Salvation Mountain

Happy New Year, everyone!

Two days ago Mr. C and I took the kids for a short road trip out here to the Salton Sea. Now, before you ask what in the world is out there that we'd want to show our kids, let me answer- there's PUHLENTY of weird stuff. Like, a beach where the "sand" that crunches under your feet is made up entirely of sun-bleached-broken-up-fish bones. And a supposed "Fountain of Youth". And a man-made technicolor mountain.

Yep.  Lots of weird stuff.  In fact, there's a whole post worth of which I have aspirations for writing later on in the week.  For now I just want to write about one little piece of the trip because I think it pertains to the New Year.  At least, I think it does.  Maybe not.  Maybe this is just what happens when I drive out to the middle of the desert and start trying to think deep thoughts.  Or maybe this is what happens when I stay up late to celebrate the New Year and try to write something serious the next day.

Maybe this'll all be a load of bunk.  I don't know.  Just stick with me.

Okay.  So.  Out in the middle of the desert, off the shores of the Salton Sea near this weird place called Slab City, there's this other weird place called Salvation Mountain.  You may have heard of it.  The guy who built it was in a movie made back in 2007 called "Into the Wild" (Good movie, by the way.  It's not about Salvation Mountain, but the character in it stopped there in his travels, and so you meet the real Leonard Knight, the creator of the mountain, in the context of the movie).  There's also been a few documentaries done on Mr. Knight and his mountain.  Those, I haven't seen.  However, for the few minutes of screen time that I did see of Mr. Knight in Into the Wild, I can tell you that he comes off as very gentle, very loving, but also slightly um.... batshit.  That's okay though.  That's about what I would expect for someone who lives out in the middle of the desert and builds a monument to God from cement and window putty, all on $242 a month.  (I'm not sure if the desert attracts people who are already a little nutso, or if it turns them that way once they're there, but it sure does seem like these spots are full of people with eccentric personalities.)

At any rate, the mountain itself is a pretty impressive sight.  The story is that Leonard Knight stopped there for a few days in the 80's after a failed attempt to launch a massive hot air balloon with the words "God is Love" on it.  He decided instead to build a small monument to God, which turned into Salvation Mountain.  The first mountain actually crumbled a few years after he started it, so he started the whole thing over again from scratch.  He lived out of his truck, worked with the sun (except in the summer when it was too hot- then he'd work from dawn to 10 and take the rest of the day off), and relied on donations of paint from people who supported his cause.  (And once word got out about what he was doing, people started coming by the hundreds.)

The end result is what you see here:

I had 2 different perspectives while at Salvation Mountain.  When I first arrived there, I was just viewing it as a massive piece of folk art.  Leonard Knight was by no means a serious artist, he was simply a devoted artist.  When you walk around the mountain you can see that he poured the paint on thick, thick, thick, not minding where spatters and splatters flew.  It's folksy, it's impressive, but I wonder if most people don't look at it and think, "Well, what a wonderful wacky little piece of weirdness done by some religious yahoo. He really must have had too much sun. "

Honestly, that's kind of what my first impression was.

Then, however, we noticed that some members of the community were kind of sitting around- almost like they were keeping vigil.  One guy was sitting next to Mr. Knights' truck, another was sitting in a folding chair near a patch of used paint cans.  Brushes were just sitting on top of the cans, like they were waiting to be taken in hand and used again.  I picked up on this feeling- like I was at a wake, and this prompted me to pull out my phone and do some quick research on Mr. Knight.   I learned that he had died on Dec. 13th, just over two weeks prior to our visit.  So, his friends were, in fact, there at the mountain keeping vigil.

Now I know this kind of makes me shallow- to change the way I look at something just because death has touched it in some way, but I think I've always been pretty honest with you guys when it comes to my short comings.  So I don't feel too bad confessing that this new knowledge made me look at Salvation Mountain as more than just a piece of folk art.  Knowing that Mr. Knight had been working on his mountain just 3 short weeks ago and would never come back to it again, caused me to think about the mountain in terms of its creator's life.

This guy had a message that he wanted to share: Love is Universal and God is Love. Wether you agree with his message or not, aren't you impressed that for the last 30 years of his life, he devoted himself completely to sharing that message?  When he was awake, he was mostly working on his mountain.  He didn't take vacations.  He gave up almost all worldly goods.  He had no water, gas, or electricity.   He lived out of his truck, and yet he also managed to create this community around his mountain- people who saw his message, saw his devotion, and supported him.  Twice, the vision for his message failed-when the hot air balloon rotted and when the first mountain crumbled.  Each time he just started over, simply thanking God for showing him his failure so that he could do it better.  He was 100% devoted to his passion.  Was he a little nuts?  Maybe.  But maybe not.  It takes a lot of courage to give up conventional society.  He was living his truth.  When you think about it, that's kind of....... marvelous.

As we drove away from Salvation Mountain, I found myself grateful to be given the opportunity in the last few days of the year to see an example of someone living exclusively for their own passion.  What if we all were able to do that?  Of course, I don't believe that we should all take it to the degree that Leonard Knight did- I love hot showers and kettle chips too much to do that.  But it was so good to be reminded in time for the New Year, with all its promises and new beginnings and fresh starts, of what can be waiting for us when we strip away things like finances and stress and society.  I may not be able to build a physical mountain like Mr. Leonard Knight did, but in this new year I'm hoping to keep in mind a metaphorical mountain- a truth that I can devote time to for no other reason than to feed my own soul.  I think we should all do that.  Personally, my mountain would probably take the form of this blog.  Or maybe it would just be my kids.  Both these things feed my soul. (Although there are days when it feels like the kids are actually eating my soul....but those are the bad days and I'm trying to be positive here, so forget I even brought that up.)

At any rate, I encourage you to ask yourself what your mountain would look like and then start building it.  I bet what you end up with will be wonderfully weird.  Or weirdly wonderful.

Just like Salvation Mountain.

Take My Santa License, Please

You guys.

I think I'm messing up the Santa thing for my kids.  Some of you may remember two years ago when I wrote about abusing the Power of Santa.  Well, I'm still abusing the power.  Oh yes.  I am abusing that power all over town.  And now I think I've gone too far.  As in, I'm pretty sure that me and Santa are finito.

Let me explain a little.  I thought I was using Santa the same way all you other parents use Santa.  Now I wonder.  It's like....have you ever watched a kid playing a soccer game when he gets the ball and starts taking it the wrong way down the field?  And then he kicks it in the goal and scores for the other team, but he still doesn't know it?  And then when he turns around you watch as the joy of domination, then confusion, and finally deflation play across his face in just a few split seconds?

That's me with the Santa thing.   Consider the ball the Power of Santa, and I'm just kicking it down the field, feeling all great about participating in a cultural tradition, and then something'll happen and I'll stop and say to myself, "I don't think this happens in other families."

For example, do other parents pull out their phones in the middle of their kids' tantrums and tell them that they're going to take a picture of them and email it to Santa?

This is J, in the midst of a serious fit trying to hide from my camera. He reminds me of a criminal in a high profile case when they're try to hide from the media on their way to opening arguments.

Do other kids believe that Jesus, God, and Santa Claus conspire together like some kind of Big Brother Holy Trinity?  Mine do.  They took what they learned in church about God being everywhere, and combined that with "He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake"and drew their own conclusions.

Here's the final nail in my coffin of guilt.  I almost don't want to write it because it's terrible.  Think of it as a confession, and next time you make a terrible parenting mistake, you can remember this and say to yourself "AT LEAST I DIDN'T DO WHAT THAT MEANIE TACY DID!"  You'll instantly feel better.  You can even consider this my present to you- a guilt absolver.  Just what every parent needs.  Merry Christmas.

