I used to pack a bag, throw it into the back of my Jeep and drive up to the mountains for the day. I would walk out into the woods by myself, find a spot and park it there. I would sit quietly and think consciously. I would sketch. I would climb the boulders in the river. I would lay with the sun on my face, my body draped across a river rock, while the water rushed around me. I would be alone.
Now a trip to the mountains entails packing for a family of four. Things I never dreamed about hauling up to the woods are now a necessity to survive a three hour road trip. Ipods. Portable DVD players. Cell phones. Snacks. Drinks. Fifteen changes of clothes.
Armed with enough to survive a holocaust, we took the kids to the mountains last weekend. On the way home, we introduced them to creeks with rocks they could climb, smooth stones they could skip, woods they could run in. They weren’t impressed. “I’m supposed to POOP in the woods?!”, my five year old exclaimed. When my husband led him to the perfect pooping spot, he peed on a tree and then came out and said he was finished. No problem. Sure. No big deal. Until the car ride home when he confessed that he wasn’t pooping in the woods ever and that he needed to go… right. now.
I never got to lay on a river rock and listen to the sounds of the river. I was too absorbed in making sure that no one suffered a brain trauma climbing over those slippery-when-wet rocks. Just hearing the sound of the water was enough to remind me that I need to get back out there. But still, it’s different. Now there are people depending on me. I’m not so carefree anymore. I worry about going out into the woods alone. What if? Ideas that never occurred to me in my youth, now creep into the recesses of my mind and keeping me bound to civilization. But seeing my kids play in the little waterfall in the creek… is worth the sacrifice.
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
Evolution
Cupping the tinder of our humanity
in our shaking hands, we blow.
Yearning for a new spark to
take hold and roar to flame;
looking for a new hope to warm us.
We hold soft the ember
retrieved from the empire’s ashes.
We remember the fall of civilization.
How the people cried for salvation,
sifting through the remains of
wasted lives, once so shiny with
elegance, polished bright to hide
the truth, the fear and the longing.
We are learning to make fire,
as we paw through the cinders
of our own devastating mortality
waiting for the spark that will take us
forward, forgetting what we have lost,
warming us, as the night grows bitter.
in our shaking hands, we blow.
Yearning for a new spark to
take hold and roar to flame;
looking for a new hope to warm us.
We hold soft the ember
retrieved from the empire’s ashes.
We remember the fall of civilization.
How the people cried for salvation,
sifting through the remains of
wasted lives, once so shiny with
elegance, polished bright to hide
the truth, the fear and the longing.
We are learning to make fire,
as we paw through the cinders
of our own devastating mortality
waiting for the spark that will take us
forward, forgetting what we have lost,
warming us, as the night grows bitter.
Sunday, February 06, 2011
The Support Technicians Lament
Oh God, have you forsaken us?
They call to us! Oh glorious ones!
“My PC is frozen!”, they cry
“Have you rebooted?”, we exclaim.
“How do I do that?” they weep.
“My printer isn’t printing”, they wail.
“Is there paper in the tray?” we ask.
They are quick to anger, not knowing
that last time we asked,
the paper tray lay bare
“I have a VIRUS”, they yell at us
Panicked that someone has,
(through the computer),
reached into their wallet stealing
the sacred credit card numbers
The plea to us, unseen
“My presentation is due, in FIVE minutes!
And I’m not done with it yet!!!
And my PC is NOT WORKING!!!”
They panic, they cajole,they ask for a Supervisor.
We use the hold button.
We laugh, we exclaim, we smoke.
We come back, business ready,
endless cups of coffee our fuel
“How may I help you?”, we ask the next.
They call to us! Oh glorious ones!
“My PC is frozen!”, they cry
“Have you rebooted?”, we exclaim.
“How do I do that?” they weep.
“My printer isn’t printing”, they wail.
“Is there paper in the tray?” we ask.
They are quick to anger, not knowing
that last time we asked,
the paper tray lay bare
“I have a VIRUS”, they yell at us
Panicked that someone has,
(through the computer),
reached into their wallet stealing
the sacred credit card numbers
The plea to us, unseen
“My presentation is due, in FIVE minutes!
And I’m not done with it yet!!!
And my PC is NOT WORKING!!!”
They panic, they cajole,they ask for a Supervisor.
We use the hold button.
We laugh, we exclaim, we smoke.
We come back, business ready,
endless cups of coffee our fuel
“How may I help you?”, we ask the next.
Saturday, February 05, 2011
You are Getting Sleeeeepy
We approach the building at a run. He is running, I am fast walking behind him, carrying a bag larger than his little brother. He flings open the door to the sleep clinic and runs towards the elevator. This is exciting. I have promised him electrodes. Little brother and Daddy are staying home tonight and only Connor will sleep in the clinic with Mommy.
We check in and are shown to our room. Connor inspects the room quickly, ooo and ahhing over the shower once he sees it’s equipped with a shorter nozzle for little ones or patients in wheel chairs. He is certain to secure a promise from me that he will be able to take a shower in it in the morning. He sits so patiently asking the nurse no less than one hundred questions about the electrodes, paste and wires. He wants to know what the wires do, where they will attach and what she will see when she monitors it on the computer. He’s brave. Not bothered by hard plastic taped under his nose or the electrodes attached to his scalp. I call him robot-boy. We talk about what super-powers he has with his new wire Super-suit. He is sleepy.
Three hours past his normal bedtime the nurse intercoms into the room. Would we like something to drink? A soda? Perhaps a muffin or a pack of crackers? Connor blurts out, “I’ll have a soda, and a muffin please.” “Nice try,” I respond. I order a Ginger Ale and ice water for Connor. It makes me feel guilty. I feel bad that he can’t have a muffin, but he’s tired and I don’t want him awake any longer because it’s been a long day, (for me).
I settle him in and grab Percy Jackson and The Lightening Thief. Some of my friends think I’m ridiculous for reading this book to him. It’s too old for him. Their kids don’t know words like hallucination or quest. Their kids don’t ask them questions about the Greek Gods and the history of man. Their kids aren’t captivated by chapter books. Mine is. He can’t get enough of it. The main character has ADHD. I remind him of this every time I read it to him. ADHD kids can be heroes too. I read. He sleeps.
We wake once in the night, because he’s woken up and frightened by the thing taped under his nose. He panics, he wants it off. The nurse says they’ve gotten enough data from it and removes it. He falls back into the bed on his side and resumes the snoring and kicking.
In the morning, I am told that he did not sleep well. He snored, kicked, talked and ground his teeth all night. I knew that he snored a little, but I didn’t know it was this serious. He’s not sleeping well. I learn that it is possible that although he is sleeping for 12 hours, he’s really only sleeping five. This could account for the years of difficulty focusing, hyperactivity and defiance. After years of taking one step forward and two steps back, I feel like we are standing on solid ground. We can fix this.
When we walk out of the sleep clinic; he is not running. He is not excited, but I am. His euphoria has worn off, but mine is just beginning. I am exhausted from a night of sleep deprivation, but I can’t stop smiling. We head off to Starbucks to celebrate with a cup of coffee and a hot chocolate. The sun rise is beautiful.
