You're Doing It Wrong

August...ahhh, the dog days of summer.  When it's finally blistering hot and you realize it's nearly time for those offspring to go back to school.

Just 10 days to go, and I will be sending one off to his final (half) year of high school, and one will begin her 3rd year of college.

And apparently, I'm doing it wrong.

I don't feel weepy.  There is no heart tugs of nostalgia where I pull out those first day of school pictures with backpacks strapped on that look bigger than their tiny little bodies.

Nope, I'm celebrating.

I'm also procrastinating.

I could do that online registration for high school.  But I'm also considering what a pain in the ass it is, considering nothing has changed for the last 13 years we've been living in this school district.  I've considered not even bothering with the registration, and seeing if they even notice he's attending school.  Or perhaps, as a final hurrah of it being the final registration, informing them he now speaks exclusively Vietnamese and will need a translator. 

I could fill out the same child's early graduation request.  I should be more than eager to complete that paperwork, but if he hasn't registered, does it even count?  It also makes me cranky, because though he will have met his core curriculum requirements within the first nine weeks of school, he will be stuck filling his remaining time at this school with "fluff" classes, because he still won't quite have the credits he needs to graduate.  Apparently, having double the credits needed in Math and Science doesn't mean squat if you haven't completed the proper amount of electives.  I'm sure he'll enjoy picking between a ceramics class and automotives where he can be told what a gas cap looks like.

Deep down I know I will give in at some point and do as I'm told.  I will dot all the I's and cross all the T's, because it will hopefully give a guarantee that he can finally be done with this hoorah by mid-January.  Though I'm still stubbornly holding out on the mandatory laptops provided by the school.  Quite frankly, I don't want to have to keep an additional laptop in this house, and I find the whole concept ridiculous when my son already owns a laptop.

I also have no college student to move back in a flurry of activity and overwhelming stress.  She has already "officially" moved out of our home, after renting her own place this last spring.  I no longer spend summers with random piles of girl crap, stray bobby pins, or the piles of shit that fit in a dorm room, but don't fit in our home. 

Within a month of her move, I was painting her bedroom and transforming it into my own personal "zen den", which also meant not leaving any sleeping space.  I did not weep, or feel sad.  I enjoy that space quite often...it is my version of a "man cave" in which I shamelessly enjoy time all to myself doing whatever I wish, surrounded by random things that bring me peace and joy. 

Pure Zen

I do not dread the day we cart our son off to college.  I revel in the idea of endless nights of freely choosing my activities, only being responsible for my own meals, all messes being solely my own.

I do not fear the quiet.

And it WILL be quiet.  With a husband on the road all week, it will be just me and the cat.  And I can look forward to a grocery bill that will be cut in half, slow internet that will not be shared with anyone else, expanding my social outings if I wish, and tackling projects instead of cooking dinner as soon as I get home from work.

I can do whatever the hell I want.  And the thought of that is exciting...not depressing.

I am about to turn 44 years old.  My oldest turns 21 this year.  I have spent nearly half my life parenting, and I am ok with this stage of my life nearing an end.   I am beyond thrilled to become an empty nester.  Because there will be nothing "empty" about it.  It will be filled with excitement, adventures, and a fulfilling new stage of life.  I will enjoy seeing what the future holds for my children, but I will not be hanging on tight, bemoaning a quiet house. 

I've said it before.  Perhaps the mother gene skipped a generation.  Because I see the posts, I hear the talk.  The people shedding a tear for the years going by.  Dreading when the house is empty.  And just as they may not understand my excitement, I don't understand their sadness. 

Am I doing it wrong?

My happiness with life says no.

I'm Listening

I've written about the need to shut the fuck up and just listen before.  At that particular purging of thoughts, I was railing about the incessant need to be right, which then leads to people not truly listening to what others have to say.

However, now I delve into a far more serious aspect of listening. 

The voices of our young adults.

Yeah, yeah, there's thousand of memes, posts, and blogging rants out there about the trials and tribulations of raising teenagers.  As adults, we love to roll our eyes, and commiserate over having teens in the house.  It is a solidarity of parents when we make wisecracks about the survival of the teen years.

However, I'm going to drop the facade of being surrounded by teen angst, and hopefully get a message out to those young adults.  It is a message I feel is very important, and it must be purged from my brain before I explode in a litany of expletives like no other.

Just one week ago, I sat in a library meeting room discussing our monthly book club's choice of Catcher In The Rye.  It's a love or hate book.  There really is no middle ground, and you will either find it an absolute waste of time, or have it tug at your heart and brain.  I was the latter, finding that though Holden Caufield may come across initially as a whiny, spoiled little rich kid, I was also delving into the mind of a very depressed 16 year old young man.  It reminded my adult brain that as we grow and mature, it is very easy to expect the world around us to grow and mature right along with is.  It becomes too easy to lose touch with the teenage brain, because quite frankly, no matter what kind of teenage years we personally each have survived, I do not know a single one of us that would love to repeat them again.  I so clearly remember saying, with every amount of determination I could muster, "I so hope that I would pick up on the signs of such clear depression and be able to help."

How ironic, now that I look back on it.

Just two short days later, a friend of my son's died.

Cause of death has not been formally confirmed.  As a parent, there is a part of me that completely understands wanting to maintain privacy during such a tragedy.  But also, as a parent, I find myself at a loss as to how to help my son work through his grief without knowing what has happened, other than his friend being gone.  We went through the immediate notifications from the school, with counselors being available to students and parents for a few hours on the weekend.  I did not know what to expect sending my son back to school on Monday, only knowing it would be a difficult day as the reality of his friend being gone set in.

