and now. Someday, I’ll forget bits and pieces until this is all a blur, so thankfully I’ll have this around to remind me of everything I’d hoped to someday forget.
My favorite kind of reading is history, even historical fiction as long as it’s strongly based on real events. I love knowing about how things work, what people have lived through, what the human race has accomplished, and so on. Not that my story is literature worth perusing, but it is therapeutic for the author, and I’ll take what I can get. In other words, I have read more than a few memoirs, and each time I think…how does that person remember that? It was thirty-five years ago and the very dialogue that took place back then is written verbatim?! It is very distracting while reading because those thoughts can’t hold themselves back from surfacing over and over, which gets in the way of some potentially juicy stuff. Needless to say, I will not attempt to recapture perfect conversations or recall what I was thinking in given instances if I truly don’t remember. I can tell you what I think about them now, but what weight that holds is irrelevant. The bottom line, and I’m very much a lover of the bottom line, is that I won’t share with the reader my version of my own fiction because I may end up on some cable show with people providing evidence contrary to my claims and I’ll wind up having to take back everything I said. No disclaimers, just satisfactory truth that I hold here and now. Someday, I’ll forget bits and pieces until this is all a blur, so thankfully I’ll have this around to remind me of everything I’d hoped to someday forget.
I’m by no means a fascinating person. On the contrary, I’m quite ordinary because I have no passions, no specialties, no mastery of anything. I realized only a few years ago, to my utter disappointment about my life, that I am a jack of all trades, but a master of nothing. That really flat-lined what was remaining of my so-called ego. I’ve been told all my life how smart I am, but I don’t have enough smarts to push me over the edge and make me newsworthy, or even fifteen-minutes worthy, just the ordinary ability to go above and beyond the average person on menial things. Whoopy-doo. I can eke out art, sort my way through difficult levels of math, write almost brilliant pieces, have enough strategic thought processing skills to save my rear, but nothing notable enough to have anyone say, “Wow, you should see how she does what she does so well, it’s like watching a genius at work.” OK—I’ve never sat and fantasized about that--at the same time, knowing that’s not ever an option makes my upper lip curl and my brows raise to yet another acknowledgment of “meh.” That’s me—meh. (You have to say it with a slight shrug of the shoulders too, don’t cheat yourself.)
In order for my brain to sustain any sense of order, I must tell my story, or stories, by theme. Maybe you prefer me to start “I was born in a small town in a hospital just up the road from where I live today.” Trust me, you don’t want me to start that way because it won’t end with “and here I am now.” Nope. It’ll only become dust on a shelf and yellowing paper or some kind of fragmented piece of memory in my laptop. Please, allow me to tell it the way that it wants to come out naturally, and we will all be winners in this adventure. One more thing—I can’t guarantee it won’t embarrass you or make you read with your head turned completely away with your eyes straining to read the words. My life, while no Slumdog Millionaire in the making, was also no life and times of a Girl Scout.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Home Home On the Range
Yes, my daughter married this last July. No, I wasn't happy about it. Yes she is in another state. No the there will not be any children ANY time soon...Yes I'm a mother-in-law and it's all over. I miss her, I mope about it on occasion, but what can you do? You can say, "Well, at least you have Kindsay for life!" Thanks...
The hamster? Who placed bets on when it would die? Let's not be hasty, it's still early, and the conditions for him have worsened. Allow me to fill you in. *sigh*
The boys are extra protective over Hank because they know it's their last shot at a pet. So when Kindsay has Hank, they panic, hover, and ultimately fight. Kindsay isn't allowed to have Hank in her room alone, but every now and then I'll hear her giggling with hysteria and saying, "Oh Hank that tickles!" at which point I go rescue the poor guy. And once when Garon went to fetch him, Kindsay retrieved him from her bra. That creeped us all out. My response is always, "hey--I warned you!" Goose bumps aside, Hank is well-loved. Even by me. Especially by Greg...and that's not a good thing.
So after running a bra labyrinth, getting kissed by Kindsay's reality version of "I will love you and squeeze you and call you George," and having to hear screaming children at a close enough range to deem him deaf, Hank began a mission of urgency to get the *bleep* out of his cage by chewing at all hours of the day on his cage walls. This got Greg worried and he actually Googled "hamster chewing cage" only to find out it's normal. Normalcy shmormalcy...that wasn't good enough for him. Greg went out to the back yard and fashioned a west wing and a north wing for his cage and connected them with the plastic tubes it comes with. Now Hank had more square footage than I did ratio-wise. And yet, he still chewed...after giving him a chew carrot, after extending his home, after limiting Kindsay...hmm, this hamster wants OUT. Hey buddy...do you know how many times I've wanted to chew my way out of my house? Do you know how many times I could've been the star of 127 Hours? Buck up Hank! Greg still worried constantly over Hank's happiness and decided to let him have MY HOUSE.