We check in and are shown to our room. Connor inspects the room quickly, ooo and ahhing over the shower once he sees it’s equipped with a shorter nozzle for little ones or patients in wheel chairs. He is certain to secure a promise from me that he will be able to take a shower in it in the morning. He sits so patiently asking the nurse no less than one hundred questions about the electrodes, paste and wires. He wants to know what the wires do, where they will attach and what she will see when she monitors it on the computer. He’s brave. Not bothered by hard plastic taped under his nose or the electrodes attached to his scalp. I call him robot-boy. We talk about what super-powers he has with his new wire Super-suit. He is sleepy.
Three hours past his normal bedtime the nurse intercoms into the room. Would we like something to drink? A soda? Perhaps a muffin or a pack of crackers? Connor blurts out, “I’ll have a soda, and a muffin please.” “Nice try,” I respond. I order a Ginger Ale and ice water for Connor. It makes me feel guilty. I feel bad that he can’t have a muffin, but he’s tired and I don’t want him awake any longer because it’s been a long day, (for me).
I settle him in and grab Percy Jackson and The Lightening Thief. Some of my friends think I’m ridiculous for reading this book to him. It’s too old for him. Their kids don’t know words like hallucination or quest. Their kids don’t ask them questions about the Greek Gods and the history of man. Their kids aren’t captivated by chapter books. Mine is. He can’t get enough of it. The main character has ADHD. I remind him of this every time I read it to him. ADHD kids can be heroes too. I read. He sleeps.
We wake once in the night, because he’s woken up and frightened by the thing taped under his nose. He panics, he wants it off. The nurse says they’ve gotten enough data from it and removes it. He falls back into the bed on his side and resumes the snoring and kicking.
In the morning, I am told that he did not sleep well. He snored, kicked, talked and ground his teeth all night. I knew that he snored a little, but I didn’t know it was this serious. He’s not sleeping well. I learn that it is possible that although he is sleeping for 12 hours, he’s really only sleeping five. This could account for the years of difficulty focusing, hyperactivity and defiance. After years of taking one step forward and two steps back, I feel like we are standing on solid ground. We can fix this.
When we walk out of the sleep clinic; he is not running. He is not excited, but I am. His euphoria has worn off, but mine is just beginning. I am exhausted from a night of sleep deprivation, but I can’t stop smiling. We head off to Starbucks to celebrate with a cup of coffee and a hot chocolate. The sun rise is beautiful.
Thursday, February 03, 2011
Assignment
Imagine your life is now a book. Write the blurb for it.
Janice is a small time Mom with big time plans, when she suddenly finds herself trapped alone in the house with her two small boys for the ENTIRE Summer. It doesn’t take long before she’s swept away solving one mystery after the next. WHAT IS that in the bathroom drain? WHO magic markered the DOG? Why is his poop BLUE?! This page turner is sure to have you on the edge of your seat, wondering, what IS that in his MOUTH? When she’s not solving mysteries, she’s taking deep breaths during the tender moments of teaching the children that maxi pads are not band aids and the hose cannot come into the house. You’ll fall in love with the way she repeats herself 500 times a day and makes a healthy dinner out of a can of chickpeas and a bottle of organic ketchup. You really don’t want to miss reading; They’re Cute When They’re Sleeping.
“Birth control at its finest!”
~ The Boston Globe
“Behold the wonder of children”
~ New York Times Book Review
“Janice amazes us again and again with her ability to tell which one is lying”
~ The San Francisco Chronicle
Janice is a small time Mom with big time plans, when she suddenly finds herself trapped alone in the house with her two small boys for the ENTIRE Summer. It doesn’t take long before she’s swept away solving one mystery after the next. WHAT IS that in the bathroom drain? WHO magic markered the DOG? Why is his poop BLUE?! This page turner is sure to have you on the edge of your seat, wondering, what IS that in his MOUTH? When she’s not solving mysteries, she’s taking deep breaths during the tender moments of teaching the children that maxi pads are not band aids and the hose cannot come into the house. You’ll fall in love with the way she repeats herself 500 times a day and makes a healthy dinner out of a can of chickpeas and a bottle of organic ketchup. You really don’t want to miss reading; They’re Cute When They’re Sleeping.
“Birth control at its finest!”
~ The Boston Globe
“Behold the wonder of children”
~ New York Times Book Review
“Janice amazes us again and again with her ability to tell which one is lying”
~ The San Francisco Chronicle
Friday, January 28, 2011
He said – First day of kindergarten
Well. I WAS sleeping. And then Mama came in with the camera and was taking pictures. I said, “NO!” and I meant it. I went under the covers. It looked like it was still night time outside.
“Good morning, sweet baby,” she said. “Let’s get up. It’s the first day of Kindergarten” I don’t care. I’m so sleepy. I say again, “NO!” and try to go back to sleep. But then I remembered something important. Today IS the first day of Kindergarten. Now I CAN’T go back to sleep, cause I don’t want to go and Mama is still taking pictures of me.
Mama feeds Garlic. That’s my fish. I wanted to name him after a spice. I feed him every day. He’s my fish. But today Mama fed him. That means we are in a hurry. I get out of bed. I don’t want to brush my teeth because after I brush teeth we have to go downstairs and get ready for kindergarten. I don’t really want to go to kindergarten. I like my stripy toothpaste but we are out. I don’t like that at all. Mama goes to get the Aim out of her bathroom. I like that even better. That’s DADDY’s toothpaste. And it’s awesome.
I have to put on school clothes. Mama says it’s called a uniform. I don’t like it. It itches. It has a tag. I don’t like tags. I tell Mama again that I want to wear sweatpants. She’s putting my shirt INSIDE of my pants. I don’t like that either. I try to pull it out. Mama gets that look on her face like she is starting to get mad. So I just stop and ask for sweatpants again. Mama is really tucking in that shirt real good though, so she doesn’t hear me.
Then Mama wakes up my little bother. I call him that just like Olivia on TV calls her little brother that. Only, he’s too little to know what that means. When I call him that he just says, “Yes, I AM!” That makes me mad.
I got to pick out my own cereal from the store yesterday and I picked out Life because that’s my favorite. Actually I really want to get one of the cartoon cereals but Mama never lets me. She says she’s not feeding me dessert for breakfast. Then she tells me that we don’t need to eat things with colors in them. Like colors are BAD. But I LIKE pink hearts in my cereal. At the store, I told her, “When I’m a grown up I’m going to eat Lucky Charms for breakfast every day.” She said that was fine, but she wasn’t paying for it. That doesn’t even make any sense.
I don’t want to eat my cereal. My tummy feels like I’m going to throw up. I tell Mama that my tummy hurts and she says it’s ok to have butterflies in my tummy. I get real quiet when she says that. She says some other stuff too, but I don’t hear cause I feel like I’m going to throw up. I wait on my little bother to finish his breakfast. He’s eating MY cereal. But I don’t hit him, because I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Mama takes more pictures. We get in the car and go to my new school. The whole time there Mama is talking so much about how I’m going to love Kindergarten and how much fun it’s going to be. She’s acting really happy that I’m going to kindergarten. She’s acting real weird.