My disappointment in our school system has slowly built throughout this week.  Once school was back in session on Monday, not a word has been said by administration and nearly all staff in regards to the loss of one of their students.  My son has attended classes in which it seemed as if nothing has happened and it's business as usual. 

Now, that being said, I need to give credit to the handful of staff who have addressed the death of a classmate head on.  Their show of emotion and their own grief was absolutely what their students needed to see this week.  It allowed them to know that their loss is palpable, and it is completely within their rights as human beings to NOT be OK.  By showing their own feelings, they are telling their students that it is not just another normal day, and most importantly, they are listening.

Residing in a rural community often means that even when privacy is requested, it just is not going to happen.  People have scanners, and they love their gossip.  I abhor gossip, but working with the public means I cannot avoid it.  That being said, the word "suicide" has been said repeatedly, not only amongst the general public, but amongst the students as well.

Even without the cause of death being made public, I think it is important that any time suicide is so widely discussed, it is an opportunity to get a message across to our young adults.  The Suicide Prevention Resource Center says "If the family refuses to permit disclosure, schools can state, 'The family has requested that information about the cause of death not be shared at this time.' and can nevertheless use the opportunity to talk with students about the phenomenon of suicide:  We know there has been alot of talk about whether this was a suicide death.  Since the subject of suicide has been raised, we want to take this opportunity to give you accurate information about suicide in general, ways to prevent it, and how to get help if you or someone you know is feeling depressed or may be suicidal. "

Remaining silent is not OK.

Let me repeat.

Silence is NOT OK.

I know there is the fear of "suicide contagion".   According to the SPRC, contagion is the process by which one suicide may contribute to another.  However, contagion is relatively rare, accounting for 1-5% of all suicides annually.  In addition, it is recommended that if there is a fear of contagion, administrators should take ADDITIONAL steps beyond a basic crisis response, NOT a complete lack of any response at all.

Remaining silent is damaging and heartbreaking in so many ways.  It projects an attitude of "just forget about it" at a time when it is going to be the foremost thought in their heads.  It dismisses their feelings about their grief, about their friendships that they value, and about the helplessness they may be feeling.  Gossip runs rampant about the "why", when in fact, the why does not matter.  What matters is that when a person is in emotional distress, we need to make sure as adults that will will always listen.  Not only when they are in emotional distress over the loss of a friend, but the depression and mental illness that can affect so many of our young adults.

Our young adults need to know that WE ARE LISTENING.  Their thoughts, emotions, sadness, and trials are worth listening to.  We've all been there...we were all teenagers once.  I so clearly remember hopping off the bus with my best friend in high school, and screaming a feral yell at the top of our lungs just prior to opening those high school doors and entering for the day.  We did it frequently, because it was the best way we knew how to release that pent up frustration or anger building in our brains.  Being a teenager is not easy, especially now with all the expectations of perfection and achievement that reflects upon a parent in a society that is so open to broadcasting and sharing our daily lives.

When we remain silent, when we do not discuss a tragedy or a great loss, we send a message that we are not willing to listen.  Whether that is our intent or not, that is what our youth are learning.  And what a terrible feeling that must be to those who are grieving.

So, dear teenagers, I am listening.  Your thoughts matter.  YOU MATTER.   The teenage years suck.  They SUCK BAD.  Alot of it is just plain old survival...but most importantly, above all else, you need to survive.  Because there is a future out there full of joys, happiness, and experiences you can not yet imagine.  And there is nothing more exciting to a parent than seeing their child step off that cliff of the teenage years and SOAR AND FLY. 

Let your frustrations out.  Expel the anger and the disappointments.  Just as screaming in front of a high school door released a little bit of angst each day, reaching out and saying "help" will release that heavy burden on your shoulders.  Cry.  Yell.  There ARE people listening, regardless of the message you have been receiving.  Do not EVER forget that.

There is darkness, but there is also light.  It is OK to need some help to find it.  It's human to not be OK, and it is also our job as human beings in this beautiful world to tell you that WE ARE LISTENING.

"NO"...Said No One Ever

I'll be lucky to get this typed out and saved before my computer emits smoke and starts making a horrendous screeching noise.  No, it's not the computer...it's that damn internet connection, which apparently does not like snow.

Whatever, ya bastard.

However, what I really want to rant and rave about, or at least get on my high horse/unicorn named Charlie, is a parenting struggle I witness nearly every day.

The inability, or unwillingness, to just say NO.

When did NO become the dirty word of the day? 

I'm not going to venture a guess that in this world of whining, pissing, moaning, and channeling our inner Eeyore that we've removed the word NO from our vocabulary.  But it sure is in short supply where dealing with children are concerned, and I have to ponder why.  Because I like to ponder such inane bullshit...it passes the time while the snow that was supposed to be gone continues to fall.

Obviously, since I do not have an open door policy to every rugrat on the block, I am witness to this anti-NO campaign while I am out in public.  Being a parent of older children, and a professional user of the word NO, I bemoan it's absence in my daily struggles of looking socially acceptable with a smile on my face.  Instead, I am witness to ignoring, cajoling, rationalizing, cooing, coddling, and yes, even whining.  But not the dreaded word NO.

There are several types of the anti-NO campaigners.  Allow me to share my completely useless observations, and of course, feel free to see if any of these seem familiar to you.  Perhaps, without even realizing it, you are part of the anti-NO movement.  There's t-shirts available, should you decide to proclaim your solidarity.