Okay.  Here goes.

A couple of weeks ago a friend of mine passed around a website that makes personalized messages for kids from Santa.  The parent logs on, inputs their child's name, age, grade in school, city of residence, gift wish, uploads a picture, and then they have the choice of clicking on whether their child has been naughty or nice.

Well.

It had been a particularly rough day with J.  I was feeling tired, cranky, and a little bit vengeful.  So you know what I did.  I hit "naughty" and then "send".

That's not the part I feel bad about.

The next day, Santa sent J a message.  He was ecstatic.  He sat on my lap while I opened the link and hit "play".  He loved seeing Santa on the screen talking exclusively to him.  He was amazed to see his picture in Santa's book.  He was happy to hear that Santa got his letter and that he knew J wanted a 3DS.

Then Santa told his elves to go get J's file so he could see if he was on the naughty or nice list.  J leaned forward in anticipation.  The elves went to some machine and typed in J's name, and the machine whirred to life.  Right when I started having second thoughts about this whole thing, red lights flashed and the elves exchanged some concerned glances.  Santa raised his eyebrows and looked straight into the computer screen at J, whose fingers went nervously to his mouth.  Santa very gently told J that there was still time and that he knew that in the next week J could be a good enough boy to get on the nice list.  J looked at me and incredulously asked "I'm not on the nice list???"

That's not the bad part either.

After telling him that Santa didn't exactly say that he was on the naughty list, and that there was still time for him to get himself on the nice list, and blah blah blah  he got off my lap and said "I don't like that video, mom."

Then he wet his bed that night.

That's the part I feel bad about.  I made him believe that he was on the naughty list, and it's bothered him so much that he reverted to bed wetting.

All this makes me wonder...what kind of mind games am I playing on my kids?  Seriously guys, this Santa stuff is whacked.  I've lost count of the number of lies I tell every day to explain holes in the Santa myth (For example, Roo asked me the other day why Santa can't remember her name and what she wants for Christmas.  You see, we've met at least 5 different Santas over the season at various parties and festivities, and every time a Santa asks her "What's your name little girl?" I can tell that she's thinking "Don't you KNOW by now????")

I know people say that Santa is supposed to be the embodiment of the spirit of giving, and I like that EXCEPT for the fact that it's a metaphor and kids don't get metaphors.  For them, Santa is about presents and reindeer, and the North Pole, and all the other stuff we tell them- and then we attach their behavior to it as leverage.    I can't make it sit right with me.  For those of you who do Santa the right way- who get it- who can make it a good fun part of the holidays for your family, I'm envious.  Keep on keeping on is what I say.  For me though, I've decided that I'm no good at this game.  I understand now that the Power of Santa comes with a lot of responsibility, and just as irresponsible people should not be allowed to drive a car, some people just shouldn't be allowed to use the Power of Santa.  I'm one of them.  I'm turning in my license.

My friend wrote on Facebook that "A child's faith is fragile."  I've thought a lot about that and decided that I don't want to mess with that.  I'd rather have my kids, especially J (who I know I've written about a lot this year, but it's because his 5th year has given me lots of material to work with) be their naughty selves and I'll deal with it the old fashioned way- with consistency, as much patience as I can muster, and wine.  Lots o' wine.

*By the way, this doesn't mean that I'm going to tell them that Santa isn't real.  I'll ride this train out, but I'm avoiding the naughty or nice thing as much as possible.

As far as J goes, this morning we were reading a story about how Rudolph helps Santa, and the story asked "Wouldn't you help Santa if you given the opportunity?" to which J rolled his eyes and replied, "If he took me off the naughty list I would."

*Sigh.*

I have a ways to go with him, but I have to admit, his criminal mind amuses me.

Merry Christmas, you guys!

I'll Need Some Teeny Tiny Q-Tips, Stat

This is a conversation we had in our car on the way to school this morning.  Two things you should know before you read this:

1)We watched J's school Christmas performance last night, in which he and all the other kids wore elf hats.
2) I have a freaky obsession with keeping my kid's ears clean.

And yes, these 2 facts weave together in a weird way in the conversation below:

Roo: Mama, tomorrow can I be an elf?
Me: Ummm, yeah.  Sure.  How are you going to turn yourself into an elf?
J interrupts: Wait.  Do you want her to be an elf mom?
Me:  I guess.  If it makes her happy then I want her to be an elf.
Roo: It do makes me happy.
Me: Okay, but Roo- you're going to have to grow some big long pointy ears by tomorrow.
Roo: Okay.
J:WELL. Mom. I know something about that and it's going to make you VERY sad.
Me: (thinking he's going to say something along the lines of about how Roo will have to live far away with Santa at the North Pole or not be with us at Christmas or something.)  Okay, what's that J?
J: Elves have big long pointy ears so they probably have LOTS of ear wax.


Elfin earwax.  Huh.

I'm going to file this conversation under "Things that I never would have thought of had I not become a parent."

The Best Little Whorehouse In Oz

Hey all!  This post has been floating around in my head for a couple of weeks now.  I'm not quite sure where I'm going with it, but won't you walk with me while I figure it all out?

So.  A couple of weeks ago Matt and I took Roo to Target to spend some of her birthday cash.  She's been on a Wizard of Oz kick for a few months now (or as she calls it, The Lizard a Boz), so when she saw this Special Edition Dorothy Barbie doll on the shelf, she immediately wanted it.  We put it in the cart, paid for it, took it home, pulled it out of the box, let her play with it, and when she was done we propped Dorothy up on it's stand and displayed it on her dresser.  

That's when I noticed that something was very, very wrong.  

Since when does Dorothy's mid-western Kansas garb include thigh-highs?  And when did the hem of her dress rise up 6 inches?  WHEN did she walk down the yellow brick road in 6 inch heels befitting a porn star?  And OH MY WORD SHE IS OUTFITTED IN A LACE UP CORSET THAT EMPHASIZES HER BREASTS!  Really?  Really, Mattel?

Now, let me leave this topic for a short minute to say that those of you who know me know that I'm a keep-it-simple-kind of girl.  I don't put a lot of stock in analyzing things or over thinking them.  I know too many people who do this and end up making themselves sound like assholes.  (Case in point: Me in college driving in the car with my father.  American Pie comes on the radio, and I launch into a 7 minute speech about how I believe that song to be about the loss of American innocence during the Cold War era and the implications of the hippie movement.  My father listens, waits a moment, and then says "I'm pretty sure that it's just a song about Buddy Holly's death."  See? Classic case of one being a superfluous douche bag.)

 However, sometimes you just gotta go there. This is one of those times.  This kind of thing has been on my mind anyway for a month or so- ever since last month when I watched an entire female team of 5 year old soccer players take their team picture with identically curled hair and tiaras.  I questioned it on Facebook and one of my friends wrote that it was "Just another messed up message we send to our girls."  That one resonated with me, though there were a wide variety of opinions on it.  Some people said that it showed that girls could still enjoy being girly while kicking butt, and I feel that may be valid as well.  If that's true, though, what's the empowering message with the scantily clad Dorothy?  That a girl should look her best and show a lot of skin, both over the rainbow and in the real world?

I'm so confused.