Yes, Hank is a free-roaming house hamster. He shows up where and when he wants. He built a summer home under my kitchen sink with bits from his cage liner and food. Every now and then I'll walk into a room and jump 50 feet because something scuttled by. Hamster poop and pee? No problem! So we look infested with rodents. So what if I might step on Hank in the dark and smoosh him to his death. According to Greg "he'll die happy." Ah me. If you come over and find lanterns and flashlights in odd places, it's because my kids are constantly playing "Where In the World Is Hank Boden?" I've finally given up. I step lightly, I wave at him when he goes by, I lift my foot to let him through, etc. Until Friday night.
This is long, but it's getting to the climactic part of the story, so keep your seatbelt on.
Fridays I'm exhausted. Especially this past one because it was the first week back to teaching. I came home dead, Greg even knew looking at me that I was worthless to him, so he planned on video games that night. Needless to say, I went to bed early...8:30-ish. I didn't fall asleep though. I struggle to sleep, despite the heavy fatigue and throbbing headaches, but I was determined to stay in bed until morning so I laid there face down in the dark. The kids are still on a summer schedule so going to bed earlier than 9:00 PM was a joke. I could hear the boys in their room, next to mine, and they were once again responsible for a huge mess of hamster food on the ground. Greg, my savvy shopper, went to buy me a vacuum for the house and came home with a John Deere-like shop vac that I SHOULD be able to drive around while I vacuum, but no...I lug it. Hey-it was on sale! Great.
The boys are getting their floor vacuumed...Kindsay is on some tirade that has become so normal for her that I'm researching group homes, and Greg is comfy in front of the tv playing the PS3....when
FOOM!
AHHHHHHHHH!
Screaming from Ty's lungs like never before, not even when Garon stabbed him with a shovel...Garon chimed in, then Kindsay joined once she entered their room.
HANK!! Greg comes storming in, all of them are yelling like they are in a war zone and the enemies just killed the commander--absolute chaos chaos chaos. They are all screaming at each other...What did you do? I didn't do it! I didn't know he was there!
Ty yells at Greg something I didn't catch but I caught Greg's response..."Me calm down? You're the one that vacuumed up a rodent!" (why Hank was referred to as a rodent and not his third son is still a lingering question in my mind.)
Yes, folks, Friday night at my house is never dull, animals are always trying to escape, and I can't find a sleeping pill big enough to put me out of my misery. Time to seek professional help...in the meantime, I'm making me a summer home under the sink.
PS--Hank is alive and kicking.
The hamster? Who placed bets on when it would die? Let's not be hasty, it's still early, and the conditions for him have worsened. Allow me to fill you in. *sigh*
The boys are extra protective over Hank because they know it's their last shot at a pet. So when Kindsay has Hank, they panic, hover, and ultimately fight. Kindsay isn't allowed to have Hank in her room alone, but every now and then I'll hear her giggling with hysteria and saying, "Oh Hank that tickles!" at which point I go rescue the poor guy. And once when Garon went to fetch him, Kindsay retrieved him from her bra. That creeped us all out. My response is always, "hey--I warned you!" Goose bumps aside, Hank is well-loved. Even by me. Especially by Greg...and that's not a good thing.
So after running a bra labyrinth, getting kissed by Kindsay's reality version of "I will love you and squeeze you and call you George," and having to hear screaming children at a close enough range to deem him deaf, Hank began a mission of urgency to get the *bleep* out of his cage by chewing at all hours of the day on his cage walls. This got Greg worried and he actually Googled "hamster chewing cage" only to find out it's normal. Normalcy shmormalcy...that wasn't good enough for him. Greg went out to the back yard and fashioned a west wing and a north wing for his cage and connected them with the plastic tubes it comes with. Now Hank had more square footage than I did ratio-wise. And yet, he still chewed...after giving him a chew carrot, after extending his home, after limiting Kindsay...hmm, this hamster wants OUT. Hey buddy...do you know how many times I've wanted to chew my way out of my house? Do you know how many times I could've been the star of 127 Hours? Buck up Hank! Greg still worried constantly over Hank's happiness and decided to let him have MY HOUSE.