1.  The IGNORER:  I'd call it the oblivious, but no one can be oblivious to junior's antics when he decides to climb clothing racks.  Or enter store rooms.  Or stand on chairs.  Crawl on the floor under the men's jeans.  Wander into a lower level, or better yet, on a sunny day, completely out of the store and into the street.  I don't know what's going through the Ignorer's brain.  Possibly the three Xanax they popped at 8AM with the whiskey spiked coffee?  But I can assure you, I have had to alert plenty an Ignorer to their child's antics.  Even when said child is screeching at full volume while using clothing racks as monkey bars.  The entire downtown can hear the child, but the Ignorer apparently can not.  The Ignorer just continues to shop, and when I have to finally say something, they act as if I've thrown ice cubes down their shirt and exclaim their shock over the banshee wailing and romping that has gone on right under their nose.  But do the say NO?  *hysterical laughter*  Well, they do usually say things like "those ladies are going to get mad at you if you don't stop".  Because god forbid Junior have any notion of mom getting mad.  Oh hell no, mommy loves you, you precious wee snowflake, perfect spawn of my loins.  Mommy would NEVER put such negativity on your fragile, developing ego, because Mommy is the good guy.  Mommy is going to blame the store employees for ruining your fun.

Sigh.

2.  The THERAPIST:  This one is fun to watch.  As the little urchin plays, touches, grabs, and wanders, mommy is reciting a litany of gentle encouragement and guidance.  Sounds lovely, doesn't it?    However, urchin (and it's always singular, usually moms of more than one can't achieve this talent), is usually grabbing heavy crystal, wildly spinning the jewelry display, grabbing whatever colorful or sparkling wonder catches their eye.  Meanwhile, mom coos "now we just look, and don't touch" repeatedly.  Occasionally, the Therapist will mix it up a bit and throw in a "yes, just looking with mommy" like it's a team effort.  However, while urchin continues to handle merchandise far beyond their years, merchandise that mom will have no intention of paying for should said urchin drop that 5 pound cut crystal bowl, mom is actually doing her own shopping, content to know that her brilliant little urchin is turning into a savvy shopper like herself. 

Another version of the Therapist will stop shopping all together, while she watches her urchin play.  Because it's not like she's in a store or anything.  There is, after all, things for her urchin to play with, so instead of shopping, Mommy will stand in the middle of the store and just watch urchin have a play date with store employees.  Store employees are a tad busy working and actually waiting on customers who don't have urchin playtime foremost in their mind, but that's ok.  Because if Mommy removes urchin from what they are playing with, urchin might scream.  And we can't have screaming, because that might be an indicator that Mommy is not nominated for that year's #1 Mom award.  Standing awkwardly, Mommy Therapist will occasionally softly remind urchin that it's time to leave, however, urchin, having been to this rodeo before, knows if they continue to just play, Mommy will stay rooted in her awkward-spot, sweating out how to get urchin out of the store without a whimper.  But no matter how long it takes, Mommy will NOT say NO.

3.  The RATIONALIZER:  This is when Therapist Mom turns into Rationalizing Mom.  When all other options have failed, she will string out a speech worthy of a psychiatrist's couch.  Rationalizing Mom will finally leave her post of just viewing the child, and sit down to have a heart to heart.  It will go on for several minutes, many times, longer, and include every reason under the sun why they need their little dear heart to follow them out of the store.  These reasons will include a list of the errands Mommy still has to run, throwing in bonuses like being able to use the special cart at the grocery store, or going to get ice cream.  Because it takes a trip to the ice cream shop to get her child to cooperate.  Simply picking up the child and carrying them out the door isn't acceptable, because their child may create a scene and make someone report her to the Bestmommybrigade.  It's better to let the child understand the schedule you need to adhere to, and the importance of getting to the shoe store.  Because every child really cares about the shoe store, and that line of reasoning will certainly work.  Time management, after all, is something every toddler understands and can commiserate over.

4.  The WHINER:  The Whiner usually begins the moment she enters the door.  Typically, she's following a mini-whiner who has taken off at a dead sprint upon entering.  Mini-whiner can be heard stomping and pounding through the store, because mini-whiners tend to also be mini-clompers, who have somehow learned in their short lifespan that feet should come down as hard as possible whenever in motion.  Mini-whiner will then proceed to scavenge for purchases throughout the store, while Mommy Whiner goes her own way, doing her own shopping.  And exchange across aisles begins, with mini-whiner making noise as they get into areas they should not, touching things not meant for little hands, the sounds of packages opening and items dropping echoing through the store.  Mini-whiner typically will be whining for whatever item they are destroying, while Mommy Whiner calls out in a high pitched careening voice, asking them what they are getting into.  It is a constant line of questioning, with no obvious wish for an answer.  Perhaps the Mommy Whiner uses this technique as a locator for the child.  As long as the whining continues between the two, she feels she is remaining in contact with her child and sees it as some form of "watching" over them.  Though when the child goes silent (never a good sign), Mommy Whiner tends not to notice, and still continues the wheedling tone of asking the child what they have found, never noticing they are no longer answering.  But the dreaded word NO is never uttered.  She'll even occasionally throw out a "if you aren't good, I won't be buying you anything", however, 99.95% of the time, regardless of mini-whiner's antics, there are things bought for the delightful little creature.

If you've recognized any of the above listed anti-NO behaviors, I'm going to clue you in on something.  As a fellow mother, I've been there, done that.  I've had the kid playing in areas they shouldn't.  I had the child that wandered off.  The sticky fingered thief in the making who thought he could help himself to every last thing in the place.  The child strung out on pixie sticks who was a perfect angel in the car, but bounced off the walls the moment I walked into a place of business.  Now, I am the older mom, still occasionally struggling with inappropriate public behavior, but my use of the word NO is perfected.  I have had fit throwers, and not just the whining that we have all dealt with, but the flow blown, uncontrolled, laying on the floor while flailing about in seizure like movements type of meltdown.  And yes, it was embarrassing.  However, I still said NO.  Occasionally, there were trips to a bathroom, or out to the car, where a private little "chat" happened, and if junior got their shit under control, we re-entered the store.  Sometimes, we didn't re-enter.  And yes, there were things I NEEDED to get, but short of standing in line at a pharmacy or quickly grabbing the four pack of toilet paper because I was left with one square plastered to the tube at home, there was never anything that required me subjecting the world to the heinous acts of one of my offspring.  Sometimes, it meant a time out in the car (for both of us) that  took twice as long as the shopping would have, but those little bastards learned that I will say NO.  And mean it.  And sometimes, the "why" was BECAUSE I SAID SO.