I do know that every time I see Roo pick up the doll, I cringe.  I feel like every time she plays with it, Slutty Dorothy gets busy with imprinting her secret little message on my daughter's psyche. It's like she's saying "Oh, hi Roo. See my short little dress?  See my pretty little stockings with bows at the top of my thighs?  Aren't they pretty?  Don't you want to be pretty?  Be sure to dress just like this when you grow up and everyone (especially boys) will think you're pretty too!"

Yep.  I'm pretty sure that's what it is saying, even though Roo probably isn't conscious of it.  I'm not even sure she could really verbalize the difference between the looks of the doll and the more modest movie version of Dorothy...  I could ask her, but the truth is, I'm a little afraid to.   Best case scenario would be that she didn't see the difference at all, and the worst case scenario would be that I would have just pointed it out to her.

The most disturbing question for me in all this though, is why in the world didn't I see all this when I was in the store?  I mean, we were at Target to get my new phone too so it's a slight possibility that I was really preoccupied with my new toy and didn't focus properly on hers.  But I don't think so.  I'm usually too much of a feminist to let this stuff get past me.  Maybe this whore-of-a-Dorothy just didn't stand out as much when she was on a shelf amid other sluttinas Barbies?  Is that how I didn't see it?  Or has society just conditioned me to believe that girls should look this way so that even when I had her in my hand, I didn't even blink at her implied sexiness?

I don't have any answers, or even a good way to conclude this post, except with more questions: Am I over thinking this?  Ten years from now will I be sending her back to her room to change into decent attire with her screaming "For christsakes mom!  Even my freakin' Barbies are allowed to dress sluttier than me!" Should I burn the doll?  What do you all think?  

You Too May Be Suffering From This Disease

Hi.

I went to Costco on the day before Thanksgiving.

Stupid, I know.  I won't ask for your pity because I brought it on myself.  However, whilst there (love that word, 'whilst'), I learned a few things.

First, I need to make a shirt to wear specifically for when I go to Costco that says "If you stop short in front of me, I will ram my cart into your ass."  I'm also tempted to write on the back back something like "And if you block my way to slowly peruse the free food samples, it's fair to expect me to run my cart through you."

Second, I learned that the shopping carts at Costco are torture devices.  Anyone else experience painful electrical shocks to their fingertips and palms while manuevering their cart around that demon hole of a store?  I was trying to figure out if it was just me or if there were others having the same problem, but it didn't seem that anyone else was having issues.  However, it's possible that where I live is a factor in this since nearly everyone else in there was over 60 and grounded by their orthopedic rubber soled shoes.

Third, the problem does not lie with only Costco.  I had to also run to Stater Brothers for two slices of bacon and a red onion.  There I encountered a family of six who walked slowly down every aisle and blocked other customers from passing them.  They were carrying a small while ferret with a sweater on.

In a food establishment.

They were carrying a rodent.

In a food establishment.

And it was wearing a sweater.

At that point, I just got out of there fast because I was starting to feel unpredictable behavior coming on. Unpredictable behavior that I would not be able to be held accountable for on account of the fact that I suffer from a very serious, very real disease known as ESCR.  Extreme Shopping Cart Rage.  It's like road rage, except with shopping carts.  If you've had to repress urges to beat the shopper in front of you over the head with the double sized bag of brussell sprouts that you've grabbed from your cart, then you too, suffer from this terrible disease.  So there you go.  Now your pain has a name.  You're welcome.

Tis the season, all.  Happy Thanksgiving!

Love,

Tacy- sufferer of ESCR and various other made up mental illnesses (as well as a few legit ones)

October In A Bundle

Hi!

So I haven't written in a while.  I'll spare you the why because to be honest, I don't really know the reason.  Maybe it's because I haven't been feeling motivated/creative/funny/attractive/intelligent/articulate/awake/healthy/ human lately.  So there you go.  Pick a reason, any reason.  The important thing is that I'm writing now.  (Actually, what I'm going to do is just patch together paragraphs from the 5 unfinished posts that I did start writing but never finished for the aforementioned reasons.)

Also, New Girl is on in 35 minutes.  It's imperative that I finish this in time to watch that show since I believe that one of their writers did a subversive character study on me.  I mean yes, Zoey Deschanel's character is funnier and more charming than me, but the dorkiness?   I relate to it all too well.   We are soul sisters, but that's neither here nor there.  Let's get down to business, shall we?

In this month of October, we have:

prepared our house for Halloween.  Two years ago I wrote about how Mr. C and I have an annual argument over how scary we should make our courtyard for the trick or treaters.  This year I'm happy to announce that I have tamed the beast.  Our home was  relatively normal looking (and by normal I mean that there were no baby  doll heads on sticks decorating our front lawn.)

However, Mr. C had to have some kind of outlet for his dark side. One morning I walked out of the house to find this:

And when I got in my car the next morning, I found that he had moved her:

So it went for the decapitated Barbie throughout the month of October.  She has been placed in many compromising positions and is currently residing on a hook next to where we keep our mailbox key.

I don't want to admit this, but I do believe that there is a good chance that we are the weirdest family on our block. 

Anyway, our house was a hit again on Halloween.  We ditched the strobe light/scary mannequin guy this year and went with a Nightmare Before Christmas Theme.  We turned the courtyard into Oogie Boogie's lair by painting a bunch of props with glow in the dark paint and investing in some black lights.  Here's a little glimpse of how it turned out:

There's someone inside that Oogie Boogie suit.  Someone who sat very, very still while we passed out candy and then jumped out at people and scared the beejezus out of them as they were leaving.  It was so fun, but I'm getting ahead of myself.  I'll tell you more about Halloween later.  

Also this month we attended the annual Palm Desert Golf Cart Parade.  Yes, you read that right.  Golf carts, in a parade.  Golf carts are big out here.  We have lanes for them, much as other cities have bike lanes. We also have designated parking spots for golf carts at certain grocery stores and businesses. So, yes.  Pasadena has the Rose Parade, NYC has the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, and we, of the Coachella Valley in this great state of California, decorate golf carts and make a parade of it.

I make fun, but it's actually a good time.  The whole valley participates.  Who doesn't love a marching band? 

Plus, there were bonus points this year because 9 walked in it.  We had extra fun embarrassing him as he went by.

This also leads me to a confession.  The day before the parade, against my better judgement, I let J watch some of Poltergeist with me and PG.  It was the televised version, so it was fairly safe.  They omitted the freaky stuff like the guys' face falling off in the mirror, which led me to believe that it would all be okay.  However, he ended up coming away from the movie with a healthy fear of clowns.  (Do you remember the Poltergeist clown in the closet? Freaky.)  And what do I, his mother,  do to him the next day?  Drag him to the Golf Cart Parade where the theme is "Circus Fun"and 9 feet tall clowns wave and leer at you as they meander past.  

He is now afraid to walk down the hallway at home in broad daylight, and I believe that besides being the weirdest family on the block, I am also the meanest mother of the weirdest family on the block-  with the poorest judgement.

Anyway.

Speaking of J, I know I've been writing about him often, but it's just that he's at this age right now where half the time he is cracking me and Mr. C up.  The other half of the time he's being an obstinate a-hole.  But the times that he's funny kinda make the other half of the time worth it.  One of those times was last week when at the bank, the teller gave him and Roo a lollipop.  On the way out he's sucking on his lollipop and this older gentleman holds the door for us.  J takes out his sucker, waves it in the direction of the guys face, and  tauntingly cheers "Bet you wish you were a kid!".

I can't wait to see what kind of adult this guy turns into.

The other thing we did in October was take the kids to the LA Museum of Modern Art to see the Tim Burton Exhibit.