We get into the parking lot and Mama explains that she’s just going to drop me off. I want her to go in with me, but she says she can’t. She says it’s the rules. I have to take off my seatbelt while the car is in the parking lot. “THAT IS NOT EVEN SAFE!” I tell her, but she says it’s ok so I do it anyway. I get to stand in front of my seat while the car is moving in the parking lot. I really like that part.
When we stop the car a lady comes and gets me out. I forgot to give Mama a kiss like she said I had to and I try to get back into the car, but the lady won’t let me. I yell, “I LOVE YOU” real loud so that Mama hears me. Then I blow her one hundred kisses and the lady takes me away from the car. Just then another lady comes up to me. She’s acting real happy too. She tells me how cool my Scooby Doo lunch box is, but I don’t answer her. I look back to see where Mama and brother are going. And they are LEAVING.
I don’t cry though. I’m a kindergartener now. I am amazing. And Mama is proud.
“Good morning, sweet baby,” she said. “Let’s get up. It’s the first day of Kindergarten” I don’t care. I’m so sleepy. I say again, “NO!” and try to go back to sleep. But then I remembered something important. Today IS the first day of Kindergarten. Now I CAN’T go back to sleep, cause I don’t want to go and Mama is still taking pictures of me.
Mama feeds Garlic. That’s my fish. I wanted to name him after a spice. I feed him every day. He’s my fish. But today Mama fed him. That means we are in a hurry. I get out of bed. I don’t want to brush my teeth because after I brush teeth we have to go downstairs and get ready for kindergarten. I don’t really want to go to kindergarten. I like my stripy toothpaste but we are out. I don’t like that at all. Mama goes to get the Aim out of her bathroom. I like that even better. That’s DADDY’s toothpaste. And it’s awesome.
I have to put on school clothes. Mama says it’s called a uniform. I don’t like it. It itches. It has a tag. I don’t like tags. I tell Mama again that I want to wear sweatpants. She’s putting my shirt INSIDE of my pants. I don’t like that either. I try to pull it out. Mama gets that look on her face like she is starting to get mad. So I just stop and ask for sweatpants again. Mama is really tucking in that shirt real good though, so she doesn’t hear me.
Then Mama wakes up my little bother. I call him that just like Olivia on TV calls her little brother that. Only, he’s too little to know what that means. When I call him that he just says, “Yes, I AM!” That makes me mad.
I got to pick out my own cereal from the store yesterday and I picked out Life because that’s my favorite. Actually I really want to get one of the cartoon cereals but Mama never lets me. She says she’s not feeding me dessert for breakfast. Then she tells me that we don’t need to eat things with colors in them. Like colors are BAD. But I LIKE pink hearts in my cereal. At the store, I told her, “When I’m a grown up I’m going to eat Lucky Charms for breakfast every day.” She said that was fine, but she wasn’t paying for it. That doesn’t even make any sense.
I don’t want to eat my cereal. My tummy feels like I’m going to throw up. I tell Mama that my tummy hurts and she says it’s ok to have butterflies in my tummy. I get real quiet when she says that. She says some other stuff too, but I don’t hear cause I feel like I’m going to throw up. I wait on my little bother to finish his breakfast. He’s eating MY cereal. But I don’t hit him, because I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Mama takes more pictures. We get in the car and go to my new school. The whole time there Mama is talking so much about how I’m going to love Kindergarten and how much fun it’s going to be. She’s acting really happy that I’m going to kindergarten. She’s acting real weird.
We get into the parking lot and Mama explains that she’s just going to drop me off. I want her to go in with me, but she says she can’t. She says it’s the rules. I have to take off my seatbelt while the car is in the parking lot. “THAT IS NOT EVEN SAFE!” I tell her, but she says it’s ok so I do it anyway. I get to stand in front of my seat while the car is moving in the parking lot. I really like that part.
When we stop the car a lady comes and gets me out. I forgot to give Mama a kiss like she said I had to and I try to get back into the car, but the lady won’t let me. I yell, “I LOVE YOU” real loud so that Mama hears me. Then I blow her one hundred kisses and the lady takes me away from the car. Just then another lady comes up to me. She’s acting real happy too. She tells me how cool my Scooby Doo lunch box is, but I don’t answer her. I look back to see where Mama and brother are going. And they are LEAVING.
I don’t cry though. I’m a kindergartener now. I am amazing. And Mama is proud.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
She said – First day of kindergarten
I know, I haven't been writing. Actually that's not true at all. I've been writing. Like crazy. I haven't been POSTING is more what I want to say. I miss writing my Dear Connor and Tristan, but I think I was burned out for a while. Now that Christmas is over I a little more time. I've been trying to get some things off of my plate, things that I've started but are ready to pass on, (like my SPD group), one of the newsletters that I do on a volunteer basis and anything else that I don't really NEED to do, but takes up my time anyway. I've been writing but not posting because last semester I was taking a creative writing class which is where all of my writing energy went. I have a ton of stuff from the class that I've been meaning to post so I guess I'll get to it. Prepare for an onslaught of completely random things I have written. Here's the first.
------------------------------------------------
It’s 6:45am. I am standing in a dark room, watching my five year old son sleep. He stirs slightly as if aware of my presence. I lift the camera and hope for the best. It’s not easy shooting in darkness. The red-eye reduction will be the only light I am able to focus with. I press the trigger and the flash illuminates the room like an impending storm. Connor groans and rolls over shielding his eyes from the light. I shoot again. He opens one eye says, “NO” and pulls the blankets over his face to hide himself from the Mother that’s surely come to wake him.
“Good morning, sweet baby,” I croon. “Let’s get up. It’s the first day of Kindergarten”
He says again, “No”. And tries to ignore me. I take another picture.
I coax him out of bed with the promise of an exciting day at school. He is leery. It takes forever to brush teeth. I tame the rooster hair that curls in a salute to the sky while he is sleeping. I make more promises about how much he is going to love Kindergarten and how fun it is going to be. I try to sound light and happy but I am afraid for him. I hope he can’t see it. Please don’t let him see it.
We try on his new uniform and I try to be positive when he complains and says he doesn’t understand why he can’t wear sweatpants and a t-shirt. I explain that all of the other children will be wearing the same and that it’s the rules. He complains again. I pretend to be absorbed in the tucking in of his shirt and do not answer.
We wake up the brother. The element that adds chaos to the morning. Connor is so distracted that he doesn’t even pick a fight with him. He doesn’t argue about who goes down the stairs first. His head is so full of anxiety and expectation that he doesn’t care.
His appetite is scant. He likes the cereal that he picked out at the store yesterday; it’s his favorite, but can’t eat because his tummy is a jumble of nerves. I empathize. He tells me he feels sick and I explain to him that it’s ok to have butterflies in his tummy. He doesn’t have to eat if he doesn’t want to. It’s going to be ok. He’s going to love it. Mama will take him and pick him up. Mama loves him. Mama is proud.
He wanders around the kitchen in circles, pacing. Waiting. We drive.
I explain to him how the drop off works on the way. He will get out of his seat belt when we go to the parking lot. He will have to give me a kiss. He will get out of the car and a teacher will take him to another teacher who will take him to his class. I remind him that he has lunch. He has snack. He is amazing. Mama is proud.