It's OK to say NO.  Let them whine, throw their fit, and haul their asses out kicking and screaming when you're ready to go.  I'll sympathize.  I'll be thankful those days are over.  I get it.  I did it.

What's NOT ok is the anti-NO movement.  Because you're raising an entitled shit who knows that they are in control and they call the shots.  And imagine what kind of adult that creates.  The kind of adult often referred to as a colossal asshole.  The eternal fuckup.  The aimless drifter because mommy isn't holding their hand letting them do whatever willy nilly they could possibly desire.  The name you see and think "they never quite got their shit together".

So c'mon now.  It's a small word.  One syllable.  And it works.  As long as YOU work at it.

Nnnnnnnnn

Oooooooo

NO.

Thanks for the ride, Charlie.

Smartypants Dumbass

We have this really cool online thingy with the school, where at any given moment, I can log on and see my child's grades and attendance.  We can make schedule changes, look at the schedule for the year, check on graduation requirements, and pretty much do everything but cook a whole chicken with it.  It's a great resource.

When you use it.

My youngest is a junior in high school.  This should have been a warning flag, but I thought with two years of high school under his belt, we'd see smoother sailing.

Uh huh.

I forgot that he now has a license.  And a car.  And a social life.  And a job.  And extracurriculars.

He's quite accomplished.

With that license, he drives.  In the car.  To social events.  Also to his job.  And to his extracurriculars.

What he doesn't accomplish is finishing homework.  Let alone handing it in.

How do I know this?  Because the grades posted link you to another page that actually shows the assignments, quizzes, projects, and tests that make up that grade.  In vivid, glaring, alarm sounding detail.

There are only four grades to look at, since we are a four block schedule.  Meaning, four classes a day for 90 minutes each.  90 minutes should mean getting the work done, or at least partially done while in class.

SHOULD.

When I saw the glaring "F" and the only slightly less insulting "C", I had to take ten deep breaths before linking to the actual classwork.  I then took another ten deep breaths when I saw the repeated "A's" on tests and quizzes, and classwork that was done during instruction time.  I added 20 deep breaths when I saw the homework.  A series of "F's" with zero scores, making it glaringly obvious that no work was being handed in.

It is amazing how calm I can be when in a full on rage of epic proportions.

I'm a raging bitch of a mother on the inside, and no, a "C" is not acceptable.  Not when it shows no effort to achieve that "C". 

So we are re-prioritizing around here.  Gone is the help with the fall musical.  Gone is the social life.  He can keep the job, because he may need that paycheck if he can't accomplish standard homework expected of him and finds himself aimless and drifting after his primary education is finished.  The assignments I saw are written down, and short of putting a post it note on his forehead, he is expected to address them all and be a responsible student.  If he doesn't improve, he will lose the car, and he can congratulate himself on being the only junior in high school riding the bus.  And walking to work.  Where his mommy will pick him up when it is time for him to clock out and go home to do homework.

Oh lawdy, raising children is such a joy.  These are the shining moments that make me feel all warm and squishy inside.

Wait, that's the drink I poured after another lecture with the teenager.

I'm willing to bet his sister in college would love to insert her opinion about slacking off, in which I would have to recall the endless fighting and mouthing off that drove her mommy to drink while she was still living at home.

I swear the teenage years are meant to be rough.  They are meant to try your patience, sharpen your ability to hold in your rage, and define insanity. 

It makes that empty nest look divine.

Rattling ice cubes.

Half Empty, or Half Full?

Is your glass half empty, or half full?  In the grand scheme of things, I look at life as half full.  Or full.  Or, some days, overflowing like a clogged up toilet.  I may look upon things with an annoying happy crappy glitter shitting unicorns attitude, but it's laced with plenty of snark and humor so as to reassure the general populace that I am not REALLY a smurf.  I am more like a dope smoking, jumping in mud puddles, swigging Jack Daniels bratty child who refuses to grow up.

However, when it comes to my home, half empty is a good thing.  It is a glorious thing.  It is light shining from above, angels singing, divine intervention.

I am not one of "those" mom's.  I did not cry on the first day of school, no matter what the grade.  I only felt slightly weepy at high school graduation for our oldest.  Hubby and I immediately hit the Starbucks drive through on that college move in day because it was still too early to be considered acceptable for pounding back shots.  By the second year of moving the oldest off to college, hubby and I drove separately so he could jam out of there early, and I hung out and rounded out the day with a shopping trip alone to TJMaxx.

It's not that I don't love and cherish these two kids.  Obviously, I do, because neither one has slit my throat while I sleep.  But I've never been "that" mom.  I looked forward to the day of sending them off to sink or swim on their own.  I might throw them a life preserver if it looks like they're sinking, but they better be clinging to a broken door in ice cold waters after surviving a steamer ship sinking to the bottom of the ocean. 

So, the oldest is off to her second year in college.  She says this is IT...no more summers home.  Knowing there will be a winter break in there, I have not addressed what I want to do with her room yet, as it is full of furniture and winter clothes (and bobby pins, I'm sure).  But the ideas have started to form.  And they are making my ladybits tingle in excitement.

I will have a room sized closet.