It was lots'o fun and very inspiring.  Also, I learned that Tim Burton and I share a hometown of Burbank, CA.  Apparently, according to the exhibit's information,  Mr. Burton was so bored by Burbank's non-culture that he had no choice but to unleash his creative genius onto his sketch pad and wait out the time until he could leave.  I too, found myself waiting out the time until I could leave Burbank, but that had more to do with wanting to find cute boys who I didn't go to Kindergarten with and who didn't already know what a huge dork I was.  I guess you could say that though we had different motives, I believe both our paths to be equally difficult and our achievements high.  

Har har.  

The museum exhibit inspired our Halloween theme.  This year our whole family dressed up as the cast of characters from The Nightmare Before Christmas.  Matt was Jack Skellington, I was Sally, the kids were Lock, Shock, and Barrel, and 9 was Oogie Boogie.  This may be my most favorite Halloween yet.  

Not just because I made most of the costumes myself.  

And not because our house was the most fun one on the block. 

And not because my nieces, nephews, and sister provided us with hours of entertainment playing Just Dance 2. 

But because while all this was going on, my other sister was in the hospital having her baby.  You know, the one I wrote about here.  

Can I tell you, first of all, the "coincidences" that surround this situation?  When I found out I was pregnant with Roo, my sister had just, days before, been in Florida going through her first failed adoption.  I felt so guilty and ended up waiting for 12 weeks before I told her and the rest of my family about my pregnancy.  My sister, instead of being upset- which would have been a completely understandable and NORMAL reaction- was extremely excited and happy for me.  So we had her be a part of the pregnancy as much as we could.  She came with us to the ultrasounds and was in the room with me when I was giving birth.  She and Roo have a special bond.  3 years later, she called me within weeks of the anniversary of the failed adoption to inform me that I'm going to be an aunt.  She went into labor on my birthday, and although she missed it by 23 minutes, Elianna Tacy Alvarez was born on Nov.1, 2011.... right between my birthday and Baby Roo's- who was born on Nov. 5.   

If you don't want to call that Divine, than call it magic, because there's no way you can tell me all that is a coincidence.   

Besides, I've never had anyone named after me before.  And you know what? 

It feels really good.  

You all have a good night! 

  

Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Facebook Addicts

Have I mentioned to you all that my mom is a therapist?  I think I've talked about it before.  I'm not sure though.  Lots of times when I tell people what she does, they remark that that must come in handy for me.  (Apparently other people see me as someone who would need a therapist to talk to often.  Go figure.)  I'll admit that nowadays it is handy, especially when I need to know (usually on a daily basis) if something that my kids are doing is weird or not.  It was not handy when I was a teenager and she was in the midst of earning her therapy license.   Me and my hormones would throw some teenage drama emotional vomit her way and she'd respond with a cool "And how do you feel about that?", which drove me and my hormones crazy.  We hated her.

So to sum it up: back then mom therapist= bad, now=good.  I'm only telling you all this because I wanted to talk about a trend she told me that she saw occurring in her practice.  Apparently more and more parents are bringing their kids in for addiction problems.  Not addiction to drugs, or alcohol, or any of the usual stuff that we're used to hearing about.  No.  Parents nowadays are bringing their kids in because they are addicted to technology.  Facebook, video games, texting- these things are becoming number one priorities in the lives of kids and grades, health, and social lives are going by the wayside.  Not only that, but she thinks we're going to hear more about this kind of problem in the future.  Apparently, Facebook Addiction is going to be what cutting and childhood obesity were for the last decade.  I believe that someone should call the program directors at Maury and The View to let them know so they can start booking addicts now.

So when she told me this, I was all "HAHAHAHAHAHA.  OH PLEASE!  HOW HARD IS IT TO UNPLUG YOUR KID????"

HAHA.

HA.

Heh.

Um.  How hard can it be to unplug your teenager?  Well.  Let's speak hypothetically for a moment.  Let's say hypothetically we have a teenager in this house with that kind of problem.  If I was going to really get into it, I could write a really good (hypothetical) tale with several good examples of what NOT to do in order to raise a teenager who isn't addicted to his phone/computer/video games.  I could probably make it kind of funny too.  But I won't.  Because hypothetically, if there was a teenager like that around here, his life would be his and not for me to write about.

Hypothetically.

However, I will say this: A couple of months ago a friend of mine on Facebook wrote this: "I'd rather give birth to a ten pound baby while hanging upside down from a tree branch than have to raise another teenager."

The image made me laugh.  Then it made me cry because I know only too well how she feels- how she probably just wants to do what's best for her kid, and he thinks she's stupid, and how she knows she's not only not stupid, but that she knows exactly what he's thinking because she once thought it too, and she tries to tell him and he doesn't believe that there's any way in the universe she could understand what he's thinking, and then she gets frustrated because she sees him making mistakes that she has the foresight to stop, but he, in his vast experience with life, thinks her foresight is just lame and wishes that she would just go away because he doesn't believe that he's ruining anything for himself long term.

Or maybe I'm just projecting.

Anyway.  Before I go, I wanted to ask you if know how before you enter a momentous stage of life like marriage or parenting, and people seem to like to offer little tidbits of advice like,  "marriage is work" or "having kids is hard"? You say "Yeah, yeah", not because you don't believe them, but because you know it's something you just have to experience before you can understand it? Yes?  Well.  Having teenagers will age you.

There you go.  Consider yourself warned.

Mother Mary & Me

Hey guys.  It is 6 o clock on a Monday morning coming out of a very event-filled weekend.  I have no idea why I am awake this early-especially when all 3 of the littles are still sleeping- but I do have to say it's not that bad.  I am sitting with my coffee and laptop in front of an OPEN window that has COOL air coming through.  In fact, I realized how long it's been since we've even cracked our windows when I opened our bedroom window last night to let the breeze in and was attacked by a 3 foot vine that was growing on the inside of the screen.  Sometime last spring it must've found a little opening on the side of the screen, pushed it's way through, and then happily grew there all summer.  I had no idea.  A better housewife probably would've known that a plant from the outside of her home was invading the inside of her home, but I've never claimed to be a good housewife.  So there you go.

As I was saying, we had a very full weekend.  Saturday was a bear of a day that got off to a bumpy start when I learned that I was supposed to bring snacks for J's soccer team.  The irony is that I asked Mr. C the night before if we were supposed to bring snacks, and his response was "No.  Someone else is assigned."

He's the coach and holds all game, snack, and practice schedules in his coaching bag, so when he said that someone else was bringing snacks, I assumed he was correct.

Well.

As my old boss used to say about the word "assume":  it makes an ass out of u and me.  Next morning The Spotted Turtles played their little hearts out and had no snack or juice to show for it, because in fact, we were supposed to bring it.  It turned out that it really wasn't fully Mr. C's fault- there was a couple of miscommunications, for most of which I carried the blame- but I didn't know all this at the time.  I just was thinking how I was the mom, and the moms are supposed to bring the snacks, and how all these little guys were expecting food and hydration and some kind of treat (preferably something with food coloring and corn syrup), and how when it's forgotten, people blame the mom, never the dad.  So I was a little irritated.  And my irritation showed.  It showed a lot.  It showed in front of a lot of people who I don't know very well, but with whom I will be spending my Saturday mornings with until approximately Thanksgiving.

Not my finest hour.

So I went through the rest of my Saturday feeling crummy about myself.  My short fuse had already been on my mind lately since my church has been advertising an upcoming women's study.  This session's title is "Mary, Martha & Motherhood".  One of the taglines I saw said something like "How to worry less about being like Martha (Stewart), and more like Mary".