We pull up to the drop point and I stop the car. I turn to look at him and he’s staring out of the van door at the person that’s coming to take him away from his family. She opens the door and Connor hops out forgetting the kiss rule, but remembering as soon as his feet touch the ground he turns to get back in the car but the teacher pulls him away. He yells, “I LOVE YOU!” and blows me about ten kisses in a row. I smile, tell him I love him too and watch as he walks away staring wide eyed at the teacher that’s gushing about how cool his Scooby Doo lunch box is. He is not fooled. He looks back at the van, leaving him alone in this strange new place.
He looks so small. His backpack is almost as big as he is. He looks our way as we slowly pull away from the drop zone. As he turns to walk into the building a tear rolls down my cheek. There will be no inconsolable sobbing from me. I’m not a mother that will sit in the parking lot and cry for an hour lamenting the loss of my child. I can feel the knot in my stomach begin to untangle and but I know I still won’t be able to relax until I pick him up at the end of the day. Mama loves him. Mama is proud.
------------------------------------------------
It’s 6:45am. I am standing in a dark room, watching my five year old son sleep. He stirs slightly as if aware of my presence. I lift the camera and hope for the best. It’s not easy shooting in darkness. The red-eye reduction will be the only light I am able to focus with. I press the trigger and the flash illuminates the room like an impending storm. Connor groans and rolls over shielding his eyes from the light. I shoot again. He opens one eye says, “NO” and pulls the blankets over his face to hide himself from the Mother that’s surely come to wake him.
“Good morning, sweet baby,” I croon. “Let’s get up. It’s the first day of Kindergarten”
He says again, “No”. And tries to ignore me. I take another picture.
I coax him out of bed with the promise of an exciting day at school. He is leery. It takes forever to brush teeth. I tame the rooster hair that curls in a salute to the sky while he is sleeping. I make more promises about how much he is going to love Kindergarten and how fun it is going to be. I try to sound light and happy but I am afraid for him. I hope he can’t see it. Please don’t let him see it.
We try on his new uniform and I try to be positive when he complains and says he doesn’t understand why he can’t wear sweatpants and a t-shirt. I explain that all of the other children will be wearing the same and that it’s the rules. He complains again. I pretend to be absorbed in the tucking in of his shirt and do not answer.
We wake up the brother. The element that adds chaos to the morning. Connor is so distracted that he doesn’t even pick a fight with him. He doesn’t argue about who goes down the stairs first. His head is so full of anxiety and expectation that he doesn’t care.
His appetite is scant. He likes the cereal that he picked out at the store yesterday; it’s his favorite, but can’t eat because his tummy is a jumble of nerves. I empathize. He tells me he feels sick and I explain to him that it’s ok to have butterflies in his tummy. He doesn’t have to eat if he doesn’t want to. It’s going to be ok. He’s going to love it. Mama will take him and pick him up. Mama loves him. Mama is proud.
He wanders around the kitchen in circles, pacing. Waiting. We drive.
I explain to him how the drop off works on the way. He will get out of his seat belt when we go to the parking lot. He will have to give me a kiss. He will get out of the car and a teacher will take him to another teacher who will take him to his class. I remind him that he has lunch. He has snack. He is amazing. Mama is proud.
We pull up to the drop point and I stop the car. I turn to look at him and he’s staring out of the van door at the person that’s coming to take him away from his family. She opens the door and Connor hops out forgetting the kiss rule, but remembering as soon as his feet touch the ground he turns to get back in the car but the teacher pulls him away. He yells, “I LOVE YOU!” and blows me about ten kisses in a row. I smile, tell him I love him too and watch as he walks away staring wide eyed at the teacher that’s gushing about how cool his Scooby Doo lunch box is. He is not fooled. He looks back at the van, leaving him alone in this strange new place.
He looks so small. His backpack is almost as big as he is. He looks our way as we slowly pull away from the drop zone. As he turns to walk into the building a tear rolls down my cheek. There will be no inconsolable sobbing from me. I’m not a mother that will sit in the parking lot and cry for an hour lamenting the loss of my child. I can feel the knot in my stomach begin to untangle and but I know I still won’t be able to relax until I pick him up at the end of the day. Mama loves him. Mama is proud.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Dear Connor - 6 Years
Dear Connor,
I'd like to tell you that I haven't written your letter because I've been that busy, but really it's because I don't know what to say. You see, you've been having a tough time starting Kindergarten. Like Parent-Teacher conference the first week of school problems. The issues have mostly been regarding your inability to keep your hands to yourself, fidgeting, talking out of turn, you know, normal stuff... for you anyway. In a last ditch effort to avoid putting you on stimulant meds, we took a few trips to the Chiropractor, the neurologist and did a sleep study. You failed the sleep study, which I'll write an entry on later and the Neuro diagnosed you with ADHD, which we knew you had walking in the door.
Before I continue I want you to know something, we fought to avoid medication for you. We've done, OT, behavioral therapy, supplement therapy, elimination diets, (including gluten free), homeopathy and herbal meds. Nothing's worked. If we had unlimited finances we would have tried neuro feedback or one of the brain balancing therapies, but the funds aren't there and the feedback from people that have tried it is limited. So, in a desperate attempt to keep you from getting suspended over and over again, we filled a prescription. And it's working.
This is what I've learned having a child on medication for ADHD - most of the people that try to make you feel bad for putting your child on meds don't have a child with ADHD. Most of the people that are really pro medication have a child with ADHD. We have a really great support system of friends that might have thought we were crazy for trying all of this, but never talked down to us about it and really tried to help when they could.
In the end all that really matters is that we give you the tools to succeed in life, even if we don't see the benefit ourselves. You see, the med that we've chosen for you is a short acting med. I didn't want you to be on a stimulant all day long, so this one wears off after 7 hours. That's just long enough for you to make it through the school day and then come home and explode when it starts to wear off. You've gotten a smiley face every day at school, which is something that hasn't happened, well, ever. It's definitely relieved my own stress of worrying whether or not the school is going to call me again and I'm going to have to find a new and exciting way to explain to the staff that you are a fantastic kid that just doesn't have impulse control.
I know this journey has been most difficult on you, but it's been really hard for me too. I had no doubt that we could fix this without medication and in a lot of ways I feel like I've failed you, which may be the real reason that I haven't written you a letter for so long.
In the end we may have actually saved you, just not in the way I thought we would. See how much you teach me?
Your humble student,
Mama
I'd like to tell you that I haven't written your letter because I've been that busy, but really it's because I don't know what to say. You see, you've been having a tough time starting Kindergarten. Like Parent-Teacher conference the first week of school problems. The issues have mostly been regarding your inability to keep your hands to yourself, fidgeting, talking out of turn, you know, normal stuff... for you anyway. In a last ditch effort to avoid putting you on stimulant meds, we took a few trips to the Chiropractor, the neurologist and did a sleep study. You failed the sleep study, which I'll write an entry on later and the Neuro diagnosed you with ADHD, which we knew you had walking in the door.