Not just any closet, but a dressing room.  Complete with some type of lounge chair.  Perhaps a fainting couch so I can feel like a delicate flower while surrounded by clothes, jewelry, accessories, and custom made shelving for shoes.  It will have a chandelier, because every woman should dress under a chandelier.  It is just the way of the world.  I will spend hours, sitting in my dressing room, just gazing upon all the pretty things.  SWOON

But alas, there is still a child residing within these walls.  He is my easy child, with the laid back attitude, no drama, and the biggest fuss is reminding him to scoop the cat litter. 

However, he is a junior in high school this year.  Which in his little world of low maintenance means he's gotten the hang of this high school thing.  He's driving.  He's working.  He enjoys the difficult classes at school.  (and mom enjoys him being challenged enough to stop dancing on the lunch room tables in boredom)  He knows what extracurriculars he likes.

This enjoyment of the high school years means very few hours at home.  If he's not at school, he's working.  When he's not working, he's back at school doing something related to drama or speech.  If he's not back at school, he's hanging out with friends.  I see him for a good morning, and a good night.  Occasionally, there's enough time to eat an evening meal together and do a brief catching up of what's going on in his world.  Occasionally, that catching up involves hysterical laughter because he finds the world funny in a very weird way.  Sometimes, it involves him educating me on why the TV show we are watching is incorrect because of some physics equation that I do not understand.

Regardless, my house is nearly empty.  Just me and the cat.  And he's a FatBastard who no longer bothers trying to entertain me with the antics of playing toss the mouse.

This nearly empty house does not sadden me in the least.  I have freedom.  Freedom from cooking.  Freedom from cleaning because no one is here to mess it up.  Freedom to get out the hot glue gun and play with glitter encrusted leaves for a fall wreath project.  Freedom to turn on the speakers and play that music at full volume because I am anti-social and my neighbors know it.  Even better, freedom to not be anti-social and go out for drinks, a movie, or voodoo lounge time after work instead of heading home immediately to cook dinner, clean, help with homework I don't understand, and collapse into bed exhausted.

I can do whatever the fuck I want. 

And it is glorious.

I think I shall dance in my underwear to Justin Timberlake and eat ice cream out of the carton.

Because I can.

After I get the glitter and glue off my fingers, of course.  Or maybe not...I'm feeling defiant.

English is My Second Language

The great thing about online school registration is I don't have to go stand in line making small talk with strangers in a sweltering, stinky school just to tell the powers that be that yes, my child will show up there again.  Pass Go.  Collect $200.

The not so great thing about online school registration is it's easy to forget to do it.

School starts tomorrow. 

Whoops.

So, I hopped online to get the process started, and realized there are alot more questions online than there are at the school handing over a check.

For instance, I could let them know my child changed his name.  Or his sex.  Or his race.  Or his birthday.  I briefly considered changing every single answer on that first page just to confuse them.

The second page is so we don't encounter any language barriers.  Perhaps, in between 10th and 11th grade, our household decided that English would no longer be our primary language.  Perhaps we decided to speak exclusively in Lao.  Whatever that is.  But it had a nice lilt to it, and again, the thought of counting down the days until someone actually noticed seemed appealing to me.  I even briefly considered learning just a few random phrases in Lao, whatever that is, and answering the phone in the language if the school should call.  Though it's a small enough school, I believe I probably know everyone in the administration office, but if I also changed my name, I could really start to have fun with this.

The third page dealt with health issues, and I considered letting them know that I'm not sure whether I'm bordering on random hysteria by this point, or if it's a serious mental illness developing from these hoops I'm jumping through.  They didn't actually designate it was the student they wanted information on.  That I know of, because to be honest, I wasn't reading everything carefully and pretty much just skimming questions at this point.

They even wanted insurance information, and I had a multiple choice of private, Medicaid, or our state program for children.  I had to wonder about this one, because what's it really matter?  Are they going to put the kids with private insurance in more danger because they think the insurance payouts are better?  Here, kiddo, your locker is located next to the boiler with leaky pipes, and make sure mom gets a copy of that insurance card in here.  And tell her to stop answering the phone in that weird language.

I can't even tell you what pages four, five, and six were about.  I just remember clicking alot of "yes" and "I accept", but did consider typing in my name as "queen motherfucker" in the permission fields.  Just to guarantee a call that I can answer in Lao.

In the meantime, the girl child is still working these double shifts, so because I do not want to be awake until 2AM tomorrow night packing her, I have assigned myself various packing chores of what I can stand to touch in her room.  At least with college, it's not all about the registration, it's more about the check.  As long as we hand that sucker over, she's good to go. 

And yes, she needs to go.

The stacks of bins and boxes are getting higher, the random piles are growing, and I'm having to avert my eyes from the messes far more than my brain wants to allow.  And let's not forget, in the world of Ms.WorkALot, there also needs to be the final goodbye time with local friends.  It doesn't matter if she saw them two days ago, that was not goodbye, no way, no how.  Final goodbye time has to take place as close as possible to actual moving time, or it does not count.  Which happens to also be packing time.  And final banking time.  And final textbook ordering time.  And final cleaning up the mess time.  And final gathering of the bobby pins time, can I get a PRAISE JESUS HALLELUJAH!

I considered briefly moving in with a friend for the week.  Or at least meeting her at the bar every night.

Instead, I have a desk calendar covered in lists and post it notes.  Because if this shit is waiting until the last minute, there's going to be some GOD DAMN ORDER AND SANITY in it.  Or me just slugging away at the Jack bottle I found in her room.  Payment for services, princess.