Now, if you know me you know that I never worry that I'm not enough like Martha Stewart.  Woman's an OCD nut job as far as I'm concerned.  I once watched her on Oprah talking about the proper way to fold a fitted sheet.  She had this very intricate and complicated method, and the last step involved an inside-out flip turn maneuver that was more reminiscent of Japanese Origami than anything else.  I'm shocked that someone took up airtime on the Oprah Winfrey show to do a tutorial for such a thing.   Do you want to hear how I fold a fitted sheet?  I cross it over once, twice, sometimes thrice and then I mash it into a ball and toss it onto the top shelf of my linen closet.

No, I am totally okay with not being enough like Martha.

It's the Mary part that gets to me.  I have really conflicted feelings about this.  Part of me feels like holding up Mother Mary as an image for wives and mothers to aspire to is unjustifiably oppressive. Am I  really supposed to be quiet and loving and serene all the time?  Do I have to support my husband, even when I disagree with him, and be a model of grace and dignity during difficult times?  I'm supposed to keep my emotions in check at all times?  When the kids are being argumentative and impossible, I'm not supposed to yell?  Am I aiming to be like the crazy mom in that Resolve carpet cleaning commercial who smiles and says "That's okay!" when her kids spill grape juice on the carpet?    Really?  Because I hate that mom.  That mom is dumb and unrealistic, and what's more is my kids see that mom and then think that I'm mean because they know I would never ever EVER be okay with them spilling grape juice on a white carpet. 

On the other hand, a guest speaker at our church a couple of weeks ago referred to his wife during the sermon as "Saint Kathy."  I thought "That is so sweet!  I'd love it if Mr. C thought I was saint-like."   Then I remembered all the ways I am not saint like.  Like when I'm throwing a party and I go berserk during the planning process and vent my stress all over everybody and everything around me.  Or the time I went psycho mom on some kid who bumped his car bass real loud in front of our house after I had just gotten a newborn Roo down for her nap.  Or when I almost got into a fist fight with some teenagers who were partying loudly at 2 in the morning in the campsite next to us.  Or when I screamed until my throat was sore (literally) at Mr. C when I was pregnant with J for smoking a cigar in the backyard.  Or when-

You know what?  I could go on forever.  The list is long and is full of shame, shame, shame.  The thing is, this is me.  I was born this way.  I have big emotions, and I tend to wear them on my sleeve.   I can't help it.  Even if I could, I think sometimes I wouldn't.  The lessons I think I'm supposed to be learning are in all my most unsaint like moments.  I keep trying to convince Mr. C that it's all part of my charm.  (He's not buying that yet, but I really think he should because it's true.)

In the end, I'll probably end up signing up for the women's study.  I'm finding that most of the Bible's commandments work pretty well for me: don't kill, love each other, be kind, tell the truth- these are all good guidelines.  Maybe I do have something to learn about modeling myself after the Virgin Mother (I can't even type that without laughing.  Me aspiring to be more like The Virgin Mother is a bit like Charlie Sheen saying he's going to aspire to be win the Nobel Peace Prize- it's a lofty goal).  However, I guess it can't hurt since right now I'm 0 for 0: Martha wouldn't have forgotten the snacks and Mary wouldn't have shot Joseph scathing looks and eye rolls for the world to see.

As long as I don't end up like a Resolve Carpet Cleaning Mommy Drone, then I'm happy.  Wish me luck!

 

Old Love, New Adventures

Hi all!

Thanks for your sweet comments and empathy last week.  Really.  You made me feel that maybe, possibly, I'm a little bit normal after all- with "little" and "bit" being the key words.    

Anyway, a little rain, a little wine, and we're all ready to start fresh this week.  Hallelujah!

Today I just have a short post on my mind.  I want to introduce you guys to two of the best people in the whole wide world.

There they are:


Aren't they a beautiful couple? (Aside from the pixelation.  Blame my mother's cell phone that the pic was taken on.)  That's my grammy and grandpa.  You may have noticed that they are on an airplane.  Now, for my grandpa, that's no big deal.  Despite his age (87), he's travelled regularly-in the last 10 years especially- to Alaska, Canada, Hawaii, and various states along the East Coast.

For my grandmother, the fact that she is on an airplane is MONUMENTAL.  She has kept her feet on solid ground- and I'm talking no planes, no boats, not even a raft in a swimming pool- for 84 years.

(Actually, that's not true.  She flew up to see my aunt in Oregon once 20 something years ago and swore never to fly again.   She also let my grandpa push her around on a raft in our pool on July 4th, 2005 for approximately 10 minutes.  Other than those instances, she has, as I said, kept her feet on solid ground.)

I just want to say this about my grammy:  It is not easy to be her nowadays.  The world has changed, and to her eyes, has become a scary, unfamiliar place.  She doesn't understand the internet, she refers to Facebook as "Myface", and she can barely operate the remote control to her television, let alone a computer.  She keeps 3 locks on her door because when she watches the news, she is terrified by what she hears.  She's also extremely modest.  Let me give you an example:  I gave her and my grandpa my copy of The Notebook to watch, thinking that they would like it because it's a love story set in "their" era of the 1940's.  I completely forgot that there was a love scene in it until my grammy handed it back to me a week later without saying a word. My grandpa explained in a whispered voice that they had to "fast forward through all the good parts."

My grammy is also an amazing cook, the most fun to make laugh because she'll crack up until she cries,  and the most competitive card player you'll ever meet.  The best thing about her is that she loves all her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren with the best, warmest, most cozy unconditional love anyone could experience.

My parents travel a lot and when they can, they take my grandfather.  He likes to get out and see the world.  They usually ask my grammy to go, but in the past she has always declined.  That's why this time, when my grandfather called my parents back and said Grammy was in for this trip to Hawaii, we were all shocked.  I don't know what he said to her, but whatever it was must've been good.  I'm sure there were plenty of times when she probably wanted to back out- the sheer thought of passing through the body scanner must've made her want to crawl through the floor- however, she stuck with it.  (In fact my mom posted this morning that grammy went through the scanner without even knowing that she did it).

So that's why tonight, I am so looking forward to going outside and looking up at the moon. I'm going to imagine my grandparents standing together under that same moon, with their feet in some Hawaiin sand and enjoying the fact that 65 years into their marriage they have finally made it off the continent of North America and onto an island paradise.



Goes to show, you are never too old to find the courage for a new adventure!

And My Heart Keeps Limping Along

Is it Friday yet?  I heard a rumor that it was Friday and I'd like to believe it, but given the emotionally draining roller coaster of a week I just had, it just sounds too good to be true.  Is it really Friday?  Really?  It is?  Are you sure?

Oh, then all I can say is... THANK THE LORD IN HEAVEN ABOVE US!

I mean every word of it too.  With every ounce, every cell, every little bit of my being, I am thanking God that it is over.  The first week of school this year kicked my kettle chip butt.  Then it handed it back to me on a platter.  Then it made me kneel before it and listen while it berated me for the blithe and naive manner in which entered this school year.

Seriously guys.  This week was hard.

Besides what I already wrote about J getting sick at school on the second day, I started my Baby Roo in preschool, which I thought I was mentally ready for.  Then I got her there and was getting ready to say goodbye when all of a sudden I got that panicky feeling of "Wait! How did we get here???  She's not big enough yet!"  Do you guys ever get that feeling?  It constricted my throat and I could feel the muscles in my face twitching, wanting to go into The Ugly Cry formation.  I fought through it with deep breaths, but it was a close call that wore on my heart for the rest of the day.

That was the first of my heart's casualty for the week.