Before I continue I want you to know something, we fought to avoid medication for you. We've done, OT, behavioral therapy, supplement therapy, elimination diets, (including gluten free), homeopathy and herbal meds. Nothing's worked. If we had unlimited finances we would have tried neuro feedback or one of the brain balancing therapies, but the funds aren't there and the feedback from people that have tried it is limited. So, in a desperate attempt to keep you from getting suspended over and over again, we filled a prescription. And it's working.
This is what I've learned having a child on medication for ADHD - most of the people that try to make you feel bad for putting your child on meds don't have a child with ADHD. Most of the people that are really pro medication have a child with ADHD. We have a really great support system of friends that might have thought we were crazy for trying all of this, but never talked down to us about it and really tried to help when they could.
In the end all that really matters is that we give you the tools to succeed in life, even if we don't see the benefit ourselves. You see, the med that we've chosen for you is a short acting med. I didn't want you to be on a stimulant all day long, so this one wears off after 7 hours. That's just long enough for you to make it through the school day and then come home and explode when it starts to wear off. You've gotten a smiley face every day at school, which is something that hasn't happened, well, ever. It's definitely relieved my own stress of worrying whether or not the school is going to call me again and I'm going to have to find a new and exciting way to explain to the staff that you are a fantastic kid that just doesn't have impulse control.
I know this journey has been most difficult on you, but it's been really hard for me too. I had no doubt that we could fix this without medication and in a lot of ways I feel like I've failed you, which may be the real reason that I haven't written you a letter for so long.
In the end we may have actually saved you, just not in the way I thought we would. See how much you teach me?
Your humble student,
Mama
Monday, October 04, 2010
The Matador
One of my assignments from a few weeks ago. Sestina.
Wikipedia says:
A sestina (also, sextina, sestine, or sextain) is a highly structured poem consisting of six six-line stanzas followed by a tercet (called its envoy or tornada), for a total of thirty-nine lines. The same set of six words ends the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time; if we number the first stanza's lines 123456, then the words ending the second stanza's lines appear in the order 615243, then 364125, then 532614, then 451362, and finally 246531.
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Dust rises high and fills the air
The sun, burns bright with hot despair
His cloak thrown loose across his back
Crimson red and velvet black
The voice of crowd begins to sound
Matador, stands on the ground
A beast of Earth, does not despair
El Toro, paws in angry air
Bull stomps outraged on the ground
His snort portent, a subtle sound
The scars of battle on his back
Crimson red and velvet black
Man breathes deep of dusty air
Arrogance dominates despair
The dance begins, no looking back
Crimson red and velvet black
Thundering hooves, a lonely sound
Bull plunges forward, splitting ground
Man rips the cloak, round from his back
Crimson red and velvet black
Disregarding all despair
Cloak and horns slice through the air
Matador, firm on the ground
The roar, “OLE!” the only sound
El Toro charges, steady back
Crimson red and velvet black
Horn meets flesh with no despair
Matador thrown in the air
The crowd falls noiseless, leaves no sound
Blood meets earth upon the ground
The still of silence fills the air
Blood and sand. Sweat, despair
Man lay crumpled on the ground
El Toro’s snort, the only sound
Blood seeps through dust, against man’s back
Crimson red and velvet black
Blood and sand, sweet despair, dust floats tender in the air
Crimson red and velvet black, face to heaven, earth to back
Humility spilled upon the ground, death comes for him, without a sound
Wikipedia says:
A sestina (also, sextina, sestine, or sextain) is a highly structured poem consisting of six six-line stanzas followed by a tercet (called its envoy or tornada), for a total of thirty-nine lines. The same set of six words ends the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time; if we number the first stanza's lines 123456, then the words ending the second stanza's lines appear in the order 615243, then 364125, then 532614, then 451362, and finally 246531.
------------------------------------------------------
Dust rises high and fills the air
The sun, burns bright with hot despair
His cloak thrown loose across his back
Crimson red and velvet black
The voice of crowd begins to sound
Matador, stands on the ground
A beast of Earth, does not despair
El Toro, paws in angry air
Bull stomps outraged on the ground
His snort portent, a subtle sound
The scars of battle on his back
Crimson red and velvet black
Man breathes deep of dusty air
Arrogance dominates despair
The dance begins, no looking back
Crimson red and velvet black
Thundering hooves, a lonely sound
Bull plunges forward, splitting ground
Man rips the cloak, round from his back
Crimson red and velvet black
Disregarding all despair
Cloak and horns slice through the air
Matador, firm on the ground
The roar, “OLE!” the only sound
El Toro charges, steady back
Crimson red and velvet black
Horn meets flesh with no despair
Matador thrown in the air
The crowd falls noiseless, leaves no sound
Blood meets earth upon the ground
The still of silence fills the air
Blood and sand. Sweat, despair
Man lay crumpled on the ground
El Toro’s snort, the only sound
Blood seeps through dust, against man’s back
Crimson red and velvet black
Blood and sand, sweet despair, dust floats tender in the air
Crimson red and velvet black, face to heaven, earth to back
Humility spilled upon the ground, death comes for him, without a sound
Saturday, October 02, 2010
Brave New Girl
For this assignment we had to write about someone that uses public space as private space. I figured everyone else would write about homeless people so I wanted to do something a little more outside of the box. I'm definately not the kind of blogger that I'm writing about below, but I do think it's a modern example of someone using private space as public space.
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I don’t speak loudly on my cell phone when I’m standing in line at Starbucks. I don’t put on makeup in my car. I don’t breastfeed without cover in the mall, or urinate in public places. I don’t make out in hot, crowded bars or stand too close to people when I’m talking to them. I’ve never shaved my legs in an airport bathroom or been naked in public. I’m braver than that. I write. I am a blogger.
I share something that’s much more personal than my conversations, my body or my rituals of hygiene. I fill the internet with the details of my convictions, my heart and my soul. I reveal details of the dreams fragmented by anxiety, the throb and glitter of looming hope. Images captured through my camera lens are hurled into cyberspace broadcasting moments once held sacred, to the world.
I channel my emotions onto the electronic page. I click. I share. I upload the secrets from my soul in bits and bytes. I sit braless, in striped pajamas, safely hidden behind the firewall that makes me brave in this new world. I let the words tumble from my beating heart through the rhapsody of wi-fi. Gone is the diary with the rainbow cover; it’s tiny lock protecting surreptitious thoughts. Gone are the letters creased and wrinkled from memorization, hidden underneath my mattress. My habitual secrecy ensnared, by the lure of an age of information.
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I don’t speak loudly on my cell phone when I’m standing in line at Starbucks. I don’t put on makeup in my car. I don’t breastfeed without cover in the mall, or urinate in public places. I don’t make out in hot, crowded bars or stand too close to people when I’m talking to them. I’ve never shaved my legs in an airport bathroom or been naked in public. I’m braver than that. I write. I am a blogger.
I share something that’s much more personal than my conversations, my body or my rituals of hygiene. I fill the internet with the details of my convictions, my heart and my soul. I reveal details of the dreams fragmented by anxiety, the throb and glitter of looming hope. Images captured through my camera lens are hurled into cyberspace broadcasting moments once held sacred, to the world.