In this non stop party, the summer weather finally decided to arrive.  I saw the promise of it arriving, so I spent the last few days getting yard work done before the heat really set in.  Weeding, trimming, mowing dead grass, since there's the promise of rain.  Of course, this promise of rain is the morning we are moving Ms. Bobby Pin Queen, so I better add umbrellas to the lists.  But tonight I realized that weeding must have been bad.  Really really bad, because the 16 year old Lao Son actually noticed the flower bed was cleaned out.  AND actually asked when I had time to do that.

He's such a good boy, my sweet little Lao Son.

I actually considered writing a few thoughts about something serious, because there are some serious things going on in our country right now.  But serious is for the birds at the moment.  The birds who have not died of dehydration from the lack of rain and are still shitting all over my truck no matter where I park it.  The birds still living in my walls in the comfort of my home of random piles scattered about.  The birds who at least are drowned out by the noise of air conditioners running for only the second time this summer.

I hate closed windows.  Closed curtains are even more atrocious. 

Go away summer.  Go away bobby pins.

Welcome home Jack Daniels.

Facebook Parenting

Ahhhh, yes...good ol' Facebook.  Where life is beautiful all the time.  Especially when it comes to kids and our stellar parenting styles.

Hey, I get it.  I really do.  As a mother of two crotchfruit myself, it gets just oh so tempting to put those stellar moments out there for the whole world (or the world according to your friends list) to see.  We all have those mom pride moments we want to share, especially when we may have family who doesn't see our offspring as much as they would like.  But let's be honest with ourselves, sometimes, maybe not all, alot of what is getting thrown on Facebook about our children is a mommy ego trip that lets us believe we really aren't screwing them up and we might just be doing something right.

I've always believed none of us will know what kind of parent we were until those little baby robins are shoved out of the nest and forced to fly on their own.  For all the parenting advice that focuses so heavily on the first five years of a child's life, the fruits of our labors won't become known to us until they reach their 25th birthday without a criminal record.

However, I digress.  What I'm more intent on blathering on about is Facebook and the happy, shiny, shitting glitter statuses we throw out there about our precious wee ones.  Maybe it's easy for me to say, because Facebook was not the be all, end all social networking site when my children were younger.  Hell, if I'm going to admit my age, the internet wasn't more than a fledgling robin itself when my children were still shitting their pants.  So who knows, I could have been one of those parents posting all day long every day about the wonders of the mini-genius I had crawling around on the floor looking for crumbs.  I'd like to think that in my tendency of "keeping it real", I would have posted much as a I do now.  Perhaps, it is the parenting of children through toddlerhood, pre-teen nightmares, and teenager-make-me-drink-dom that has mellowed me into thinking this way.  Yeah, I did that amazing thing of creating life (sarcasm), but I'm tired.  They kicked my ass, and now, at 16 and nearing 20, I'm just kind of over the magic.  Yes, they do fantastic, spectacular things that make me want to shout out to the 122 people I have graced with the privilege of seeing my wall.

But let's pause a moment and think about what Facebook would look like if we all were a little more "real" about our lives...

"Johnny ran away from Vacation Bible School this morning.  Maybe MIL should stop forcing Jesus down the kid's throat when all he wants to do is make guns out of sticks."

"Stripped the 13 year old's room down to a mattress today because it's legal and punching her is not."

"Didn't hear the baby crying right away...guess that fifth shot of Jack was not such a good idea."

"Diagnosed my kid with appendicitis...over the phone...because I went to work even though he was puking."

"First name basis with the principal.  I sure wish he'd take my advice and just kick Junior's ass to keep him in line."

"Daughter's skirt is so short she looks like a two dollar hooker on the Sunset Strip"

"Wonder if the teacher figured out I downed a couple shots before conferences"

"Dinner of bologna and spaghetti-o's tonight.  On paper plates."

You get the idea.

Maybe there really ARE perfect parents out there, with kids who shit glitter and win a trophy every day just for breathing.  I don't assume to know how life is for everyone, so I guess that Leave It To Beaver existence IS possible. 

What I DO know, is I am THANKFUL my early parenting years were done before social media.  Because if I was starting out now, I'd be intimidated as fuck.  All those perfect children being perfectly parented every single minute of the day, and I would glance up from my computer and gaze upon my own children and feel about as useful as tits on a boar (thanks dad, for that little gem).  

Infancy and toddlerhood of crusty boogers, saggy diapers, children fighting, all the day's food displayed for everyone to see on their 3rd outfit of the day.  On to childhood of eating glue, artwork created on every surface of the house, destroying everything in their path.  Enter the pre-teen years of attitude, awkward ugly duckling photos, that ability to speak at a volume ten times louder than the rest of the room when with their friends, joining activities they really suck at.  And then the wonderful world of teenagers with mom sneaking drinks in the bathroom, hiding the booze so they don't steal it, drivers licenses that would be better wasted on an 85 year old epileptic blind woman, drugs, sex, rock and roll.

Yeah, parenting is hard.  Parenting sucks the life out of you.  There's the smooth sailing days, in which you go to bed that evening and wonder what kind of atrocities they're storing up for you.  The moments when you hide somewhere no one can find you and bawl your eyes out because you just. can't. take. one. more. thing.

Hey, I fully admit that maybe it's just me.  It's very possible the parenting gene skipped a generation around here, because by the time I had the first one ready to leave the nest, this momma bird was ready to shove a boot straight up her ass to get her to fly.

These kids have done great things, and made me proud, but I've got the grey hairs to prove that it all came at a cost.  And I'm not going to sugarcoat that with happy little shiny Facebook updates about what Dick and Jane did that day with Puff and Spot.  On my page, you'll get the bad with the good.  And it's not just about being my authentic self, either.  It's also for those who are viewing.  Because maybe there's a new mom out there wondering where her flower filled, rainbow and pot of parenting gold exists while the baby screams for the sixth hour in a row.  Maybe there's the parent of the pre-teen who wonders who that monster is that woke up this morning spewing sewage from their mouth.  Maybe there's a mom somewhere out there who has just HAD IT, and has just come out of her hiding place from sobbing her guts out and logs on to Facebook.