So then, we had that little incident with J- which by the way, turned out fine.  He wasn't really sick with any kind of bug- which I'm not sure is better or worse than the truth- which is that I had woken him up from a nightmare that morning and it stayed with him.  That combined with nerves made him throw up.  I don't know where he gets that kind of weird behavior from (says the lady who once fell asleep while reading Stephen King, dreamed about it, woke up, threw up, and to this day, has never finished that particular book).

Anyway- that turned out to be the easier part of my week because on Tuesday I picked Roo up from school and she had a low fever and runny nose, which she has now passed on to me.  I am operating in fog mode, which I liken to that feeling you have in the first few weeks of bringing home a newborn.  Do you remember?  You're so tired that your eyes burn and you're not really sure how you're getting things done- you just know that somehow you're doing it?  And you keep pushing through it because there's no other choice?  That's how I feel.  It sucks.

On Wednesday night, Mr. C and the kids were wrestling and all of a sudden PG, who is usually pretty tough and never cries, burst into tears.  The tears escalated to wailing and the wailing escalated to screaming, which then turned into sobbing for the next straight hour.  So I rubbed her back, put the other kids to bed, and had a little one on one with her.  Turns out that second grade has been disappointing for her so far.  She feels left out because most of her friends from last year were put into the other class.   She misses her first grade teacher.  She has to sit next to this kid who says mean things to her and embarrasses her (By the way, when I asked her what he said she sobbed that he told her that she wasn't a good writer, which kind of makes me proud that she finds that as equally offensive as if he said something about her appearance.)  The final nails in the coffin were that her teacher gave the class 2 tests in the first 3 days of school, and that she has a different lunch time than her friends.

My first instinct was to go in and switch her class, or at least talk to her teacher about moving her away from the ding dong she has to sit next to.  However, I reminded myself of my main goal in this parenting venture- to raise my kids into independent and happy adults, and for them to not hate me when it's all over with- so instead I just talked to her about the choices she can make when the ding dong bothers her. Then I sympathized with her about missing her friends and last year's teacher.

So that was the second casualty on my heart (and btw, Ding Dong has a limited time to fix his behavior before I step in and have a chat with the teacher).

The final casualty was on Thursday when I dropped J off for Kindergarten.  The day before he went in with no problem, but this time I knew something was remiss when we got onto the playground and he didn't want to go play.  He stayed close to me and when the teacher rang the bell to line up, I saw the tears start welling up in his eyes.  He really was trying to be brave, which only made it harder to watch as he got in line and I could see the corners of his mouth pulling down.  Then (and I'm pretty sure the teachers teach them this on the first day strictly for the purpose of making parents cry), he gave me the ASL sign for "I love you" and held it up as he walked in the door with tears streaming down his face.

The really terrible thing was that I had left my sunglasses in the car and I had nothing to hide my fat puffy eyes behind while my heart shattered into a million pieces.

That was my week.  You can see why I am looking forward to putting the kids down for bed tonight and going out with Mr. C.  We're leaving them with the 15 year old high school Sophomore who lives with us and who, as far as I can tell, had a fairly decent first week of school.  At least that's what I am assuming, because even if it was bad, I don't believe he would tell us.  We have both ends of the spectrum here guys, and neither one is good.

And this is why I drink wine.

Happy Friday!

Kindergarten Jesus

Well.

I woke up this morning with plans to spend my kid-free time writing a post about Kindergartners, what a sweet perspective they have on the world and how we should cherish it.  But then I got a call from the office at my son's school asking me to come and get him because he threw up.  So now, instead of thinking about Kindergartners as funny, innocent, little rays of sunshine, I can only picture an army of visious pint-sized tormentors who could potentially mark my son as "the boy who threw up on the second day of school" and tease and taunt him and make him hate school forever and ever.

No, I'm not moody today.  Why do you ask?

Anyway, puking aside, I'm still going to go forward with this post and try not to let my mommy neuroticism get the better of me. I'm also going to try to forget about the fact that I can still, to this day, remember the name of "the pukers" from my elementary school days and hope that video games have softened this generation's young minds enough so that they don't have the same razor sharp clarity of memory that I do, especially when it comes to other kids' humiliations.

But let's not talk about that and move on, shall we?

I started thinking about this post after talking to my friend about her daughter, who is entering Kindergarten this year.  This little girl is bright, sweet, and very creative but my friend was telling me that she was a little worried about taking her in for her pre-K assessment.  Her daughter kept insisting that her last name was Tots- which is actually her nickname.  As a former K teacher, I think that's adorable (and I'm sure her current K teacher would think so too), but because the Pre-K assessment is the first time anyone other than you officially judges your child's ability, my friend was worried.  She and her husband spent days coaching, teaching, and then asking their daughter "What's your full name?" and every time she would gleefully declare "Taytum Tots!"

After some more coaching, she still had a mental block when it came to remembering her last name, but progress was made in that she at least understood that her last name wasn't Tots afterall.  Though her parents continued to work with her, her brain wasn't quite ready for the concept of having two names.  One day, perhaps feeling a little frustrated, her dad decided to take a break.  Her gave her some time, and after a while went back to her and called through the bedroom door- "Hey Taytum!  What's your last name?"  There was a brief silence, in which I imagine Taytum freezing in her play to stop and search for the right answer.  I know she wanted to make her parents proud and I know she wanted to think of a really good name- the right name.

A brief silence, and then she tentatively answered through the door, "Um, Jesus?"

Are you laughing?  I hope you're laughing.  I'm so glad my friend shared this story with me (and that she gave me permission to share it with you).  It reminded me of the countless Kindergarten moments that I experienced when teaching.  Like when it was raining outside and I had a little boy show up for school wearing swimming goggles.  Or the little girl who came to the first day of school with her security blanket tied around her neck like a cape because she couldn't bear just yet to leave it at home.  Or Jamal, whom I wrote about here, who was able to remember the shape of the number 3 because (in his words) "dat look like tits!"

My partner Kindergarten teacher used to say that she loved teaching Kindergarten because the kids come in without knowing how to line up, and leave so much more mature and independent.  This is a bittersweet truth that I only fully understood after becoming a parent.  They go in as babies, but there's a whole hidden curriculum in Kindergarten that's about focusing, learning social skills, and how to function in a group.  Kindergartners will transform into more mature independent thinkers, but it's a trade off.  Their small-ish world gets bigger and loses some magic and innocent perspective.  In a few weeks, Taytum will forget that she ever thought her last name was Jesus.  You won't catch a first grader wearing goggles to school.  And I like to think that Jamal no longer thinks of breasts when he writes a 3 (although that could still be possible).

This is it guys.  This is when the metamorphosis happens.  Enjoy who you're kids become, and treasure  who they are now.  Write it down, tell other people, celebrate it, and don't worry about them not being "smart enough." They'll get there.  They always get there.  Just love the beautiful little spirits that they are now, because it's fleeting.  

And if you'd tell them to be nice to the pukers, I'd appreciate it.  Thanks.



      

Shut Up Tacy

A few years ago (okay, like 15 years ago but it feels like a few which is what counts, right?) I had an English professor in college who assigned us to research our first, middle, and last names.  That meant, at that time, I would be researching the names Tacy, Kay, and Herrington.  To be honest, I didn't think I would find much, especially for Tacy since it's unusual and never in my lifetime before had my name come through for me in any kind of positive way.  You see, I grew up in the 80's..... a time when the personalization of kid products hit the market and every little girl had a unicorn embellished license plate for her bike with her name emblazoned on it- except for me.   I'd twirl the racks which displayed the personalized plates and trail my fingers down the rows, past the Tracys, Stacys, Caseys, but never was there a Tacy.  Not once.