I channel my emotions onto the electronic page. I click. I share. I upload the secrets from my soul in bits and bytes. I sit braless, in striped pajamas, safely hidden behind the firewall that makes me brave in this new world. I let the words tumble from my beating heart through the rhapsody of wi-fi. Gone is the diary with the rainbow cover; it’s tiny lock protecting surreptitious thoughts. Gone are the letters creased and wrinkled from memorization, hidden underneath my mattress. My habitual secrecy ensnared, by the lure of an age of information.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Lullaby
For this assignment we had to create a poem using the words that are bolded and use one proverb or familiar phrase.
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I will not, will not go to bed! Though Mother says I must
I ask her, “Please?” in my sweet voice, I make a big 'ole fuss
I needle her a little more, “I want to have a drink”
“Me too”, she says and then she laughs, I don’t know what to think
I pretend I am a puppy, I whir, I lick, I bite
But Mother says, “Even little pups must go nighty-night”
I ask for my stuffed bunny, she lets out a great big sigh
Then she says,”Its always best, to let sleeping bunnies lie”
“I will not go to bed”, I say,” I will not sleep tonight”
She lays a kiss on my sleepy eyes and then turns out the light
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I will not, will not go to bed! Though Mother says I must
I ask her, “Please?” in my sweet voice, I make a big 'ole fuss
I needle her a little more, “I want to have a drink”
“Me too”, she says and then she laughs, I don’t know what to think
I pretend I am a puppy, I whir, I lick, I bite
But Mother says, “Even little pups must go nighty-night”
I ask for my stuffed bunny, she lets out a great big sigh
Then she says,”Its always best, to let sleeping bunnies lie”
“I will not go to bed”, I say,” I will not sleep tonight”
She lays a kiss on my sleepy eyes and then turns out the light
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Dear Tristan - 4 Years
Dear Sugar Bear,
You've turned four! The whole time you were three you kept insisting that you were four. Now that you're four you keep insisting that you are five. The grass is always greener, baby. Now that Summer is over, you are saved from the extreme boredom that you've suffered for the past month. We thought you'd be impressed with the Iron Man mask that we got your for your birthday. You were... mildly. The only thing that you were really interested in were the Light Up, Luminator Sketchers Tennis Shoes that you asked for. You see, your brother got a pair of new shoes for the school year. Inside of the box were pictures of the different superheros that went with each shoe. You became quickly fascinated with the Luminator character and decided you wanted those shoes for your birthday. To be sure we were clear on which ones, you carried the box around for a week and reminded us every 20 minutes or so, for several days.
You are back in school and happy, happy, happy to be there. No more of that crying crap like last year. After being trapped with Mommy and brother in the house for the three months of Summer, you treat school like it's a blessing. And it is. For me.
Now that Connor has started kindergarten you both actually have the chance to miss each other. It's unbelievable. He comes home and the two of you actually run off together to play. You (sort of) even get along with each other. There's still some major screaming, and some hitting, and some snatching, but it's nothing like it was this summer.
You had your birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese this year. You weren't really interested in having a party there, except that's where Connor wanted to have his party, so that was your choice. During your party, you had the guest of honor at the head of the table. Right behind the head of the table was the Chuck E. Cheese show, with mechanical puppets, singing and turning on stage. You sat down in your seat, turned around and looked at the giant singing duck behind you and promptly decided there was no way in hell that you were sitting in front of that duck, bear or whatever that weird gopher thing was. You took a seat in the middle of the table so you could keep an eye on those things. You did get your picture taken with the mouse later, but seems like I remember having to bribe you.
I'm so proud of the little man you are becoming. I didn't even get a chance to write about your blossoming musical talent, your abillity to charm just about anyone or how your smile lights up a room. Next month.
Love you Sugarbear,
Mama
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Creative Writing Imagery Assignment
This is the third assignment completed for my creative writing class. It's been graded so I thought it would be safe to post it on the blog. I'll post the others as they are completed. This was an imagery assignment. I used some details from real life, but mostly made up the rest. I did have someone post a comment on the discussion thread asking me if it was a real story about me... I wanted to respond that yes, I'm a 92 year old woman with a full time nurse. But I didn't have the heart.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I look out the window, smeared with bird droppings that only the rain will clean. I would clean it myself, but it’s difficult to get out of bed. This is what it is to be an old woman. I feel the same way I did when I was sixteen years old, on the inside. But on the outside my ninety-two year old body has betrayed me.
When I look out the window I can see the old pecan tree. I know that its dark green leaves, wet with the morning rain, would smell like a cascade of damp earth and grass, if only I could go outside. The weathered black tire swing hangs lonely from the branches of that tree, waiting to serenade children with songs of wind and sun, waiting in its stillness to be loved again. To cut the air, with tiny feet and hands holding tight begging, “Higher! Higher!” To sing songs of summer and sweat. To sing songs of happiness.
By the old barn, I see the tractor he was working on the day he died. It sits red in its guilt, under the loft, not moved from the day he last tinkered with it. The day he said he’d be back for lunch, with only the treachery of his beating heart to stop him. The day I lost my husband.
Past the swing I look to the fence. The brown splintered posts stretch out of sync, losing their rhythm to time, trying to escape from the rusted barbed wire curling in despair. If I could stand there, I would run my withered fingers across the rusted wire as he used to, plucking it like a harp, listening for a chord that would reveal the weak spot. I would feel close to him there.
My own weak spot keeps me captive in this bed. So I look. I remember. I follow the fence line to the right and see the white cinderblock garage like a great, bleached bone stark against the green landscape. I can only see the inside of the garage in my mind.
Inside is a gray world of solitude. A world of motor oil stains and steel. Tools. Beer. I smell him here in this gray world. Like the flannel shirt kept next to the bed for fifteen years, safe from the laundry. The one my daughter found me hiding with after his funeral, my face buried into worn, blue fabric that dried my tears and eased my mourning with the lullaby of his smell.
Once when I was left unattended in my chair, I wheeled myself over to the garage and managed to roll inside. They found me there, thinking me addled with age.
“Why did you come in this old, dirty place?”
But they could not sense him there. They couldn’t see that it was gray from the stain of his touch. The memory of his hands once covered with motor oil and grease, spreading his absence on every inch of my world.
As they wheeled me away muttering, my chair complained, its stainless steel wheels squeaking in protest. I did not complain. After fifteen years, I still go in there and expect to hear him call my name. The tide of memory drags me weightless, into the undertow of my longing. The price is not always worth the pleasure.
Today, I look to be sure my nurse is far enough for me to noiselessly slip away. I stand with my walker, damning the squeaking bed as I quietly shuffle out of the bedroom. Out the back door into the rain. To ease my weary bones onto the tire swing and drift into the sun. I will close my eyes and sing my own song of summer. I will let the golden rain gild my face, and breathe in deep the green of damp earth. I will leave the fence in disrepair and mock the garage that beckons my memory. Forgetting if only for a moment. That he has left me behind.
Songs of Summer
I look out the window, smeared with bird droppings that only the rain will clean. I would clean it myself, but it’s difficult to get out of bed. This is what it is to be an old woman. I feel the same way I did when I was sixteen years old, on the inside. But on the outside my ninety-two year old body has betrayed me.