You're not alone, girlie.  Not alone at all.

Keep it real.

Life Lessons; Father's Day Edition

I took a drive this morning, across the county to my childhood home.  There was quite a bit of traffic, and a few times I had a moment of near road rage as I screeched "NOT THE PIE!".  I shivered while watching for the maniacs and freaks on the road, running air conditioning that was not really needed except to keep a chill on THE PIE.  I had a little time to think during that chilly drive, about that simple little pie, and really what it meant.

I have been fortunate enough to have great men in my life.  Not great in the slightly better word for good.  But GREAT.  Shining.  Educators.  Men who made me who I am.  I don't say that lightly, in my world of taking it lightly.

My parents had great fathers.  I'm not going to sugarcoat it and talk about fantastic childhoods filled with white picket fences.  A Leave It To Beaver existence is not what makes a great father.  But a great father teaches and guides, and they certainly had that.

I lost both grandfathers at a young age, both to accidental deaths.  I wonder had they lived, would their life lessons have been greater?  Would I see them differently, knowing them through an adults eyes, instead of a child's?  Both were hard workers.  Both had wickedly twisted senses of humor.  I have far more memories of my mom's dad, as he died when I was a teenager, while my paternal grandfather passed while I was still a young child.  But what does it say that in that short memory of my dad's dad,  I still remember him clearly trying to scare us kids by randomly popping out his false teeth at us?  Some would call it therapy inducing pranks, but I called it fun.  What child doesn't enjoy being both terrified and fascinated at the same time? 

My mom's dad was cool, in the teenage sense of retro cool.  Did everyone have a grandpa that listened to Pink Floyd?  I liked to think not, and it was him I thought of as I sat six months pregnant in the grass at a Pink Floyd concert in my 20's.  I remember playing with my mom's younger siblings Barbie's at their house, and begging grandpa to do the voices, and if you were lucky, he'd pick up one of those Barbie's and have entire conversations with you in a falsetto ridiculous voice.  When my mom was just starting out with her store, it was grandpa who went to work with her every day.  Being a pre-teen, I didn't understand at the time all the words of wisdom he was sharing with her on running a business, words she has since shared with me.  But I did understand his silliness, even at a place of business.  Pulling on women's wigs, setting up the child sized doll in the hall of the store, making it "talk" to the customers in one of his voices.  He probably scarred some children (and adults) for life, but in my brain, it was my grandpa being silly.  It might seem mundane, or inconsequential, but as an adult, knowing the very hard life he had led, knowing his experiences that would break many people, it is still a lesson we all can benefit from.  The lesson of laughter.  Of silliness.  Of hard work and sacrifice, but finding silliness in the most every day of things.

My own father is not a man of many words.  He, like my grandfathers, was a hard worker, working a union job that provided, but did not inspire.  He did what he had to do to provide for his family, and it showed in the times he would come home covered in filth from the foundry.  He also has a wicked sense of humor.  I still to this day cannot look at a transom window without remembering the terror of our childhood home.

You see, our bathroom door had one of these windows.  And picture innocently sitting on the toilet as a child, daydreaming, and seeing that hallway light go out through that window.  We knew what that meant.  It meant HE was in the hallway closet.  Lurking.  Waiting.  No amount of preparing yourself would save you from the terror of dad jumping out of that closet.  No amount of crying "moooooooooom" would save your whiny little ass.  Don't ask me what mom was doing as you plaintively cried for her to just turn on the light and get dad out of the closet.  One time, I witnessed the fury of mom when dad attempted this little trick on her, so I think it's possible she saw this as a way of getting it out of his system on us, so he would never do that to her again.  All I know, is even by the fifth or sixth time, it still was enough to scare the piss out of us.  Probably why he did it when we were in the bathroom.  Empty bladder...kid can't piss themselves in fright.

The man of little words (except BOO!), has never made me doubt that I'm daddy's little girl, however.  I knew it when I would walk in the house at 12:05AM, and he'd be sitting there looking at the clock, handing out the groundings when he didn't believe my lameass excuse that my watch was set differently from his.  He showed his superhero cape and sword when he tracked me down at a much too old for me boyfriend's house, after I "ran away".  The sword being his fists, the cape being the threats against the scumbag's life.  He taught me responsibility when we spent a day picking up rotten apples in the neighbor's yard after throwing them at said neighbor's house the night before.  He taught me respect when he made mom "the paddle", because dealing with three hedonistic feral little shits while he was at work was more than she could handle some days.  (Don't worry, she broke the paddle slamming it against the wall instead of across our asses, though we deserved many ass whoppings.)  He was the father, firmly insisting you get your ass out of bed for Sunday morning breakfast, and I'm convinced to this day that he knew exactly when that would hurt the most from a night out with friends involving whatever cheap liquor you could get your hands on.

He is the man who helped us rebuild this house, after we tore it apart down to nearly nothing, and then wondered what the hell we had just gotten ourselves into.  He is the man I saw go to mush when he arrived at the hospital and held our daughter, his first grandchild, for the first time.  He has been the man who quietly stood by while things in our lives may have been falling apart, silently letting us know by his unwavering presence that we had to learn adult lessons, but we also always had a dad to let us know we are unconditionally loved.  He taught me to fish, to mow, to wire a house, he is the one I would call in the middle of the night because the basement was flooding again and he was the one telling me it might not be a good idea to play around with plugging in the sump pump while standing in a foot of water.  He taught me to work hard, and did I say WORK HARD?  But be silly...feel free to punch that Velveteen Rabbit across the room at Christmas time.  Let your kids watch Jurassic Park as toddlers because a well rounded, frightening childhood is a GOOD childhood.  He is the man who gave me my sense of humor (as twisted as it might seem sometimes), the man who taught me respect, the man who passed on his sense of speaking plainly and to the point.