It still hurts.

Not really.  But I have often wondered if my great grandmother, whom I was named after, also had to deal with calling banks, DMV's, or government offices because official documents get printed out to a Tracy.  You see, people automatically assume that an "r" was left out of the name on the original form.  Or if she got tired of having to repeat her name over and over to new people she was introduced to (and if she ever just finally gave up, as I have at times, and let the new person just think her name is Stacy).  Or if lame college boys ever asked her if she was "tasty", har har.  Or if she ever traded name tags with bus boys at work because it was easier to pretend to be a Jose for the night than to deal with customers at her tables who, upon learning that the name on her tag was printed correctly, didn't see anything wrong with inquiring if her mother knew how to spell properly.  Did she get as tired as I do of explaining?  I'll never know because she passed away shortly before I was born, but I do know that when my parents announced to her that they were going to name me after her she said "Oh, don't you dare do that to that child!"

I don't think they took her seriously.

Despite all this, I'm honored to be named after her.  She was a great lady with a great name, and I like it.  In fact, I stubbornly like it.  It's my name.  It's me.  Those people who are rude or stupid about it can go off and spread their stupidity into other corners of the world- they don't bother me none.

Going back to the assignment though, after doing my research it did become clear that despite the peace that I have with my name, it's definitely not one that would bring good juju to a child in any sense.  "Tacy" is Latin in origin and means silence, or 'to be silenced'.  One resource I found said that it was a name used most often in the 16th century, and it was given as a reminder to a girl of her place.  In other words, my name was a metaphorical gag given to girls as a reminder to sit down and shut up.

Humph!

It doesn't even get better from there.  "Kay" means left handed fool, and "Herrington" originated in Wales from a fishing family.

So, in short, you can say that my name means "Shut up, you left handed, foolish, smelly fisherman!"

It's a lovely legacy.

(By the way, in marrying my husband, I have dropped the fisherman part, and replaced it with a name that is derived from a successful group of horse thieves.  So now I'm "Shut up you left handed horse thief!"  Not much better.)

Anyway.  Although the origins of the silence part can be offensive to a modern day woman such as myself, it does kind of fit me in a way.  I've been trying to find a way to explain to you guys what I mean by this for a while now, and I think the best way to do it is to first ask you to watch something.  (for your viewing pleasure, it's a little bit of the mid-90's version of Brad Pitt.  I know- and you're welcome.)

You never could have convinced me the first time I saw that movie that in 20 years that scene would come off as corny.  I'd have been crying too hard anyway to listen to you.  However, it does strike me as corny now- which makes what I'm about to say equally corny (and I do so hope that I'm not offending anyone who's had a stroke/caring for a loved one who's suffered a stroke, etc.).  When I saw that movie, it occurred to me that I was Anthony Hopkins' character.  I have things to say, it's all in my head, but it's such a struggle for me to get it out and articulate it in the moment.  I don't believe that I think in words, I think I think in feelings, which can be  hard to translate into words quickly, and that is why I tend to like myself more in writing. I've learned this about me.  Writing gives me time to process my thoughts and feelings and put them in words.  I joke with myself that if I could just carry an iPad around my neck and write my thoughts to people, I'd be happier with my interactions.

So, the irony here is that my whole life I've been carrying this name that means "to be silenced", and it was the better part of 36 years before I realized the lesson that life was trying to teach me: to quiet myself more often and just listen.  It's not a bad thing to be "the quiet girl".  I think I used to know this about myself, but then adolescence hit, along with the need to be liked, and I started drowning out my insecurities with chatter.  Since then what I've learned is that too often I wasted both breath and words putting in my two cents,  when if I had just listened more, my thoughts would've doubled in value.

So why am I sharing this with you?  I don't really know.  It's more personal information than I usually share on here.   I guess I felt you should know this about me.  What goes on my head is usually much better than what comes out of my mouth.  There.  I said it.  It's a source of frustration for me, but it's also a blessing because I'm learning to know myself.  I'm Tacy.  I'm  quiet, and I'm glad we had this talk.

 What I mean to say is..... "am happy".

10 Things A Girl Appreciates Upon Returning From 7 Days of Camping, And One Thing She Dreads

1. A hot steamy shower
2. An oversized bar of Jo Malone Fig Bath Soap
3. A loofah
4.  St. Ives Apricot Exfoliating Scrub
5.  A razor
6.  A clean, fresh, fluffy towel
7.  A blow dryer
8.  Soft, pretty, feminine pajamas
9.  A nail brush and file
10. A big, soft comfy bed

And the thing she dreads.......

Taking him through the above process (excluding numbers #5 and 8, of course).

You all have a good night!

I Kept You Waiting (For Superman)

Hi all.

So here's what is going on in my life:  For the last year I've been searching for a job- on Edjoin, on Craigslist, in the online newspaper listings, all to no avail.  Then, in this last week I got 3 calls for interviews and one job offer.  I've spent the last few days updating my teaching portfolio and going on interviews.  So now my life feels like it's in limbo while I wait to hear news, any news. Of course, things are further complicated by the fact that we're going on vacation, so the receiving of any news that may occur will be delayed by a couple of days.  

I like it when God answers prayers, but sometimes I hate the way he does it.

(For you non-religous peeps, all I mean is that even though I asked for this, it still kinda blows.)

And as if I'm not feeling enough anguish and upheaval, it happens to be a fact that the job I want most of all- a teaching position for a 2/3 combo class- starts on August 29th, which is J's first day of Kindergarten.  I would not be able to take him for his first day of school, which is almost a deal breaker for me.  In fact, just thinking about it makes me feel like a failure as a mother and makes me want to cry.  However, as my husband says, I need to take one thing at a time and please please PLEASE let us just enjoy our vacation and leave the stress at home.

Amen.

So anyway, tonight I am going to write about Waiting For Superman, which I've mentioned several times and have never really gotten around to discussing in any kind of length.  At one time (actually for a long time), I felt fired up about it, but now I just feel tired and a little cranky.  

What made me angry about this movie is that it could've really helped the state of education in our country.  It could have made people aware of how poverty levels affect learning, or about how pacing guides are causing teachers to rush through the curriculum without allowing for time for the students to really understand a concept before they have to push on to the next concept (and all these concepts are crammed in the first 6 months of school so that they can be taught before the state testing occurs).  It could've discussed the importance of parent involvement, or the impact of the HUGE influx of second language students in the last 2-3 decades, but it didn't.  Instead it oversimplified things to a ridiculous degree and it played the blame game.  If you watched Waiting For Superman, you probably walked away from the movie thinking that our education system is failing because teacher unions and tenure prevented administrators from firing bad teachers.

Bullshit.

I've said it over and over and over.  Of course there are bad teachers.  I had bad teachers.  I survived bad teachers, just as I have survived bad bankers, bad customer service reps, bad waiters, bad community service officers.  Your child will survive a bad teacher, and so will you.  They are out there, but the majority of teachers are good and well meaning and loving and most of all, they want your child to succeed.  

I'm so tired of saying that.  The thing is, if you are of the belief that teachers are overpaid sloths who are in the job for the summers off, then you're an idiot and there's not a lot I can say to you to change your mind. The politicians have managed to to get everybody riled up about teacher pay, accountability and teacher tenure.  My personal feeling is that this is a deliberate diversionary tactic.  In a manner typical of our government, it's easier for them to blame the teachers than to do something productive and work to save an outdated, failing public school system.  