When I look out the window I can see the old pecan tree. I know that its dark green leaves, wet with the morning rain, would smell like a cascade of damp earth and grass, if only I could go outside. The weathered black tire swing hangs lonely from the branches of that tree, waiting to serenade children with songs of wind and sun, waiting in its stillness to be loved again. To cut the air, with tiny feet and hands holding tight begging, “Higher! Higher!” To sing songs of summer and sweat. To sing songs of happiness.
By the old barn, I see the tractor he was working on the day he died. It sits red in its guilt, under the loft, not moved from the day he last tinkered with it. The day he said he’d be back for lunch, with only the treachery of his beating heart to stop him. The day I lost my husband.
Past the swing I look to the fence. The brown splintered posts stretch out of sync, losing their rhythm to time, trying to escape from the rusted barbed wire curling in despair. If I could stand there, I would run my withered fingers across the rusted wire as he used to, plucking it like a harp, listening for a chord that would reveal the weak spot. I would feel close to him there.
My own weak spot keeps me captive in this bed. So I look. I remember. I follow the fence line to the right and see the white cinderblock garage like a great, bleached bone stark against the green landscape. I can only see the inside of the garage in my mind.
Inside is a gray world of solitude. A world of motor oil stains and steel. Tools. Beer. I smell him here in this gray world. Like the flannel shirt kept next to the bed for fifteen years, safe from the laundry. The one my daughter found me hiding with after his funeral, my face buried into worn, blue fabric that dried my tears and eased my mourning with the lullaby of his smell.
Once when I was left unattended in my chair, I wheeled myself over to the garage and managed to roll inside. They found me there, thinking me addled with age.
“Why did you come in this old, dirty place?”
But they could not sense him there. They couldn’t see that it was gray from the stain of his touch. The memory of his hands once covered with motor oil and grease, spreading his absence on every inch of my world.
As they wheeled me away muttering, my chair complained, its stainless steel wheels squeaking in protest. I did not complain. After fifteen years, I still go in there and expect to hear him call my name. The tide of memory drags me weightless, into the undertow of my longing. The price is not always worth the pleasure.
Today, I look to be sure my nurse is far enough for me to noiselessly slip away. I stand with my walker, damning the squeaking bed as I quietly shuffle out of the bedroom. Out the back door into the rain. To ease my weary bones onto the tire swing and drift into the sun. I will close my eyes and sing my own song of summer. I will let the golden rain gild my face, and breathe in deep the green of damp earth. I will leave the fence in disrepair and mock the garage that beckons my memory. Forgetting if only for a moment. That he has left me behind.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Creative Writing
This semester I signed up for a creative writing class at CPCC. It gets me back in as a current student which allows the priority of my registration to bump up a step, but also gives me some help with my writing. The first unit we are going through is poetry. I haven't written a poem in at least ten years and the prospect of writing prose is somewhat daunting. I struggled through the first assignment writing two poems so I could choose the one I liked the best. I'll probably post some of my assigned works, so if you stumble upon this page and find a random sonnet, I haven't completely succumbed to the madness of the household, I'm just trying to get my Shakespeare on.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Dear Connor - 5 Years, 10 Months
Dear Connor,
Tomorrow my dear you will be something that you've never been before. You will be introduced to your independence and hopefully your desire learn. You are going to begin the biggest social learning experience of your life. Tomorrow you will be starting kindergarten. No big deal I guess.
You had your assessment day last Thursday and the only information I could get out of you at first was that I didn't pack you enough for snack and that you were starving. You also mentioned that you met a friend, but you didn't remember her name. You told me the day seemed like a million hours and I cringed. You ain't seen nothing yet.
You had a great Summer. I ran your and your brother ragged, going from one activity to the next until last week when I completely burned out. I kept you and your brother home for most of the week, because I stopped moving for one day and completely lost my momentum. I didn't think I could bear to do anything other than the absolute necessary, (which did in fact include a trip to Discovery Place).
You will be thrilled to get some time away from your brother and I. At least for a month or so anyway. Now, "Daddy home days" will be called "Daddy and Connor home days". You'll get to do home work, go to bed early and eat packed lunches. I know you won't believe it, but we'll miss you terribly. It seems like just yesterday we were bringing you home from the hospital on a rainy day in California.
I love you,
Mama
Tomorrow my dear you will be something that you've never been before. You will be introduced to your independence and hopefully your desire learn. You are going to begin the biggest social learning experience of your life. Tomorrow you will be starting kindergarten. No big deal I guess.
You had your assessment day last Thursday and the only information I could get out of you at first was that I didn't pack you enough for snack and that you were starving. You also mentioned that you met a friend, but you didn't remember her name. You told me the day seemed like a million hours and I cringed. You ain't seen nothing yet.
You had a great Summer. I ran your and your brother ragged, going from one activity to the next until last week when I completely burned out. I kept you and your brother home for most of the week, because I stopped moving for one day and completely lost my momentum. I didn't think I could bear to do anything other than the absolute necessary, (which did in fact include a trip to Discovery Place).
You will be thrilled to get some time away from your brother and I. At least for a month or so anyway. Now, "Daddy home days" will be called "Daddy and Connor home days". You'll get to do home work, go to bed early and eat packed lunches. I know you won't believe it, but we'll miss you terribly. It seems like just yesterday we were bringing you home from the hospital on a rainy day in California.
I love you,
Mama
Friday, August 06, 2010
Dear Tristan - 3 Years, 11 Months
Dear Tristan,
I'm not sure what you will remember of your summer vacation from 2010 so let me assure you, you were not bored. This Summer we've; gone swimming in a lake, took your first ride on a speedboat, gone fishing, swam in pools, had picnics, gone to the park, had playdates, gone to the movies, taken a music class, shot off fireworks, got a puppy, gone to museums, went swimming at a State Park, went to Monkey Joe's, went to splash parties, went to spray grounds, rode horses, went to a festival, played at Plaza Fiesta and a million other things that I can't list because after writing all of that, I had to go and take a quick nap it made me so tired.
So, just in case you only remember laying in front of the TV while Mommy folded laundry here are some pictures of the fun you've had this Summer.
You rode some stuff...
rode some more stuff...
and some more stuff...
went to the beach...
played in the rain...
played with fire...
went to the zoo...
met your cousins...
started to look more and more like a little boy...
You'll always be my little boy.
I love you,
Mama
I'm not sure what you will remember of your summer vacation from 2010 so let me assure you, you were not bored. This Summer we've; gone swimming in a lake, took your first ride on a speedboat, gone fishing, swam in pools, had picnics, gone to the park, had playdates, gone to the movies, taken a music class, shot off fireworks, got a puppy, gone to museums, went swimming at a State Park, went to Monkey Joe's, went to splash parties, went to spray grounds, rode horses, went to a festival, played at Plaza Fiesta and a million other things that I can't list because after writing all of that, I had to go and take a quick nap it made me so tired.
So, just in case you only remember laying in front of the TV while Mommy folded laundry here are some pictures of the fun you've had this Summer.