Yes, Hank is a free-roaming house hamster. He shows up where and when he wants. He built a summer home under my kitchen sink with bits from his cage liner and food. Every now and then I'll walk into a room and jump 50 feet because something scuttled by. Hamster poop and pee? No problem! So we look infested with rodents. So what if I might step on Hank in the dark and smoosh him to his death. According to Greg "he'll die happy." Ah me. If you come over and find lanterns and flashlights in odd places, it's because my kids are constantly playing "Where In the World Is Hank Boden?" I've finally given up. I step lightly, I wave at him when he goes by, I lift my foot to let him through, etc. Until Friday night.
This is long, but it's getting to the climactic part of the story, so keep your seatbelt on.
Fridays I'm exhausted. Especially this past one because it was the first week back to teaching. I came home dead, Greg even knew looking at me that I was worthless to him, so he planned on video games that night. Needless to say, I went to bed early...8:30-ish. I didn't fall asleep though. I struggle to sleep, despite the heavy fatigue and throbbing headaches, but I was determined to stay in bed until morning so I laid there face down in the dark. The kids are still on a summer schedule so going to bed earlier than 9:00 PM was a joke. I could hear the boys in their room, next to mine, and they were once again responsible for a huge mess of hamster food on the ground. Greg, my savvy shopper, went to buy me a vacuum for the house and came home with a John Deere-like shop vac that I SHOULD be able to drive around while I vacuum, but no...I lug it. Hey-it was on sale! Great.
The boys are getting their floor vacuumed...Kindsay is on some tirade that has become so normal for her that I'm researching group homes, and Greg is comfy in front of the tv playing the PS3....when
FOOM!
AHHHHHHHHH!
Screaming from Ty's lungs like never before, not even when Garon stabbed him with a shovel...Garon chimed in, then Kindsay joined once she entered their room.
HANK!! Greg comes storming in, all of them are yelling like they are in a war zone and the enemies just killed the commander--absolute chaos chaos chaos. They are all screaming at each other...What did you do? I didn't do it! I didn't know he was there!
Ty yells at Greg something I didn't catch but I caught Greg's response..."Me calm down? You're the one that vacuumed up a rodent!" (why Hank was referred to as a rodent and not his third son is still a lingering question in my mind.)
Yes, folks, Friday night at my house is never dull, animals are always trying to escape, and I can't find a sleeping pill big enough to put me out of my misery. Time to seek professional help...in the meantime, I'm making me a summer home under the sink.
PS--Hank is alive and kicking.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Mr. Mom
I've got the best husband in the world. His philosophy is that if I'm happy, he's happy, and not begrudgingly either. And I'm glad he's got that attitude because while I'm working summer school, he's at home with our kids and uses the time wisely by taking care of business. For example, he learned how to use the washer and dryer the other day. He also scrubbed a toilet, which he hated but I loved pointing out that it's his teaching the boys to stand and not sit that there is pee all over it. I vote for sitting! And dabbing dry! Hey, drippy is drippy no matter what part it's coming from.
Back to my story.
This also has included meals. Greg is NOT a cook. He has proven competent with a few things, but he doesn't read recipes...at all. I hate cooking. I cook well enough, even to where my oldest daughter who moved out has expressed a longing for it, but my three remaining kids are food critics that use only one star for rating unless it's a pancake or a bowl of oatmeal. Either way, I went on a cooking strike since they were so particular and couldn't choke down the healthy stuff I made for them. Fine with me--it's all yours Greg.
I also give him a small to-do list before I leave for work. Actually it's a "I'd love to have this one thing done when I get home" list...so it's only one item long and DO-ABLE. so......
I asked Greg if he'd do the floors while I was at work. They were miserably dirty and I was miserable at the thought of having to come home and do them. As usual, Greg happily agreed and I anticipated the lemony smell of cleanliness that afternoon. And what a sparkle they were! No smudges, no spots...just clean and ready for traffic. I head down the hall that has a sharp right turn halfway through. I'm always in a hurry so I hustle down the hall headed for my room and aaaahhhhhhh....my feet lost their grip and I had enough sense to grab onto the hall hutch and cling to keep me from going to the ground. A sharp pain went through my shoulder as it wasn't supposed to jam like that onto a counter. I steadied myself and walked a little further only to feel my feet nearly gliding to my room. My first thought is--what did he do. He swears he just used Pinesol mixed with water. He then pointed to a squirt bottle he used. It only had a little left in it so he didn't think it mattered. Greg, I tell him, that's 409...it's a DEGREASER. You DEGREASED my floors and now no one can grip and walk on them. We have to hold onto the walls while we go down the hall. And it's been like that for over a week now...back to needing another cleaning, but slick nonetheless.