Because this whole topic (so obviously) irritates me, I won't spend a lot of time debating points from the movie.  Let me just get the following things off my chest, and then I'll shut up.

*Teacher "overpayment"- I'm not sure why it's anyone's business how much teachers make.  I don't have any idea what my doctor or grocer or any other service member in my community makes, but suddenly it seems that people feel like teacher's salaries should be discussed and scrutinized publicly.  I don't feel like this is fair, but I'll talk numbers if I have to.  Mr. C's district's salary schedule starts at  $42,000.  (By the way, the national average household income is $55,000)  For every year of service, employees get a small increase.  The schedule caps around $78,000, but that's only for employees who have their Master's Degree.  Considering the hours that teachers work, the overtime they put in, and the extra events that they attend, I don't feel like Mr. C and I are earning an unfair salary.  I know people who work less, don't have a college degree, and who make more money than us.  

*Teacher "tenure"-  Ugh!  I hate how politicized this topic has gotten!  In Waiting For Superman, the woman who served as the D.C School Superintendent, Michelle Rhee, shut down 13 schools because of poor performance.  Imagine that you are a teacher in one of these schools.  You go to work everyday and dedicate yourself to students who may or may not have any support at home.  They may not speak English.  They may be being hungry, or even abused.  You teach them and do your best to make a difference for them, but the state test scores from your school are low. (Of course they are- studies have shown that poverty has a detrimental effect on learning.)  However, one day, because of these low test scores, your school is shut down.  You no longer have a job, because one person-this Michelle Rhee- has decided that the teachers at your school are ineffective.  It doesn't matter that you've seen your students improve and blossom.  Because they haven't scored well on the standardized test, you have now lost your job. 

It is because of people like Michelle Rhee, that we even have tenure and unions.  We need it to protect ourselves.  However, if it really matters all that much, then take it!  It never mattered to me and Mr. C.  We were both tenured, along with 1000's of other teachers, when we were pink slipped two years in a row because of budget cuts.  Tenure never really meant that much.  

Finally, let me say this about the unions- I agree, they've become too politicized.  I don't like that every October I get a pamphlet from the California Teacher's Association telling me who they think I should vote for in the November election.  I have my own mind, and with it I make my own decisions, thank you very much.  However, I blame the politicization of our unions on the structure of our government, not on the teachers themselves.  I view the union as being useful for what it was created for- to protect my rights and livelihood from being intruded upon by any power plays from the government.  

I will agree with the movie on one point- in education the focus has shifted from the kids.  It seems everyone is arguing about all the stuff I talked about above; standardized tests, accountability, unions, tenure.... but no one is thinking about how to make it better for the kids.  Our system is overloaded, ineffective, outdated.... but so far no one has been able to give us answers for what we need to do to fix it.  Teachers are returning to work, and they'll continue to do what they do.  They'll care for the kids, they'll go through the curriculum the best they can, as fast as they can, and they will just.... teach.  

As fo me, I'm curious about what you all's thoughts are on this.  I know I came off pretty strong up there, but I do want to know what other opinions and thoughts are out there.  How much are teachers to blame?  What exactly do you think is wrong with our system?  Should I take a job that won't let me take my son to his first day of Kindergarten?  

Just kidding on that last one.  Kind of. 

 Leave a comment and let me know what you think.  I'll be out fending off bears in the Sequoia's somewhere, but I'll be happy to see your thoughts when I come back.  

By the way, I realize I have broken internet safety rule #1- never tell the internet that you are leaving your home.  However, you should know that if any of you are considering breaking into my home while I'm gone,  I have arranged for house guests to stay here.  Plus,  I have a big, mean, toothy dog who is very loyal to us and our home.  He will be on guard.  

So there.  Don't even think about it. 

Have a good night!  

Loving Someone Means That Sometimes You Have to Lego

J turned 5 this last week.  I mentioned in my last post how I can get out of hand with my party planning, but what I didn't mention is how every time I plan a party, everytime, I turn into a lunatic.  (Actually, I think I went into some detail about this last fall, when I wrote about Mr.C's surprise 40th birthday party).  This time however, I thought I was doing okay.  I had decorations bought, lists made, jobs delegated, and up to an hour before the party I still hadn't snapped at any family members or bared fangs.  But then 40 minutes before guests were due to arrive, cupcakes were still unfrosted, the food hadn't been organized, the kitchen hadn't been cleaned, and I hadn't showered yet.  Mr. C was wandering around with a rag wiping down the walls.

In hindsight, yes this was helpful.... but I believe Mr. C was was deep in the trenches of what's known as man thinking. Swiping walls when there was obviously more important, pressing things to do?  Nor was I in my right mind, because the next thing I knew the lid blew off the can of my own brand of crazy and I was hysterically shrieking "WE ARE SCREWED!!!!!  SCREWWWWED!"

Mr. C looked at me standing there panting, bug eyed, with frosting in my hair and he started to laugh.  I immediately felt embarrassed, because even for me, that was a bit dramatic.  I shook my head and mumbled "I know.  I know." Then I threw down my towel and decided that a shower would be a good way to center myself.

In my (5 minute) shower, I reminded myself that this was not an Iron Chef competition.  This was my family and friends coming to my home to celebrate my son's 5 years on this planet.  I reminded myself that I was doing this for J, because he's been counting down his birthday for the past 35 days, because he's the middle kid who often gets gypped, because 5 is officially "big kid" territory and I want to make this birthday memorable, and because when he smiles, it shows in his eyes too.  I wanted to make him smile.

I got out of the shower to find that Mr. C had cleaned up the kitchen and put out the decorations.  (Man thinking aside, I really do have the best husband in the world).  I ended up decorating the cupcakes while guests were arriving, but that was no big deal.  The food got organized and placed out.

Can we just take a moment to recognize the food labels, set in special Jedi font, glued onto black card stock, and decorated with gold and silver star stickers?  That's Wookie Cookies, Muja Fruit, Patawan Popcorn, Darth Dogs, and my personal favorite, Ewoks- which were really gummy bears.  We also ordered "Pizza the Hut".

I'm sick, and I'm aware of it.

Actually, J did not really care about the food labels- no surprise there.  He was there to enjoy the swimming:

present time:

and the goodies. (By the way, those are supposed to look like Lego block heads.  I think I'm going to give up trying to jump on the cake pop wagon.) 

He did think the Lego letter J that his big brother created was pretty cool:

but mostly he was all about cake time and blowing out the candles.

It was during that time, with the lights dimmed and me standing next to him while our family and friends gathered around singing Happy Birthday that it became crystal clear exactly why I got crazy about this particular party.  It's because he's getting big fast, this little boy of mine.  He doesn't even let me give him kisses in public anymore.  In fact, he rarely allows me to kiss or hug him at all.  I know that's normal, that is what little boys do.  But it's hard for me, his mom.  I'm used to  spontaneously giving squeezes and kisses whenever the moment strikes me. And now I'm forced to find other ways to demonstrate my affection.  So I read stories to him and enjoy sitting close.  Or I listen and laugh at his silly jokes.  Or I just sit back and observe him in his play, marveling at his imagination.

 
And I assemble 100 pieces of Lego's out of fondant, and I make stupid Star War food labels, and I freak out  when it's unsure if it's all going to come together.

And for that face, I would do it a thousand times over.

Happy Birthday, J!  Your the Chewbacca to my Hans Solo, the R2D2 to my C3PO, the...... I don't know.    Mom's not so good with the Star Wars metaphors. Sorry.  Just know that I love you.

Good night!