He's the father my husband did not have.  He's accepted him, treated him like a son, and given my husband the same unconditional love he has given me.  My husband has a father, but marrying me, he gained a DAD.

My father, like his father, and my mother's father, is a man of few words.  But there are not enough words in existence to describe him.  And that's ok.  His actions have always spoken volumes.  So when he called me a few weeks ago to tell me he was in the "big city", and asked if I wanted him to find me the ever-so-difficult key lime juice to top all key lime juices, of course I said yes.  And of course, he gets THE PIE on this Father's Day.  Because he's my daddy.  And I'm his little girl.

Happy Father's Day Poppa.

Flashback: Silence, You Swine!

My Brains are Leaking

January 23, 2010 at 10:58pm

If I am very quiet...

- I am enjoying the mental conversation I am having with myself

- I am biting the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something completely offensive to you

- I know I will not be heard over the screeching of your child

- I will soon have my brains explode out of my ears

- I'm having violent thoughts involving my metal nail file, a rusty six penny nail, and your eyeballs

- I'm dead

If I didn't know a Valium would knock me out until Monday morning, I'd pop one right now. I am just not made to be in the same room as small children for more than an hour. Call it wiring gone wrong, a cold, callous heart, or genetic misfiring, but I really really really dislike small children who don't know their place in the world. Which in my world, is in a corner with duct tape around wrists and ankles and a dirty rag stuffed in their mouth.

I don't care if its no longer in vogue...there's something to be said about children being seen and NOT heard. Adults gathering for a nice visit should have the common sense that if they bring their children, they should CONTROL their children. Not allow them to run full speed through someone else's house, not allow them to sample food from trays and leave morsels with bites out of them on the trays, monitor how much they are drinking, keep them from running up and down a flight of stairs, and for gods sake, when that god awful screech comes out of their mouth, do us all a favor and crack the ever living shit out of them and really give them something to make noise about.

Children that behave like that belong in a horror movie, because no one feels bad when they get run over by a semi and are buried in an ancient Indian burial ground and need to be killed all over again.

Flashback: On A Serious Note...

Parenting With Fear

September 4, 2009 at 7:28pm

How confusing a message we must be sending our children by injecting our own political views on them. Because isn't that what all the hissy fits over Presidential addresses in our schools is about?

I find this so amusing, yet part of me wishes I could be more surprised. As parents in today's world, we proudly preen and declare our enlightenment from media pressures. We are the free thinkers. The individuals with awareness of the truths around us. Right?

Wrong. For all the strutting around and boasting of individuality, the parents of children today have proven themselves to be even more mainstream and part of the herd than any other generation before us. We gather in our groups huddled at the bus stop, making sure junior's Gymboree polo shirt match his Gap khakis, worrying over what fatal disease he will contract by attending school with so many other lesser children, while fretting whether we properly dressed to impress for the ten minutes we must stand outside and wait for that yellow bus to come around the corner of our properly manicured block. We clutch our designer coffee cup, injecting our opinion on the latest headline we caught on CNN or FOX (for the illiterate), in hopes of looking like the enlightened, intelligent beings we hope to project.

We are the competimommys and sanctimommys, yet we deny this wholeheartedly with the latest medical study showing why our children will rise to superstardom because we are so intricately involved in their every waking and sleeping moment.

The media is not the unbiased deliverer of current events you would like to believe, regardless of where you get your information. They are a cash cow, with an agenda just like your own. They bank on today's parents need to fulfill their own broken promises of self importance and grandiose lives through mandating their childrens every minute of their existence.

We inject not only our quest for the perfect image, but our own ideals, beliefs, and most importantly, FEARS into our children. Just as we don't see ourselves as individuals, we don't see them for the separate mind that they are. Our failures to succeed are passed on to them in the form of overscheduling, pushing for achievement, and intensity (or lunacy) in competition. Our beliefs are shoved down their throats through religion, prejudices, and our insistence in one line of thinking. Our fears are lived through our children, creating a fearful generation of youth believing there is nothing positive in this world.

Do we really think our children are being brainwashed by listening to a Presidential address on education? Or are we just projecting our own fears and ignorance on to minds that can't possibly understand the complexities of our current government? Are we not, in essence, by bowing down to the fearmongering of the media, participating in our own form of brainwashing on our own children? What would have been a simple assembly viewing a video, now has to be explained to each child in the form of a permission slip, while parents discuss and even argue the points of a speech in front of their child, because god forbid we actually just let things happen, and discuss something after the fact. We live in a constant state of protection with our kids, but do we even know what we are protecting them from? In light of all the hoorah being made about a Presidential address, I dare suggest our children need protecting from us.

Is it going too far to suggest that in all our pushing and overparenting, in all the endless babble of teaching our children to be the superstar of their future, we seem to only want the stardom if it fits our own agenda of what that should be? We make claims of nurturing their mind, encouraging their mental growth, and then we smother it the moment it starts to color outside the lines of the box we have built.

Is it any wonder that more and more children are medicated? Are in therapy? Are unable to cope with the trials and disappointments, and REALITY of the real world? Are they ever taught to actually THINK for themselves, form their own beliefs, and make their own judgements about the world they live in? Are they encouraged anymore to have lively discussion and debate with their parents, teachers, peers as they grow and form their own thoughts and opinions?

What, exactly, are we afraid of? Do we fear a child who grows into an individual unlike us? Do we fear them being exiled from the herd of nonthinkers? What, please tell me, is the actual problem?