He then proceeded to make dinnr every night, and by Saturday I told him I'd make a nice Sunday dinner. My kids were giddy with anticipation. I looked at their eager faces...what's all the excitement for? You never eat what I cook! Seems Greg had been feeding them chicken nuggets EVERY NIGHT. Yep...oven baked chicken nuggets, and nothing else. They were ready to start grazing on the lawn. Ah-ha. I had them. I cooked a full meal and dessert all from scratch. With trepidation I set it on the table in front of them with a warning...If you don't eat this dinner you will have nothing but chicken nuggets next week too! You've never heard such praise and adoration in your life. Even my pickiest and tactless child raved about it being the best he'd ever had. Though they held their noises while they ate the green beans, they did it with smiles on their faces and twinkles in their eyes. My mom tells me she did something similar when I was a kid. We, my siblings and I, were never happy with the healthy meals she cooked so she went on strike. But instead of handing the spatula to my dad, she doled out Snickers for every meal. She said after a couple of days we were begging for vegetables. And once again my mom proves in her subtle and passive-aggressive way that what goes around comes around. Anyway, bottom line is that by the end of summer, Greg just might be wearing an apron and carrying around a wooden spoon, whether it's for cooking or threatening a spank. As long as my clothes still fit after he washes them...I'm good.
Back to my story.
This also has included meals. Greg is NOT a cook. He has proven competent with a few things, but he doesn't read recipes...at all. I hate cooking. I cook well enough, even to where my oldest daughter who moved out has expressed a longing for it, but my three remaining kids are food critics that use only one star for rating unless it's a pancake or a bowl of oatmeal. Either way, I went on a cooking strike since they were so particular and couldn't choke down the healthy stuff I made for them. Fine with me--it's all yours Greg.
I also give him a small to-do list before I leave for work. Actually it's a "I'd love to have this one thing done when I get home" list...so it's only one item long and DO-ABLE. so......
I asked Greg if he'd do the floors while I was at work. They were miserably dirty and I was miserable at the thought of having to come home and do them. As usual, Greg happily agreed and I anticipated the lemony smell of cleanliness that afternoon. And what a sparkle they were! No smudges, no spots...just clean and ready for traffic. I head down the hall that has a sharp right turn halfway through. I'm always in a hurry so I hustle down the hall headed for my room and aaaahhhhhhh....my feet lost their grip and I had enough sense to grab onto the hall hutch and cling to keep me from going to the ground. A sharp pain went through my shoulder as it wasn't supposed to jam like that onto a counter. I steadied myself and walked a little further only to feel my feet nearly gliding to my room. My first thought is--what did he do. He swears he just used Pinesol mixed with water. He then pointed to a squirt bottle he used. It only had a little left in it so he didn't think it mattered. Greg, I tell him, that's 409...it's a DEGREASER. You DEGREASED my floors and now no one can grip and walk on them. We have to hold onto the walls while we go down the hall. And it's been like that for over a week now...back to needing another cleaning, but slick nonetheless.
He then proceeded to make dinnr every night, and by Saturday I told him I'd make a nice Sunday dinner. My kids were giddy with anticipation. I looked at their eager faces...what's all the excitement for? You never eat what I cook! Seems Greg had been feeding them chicken nuggets EVERY NIGHT. Yep...oven baked chicken nuggets, and nothing else. They were ready to start grazing on the lawn. Ah-ha. I had them. I cooked a full meal and dessert all from scratch. With trepidation I set it on the table in front of them with a warning...If you don't eat this dinner you will have nothing but chicken nuggets next week too! You've never heard such praise and adoration in your life. Even my pickiest and tactless child raved about it being the best he'd ever had. Though they held their noises while they ate the green beans, they did it with smiles on their faces and twinkles in their eyes. My mom tells me she did something similar when I was a kid. We, my siblings and I, were never happy with the healthy meals she cooked so she went on strike. But instead of handing the spatula to my dad, she doled out Snickers for every meal. She said after a couple of days we were begging for vegetables. And once again my mom proves in her subtle and passive-aggressive way that what goes around comes around. Anyway, bottom line is that by the end of summer, Greg just might be wearing an apron and carrying around a wooden spoon, whether it's for cooking or threatening a spank. As long as my clothes still fit after he washes them...I'm good.
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