You rode some stuff...
rode some more stuff...
and some more stuff...
went to the beach...
played in the rain...
played with fire...
went to the zoo...
met your cousins...
started to look more and more like a little boy...
You'll always be my little boy.
I love you,
Mama
Friday, July 09, 2010
Hitler freaks out over Comic Sans MS
Hitler isn't the only one that has the hate on for this font. There's a group online that is dedicated to hating this font. We've seen this Hitler movie clip with several different subtitles, all of them, amusing, but this one cracks me up too.
Hitler freaks out over Comic Sans MS.
Hitler freaks out over Comic Sans MS.
Thursday, July 01, 2010
Dear Tristan - 3 Years, 10 Months
Dear Tristan,
Driving home from the beach I had a great idea for this month's Dear Tristan. It was such a great idea, I thought I should write it down. But then I thought to myself that it was such a great idea that I wouldn't forget it. I remember having this entire dialog in my head. But I've forgotten the idea. It was about something that you do. Something that was so distinct that I could write an entire entry on it. Something about you that I didn't want to forget. It pisses me off that I can't remember what it was.
I thought at first maybe it was your eating habits, but that wasn't it. Maybe it was the way that you are starting to sing to yourself while you are completing tasks, shaking your hips and humming along. Could have been how when we were at the beach you spent the entire time paddling around on your kickboard chatting with any kids or adults that would respond to your conversation. You are definitely a people person. Charm is going to be one of your superpowers. If I can't push you on the swing at the park because I'm helping your brother with something, or talking to another parent, you'll just find a parent that is already pushing a child, take the swing next to them and ask if they will push you too. Usually they do. I mean, they are already standing there right?
When we were at the beach you made friends with a 70 year old artist and a 20-something year old soon to be bride. And when I say made friends with, I mean you talked to them for at least 20 minutes while you kicked around in the water. They were both women but you aren't afraid to go up to the Dad type on the beach and ask if he'll pull you around on the kickboard with his children. I know I should chide you for asking random people for things that you want and I do, but I'm glad you've figured out something after three years of life that a lot of people never get. You would be surprised to find what you can get, by just asking nicely for it. This is something that I learned in my 20's and it's served me well. Just don't forget to smile when you ask.
I love you,
Ahma
Driving home from the beach I had a great idea for this month's Dear Tristan. It was such a great idea, I thought I should write it down. But then I thought to myself that it was such a great idea that I wouldn't forget it. I remember having this entire dialog in my head. But I've forgotten the idea. It was about something that you do. Something that was so distinct that I could write an entire entry on it. Something about you that I didn't want to forget. It pisses me off that I can't remember what it was.
I thought at first maybe it was your eating habits, but that wasn't it. Maybe it was the way that you are starting to sing to yourself while you are completing tasks, shaking your hips and humming along. Could have been how when we were at the beach you spent the entire time paddling around on your kickboard chatting with any kids or adults that would respond to your conversation. You are definitely a people person. Charm is going to be one of your superpowers. If I can't push you on the swing at the park because I'm helping your brother with something, or talking to another parent, you'll just find a parent that is already pushing a child, take the swing next to them and ask if they will push you too. Usually they do. I mean, they are already standing there right?
When we were at the beach you made friends with a 70 year old artist and a 20-something year old soon to be bride. And when I say made friends with, I mean you talked to them for at least 20 minutes while you kicked around in the water. They were both women but you aren't afraid to go up to the Dad type on the beach and ask if he'll pull you around on the kickboard with his children. I know I should chide you for asking random people for things that you want and I do, but I'm glad you've figured out something after three years of life that a lot of people never get. You would be surprised to find what you can get, by just asking nicely for it. This is something that I learned in my 20's and it's served me well. Just don't forget to smile when you ask.
I love you,
Ahma
Monday, June 28, 2010
Dear Connor - 5 Years, 9 Months
Dear Connor,
This week we had our first beach trip of the Summer. The drive up was brutal for me but only because I didn't get to sit in the back and have someone hand me random video games, sticks of gum or donuts while I watched my choice of any Disney movie I choose. It must be hard being a kid. The ride up is mostly difficult for me because it's so boring. We are interstate most of the way so there's nothing to look at but other cars and semi trucks. Luckily on the way home, you and your brother are so tired that you sleep for a couple of hours and even though the scenery is boring, I can appreciate the quiet.
We generally spend most of our beach time at the Sound. The waves are smaller and you and your brother, get the beach experience without all of the risk. If Daddy and I are both at the beach it's easy enough to take you to the "real" beach, but without another person it gets really difficult to keep an eye on both you and your brother and it stresses me out. But that's not a tragedy to you or brother because you prefer the Sound. Nothing like getting completely run over by a couple of waves to make you see that it's really nice to go to the Sound where you can actually swim.
I thought about taking you to the beach one morning of our trip, but after taking you and your brother there the evening before I decided against it. In just the hour we were there, you were edging deeper into the ocean. That would be fine if you knew how to swim or listened to me when I told you to come closer to the beach. But my warnings of, "you are getting too deep" were completely ignored. To be perfectly honest I was sort of hoping that one of the waves would take you down, (but down in a completely safe and effective way, that would not give a parent a heartattack) and you would get a mouthful of seawater so you would understand that the ocean is to be respected. But that didn't happen. Maybe next time.
Only two more months until Kindergarten.
I love you,
Mama
This week we had our first beach trip of the Summer. The drive up was brutal for me but only because I didn't get to sit in the back and have someone hand me random video games, sticks of gum or donuts while I watched my choice of any Disney movie I choose. It must be hard being a kid. The ride up is mostly difficult for me because it's so boring. We are interstate most of the way so there's nothing to look at but other cars and semi trucks. Luckily on the way home, you and your brother are so tired that you sleep for a couple of hours and even though the scenery is boring, I can appreciate the quiet.
We generally spend most of our beach time at the Sound. The waves are smaller and you and your brother, get the beach experience without all of the risk. If Daddy and I are both at the beach it's easy enough to take you to the "real" beach, but without another person it gets really difficult to keep an eye on both you and your brother and it stresses me out. But that's not a tragedy to you or brother because you prefer the Sound. Nothing like getting completely run over by a couple of waves to make you see that it's really nice to go to the Sound where you can actually swim.
I thought about taking you to the beach one morning of our trip, but after taking you and your brother there the evening before I decided against it. In just the hour we were there, you were edging deeper into the ocean. That would be fine if you knew how to swim or listened to me when I told you to come closer to the beach. But my warnings of, "you are getting too deep" were completely ignored. To be perfectly honest I was sort of hoping that one of the waves would take you down, (but down in a completely safe and effective way, that would not give a parent a heartattack) and you would get a mouthful of seawater so you would understand that the ocean is to be respected. But that didn't happen. Maybe next time.
Only two more months until Kindergarten.
I love you,
Mama
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Big Ear
It's mid afternoon and we've just returned from the grocery store. I've been trying to find something that Layla can chew on that doesn't have laces or rubber soles. I call it, Project: Save the Shoes. She likes the Milk Bone biscuits and is crazy for a small piece of hot dog, which is what I've used to teach her to sit and shake. But she isn't into any of the chewy stuff. Rawhide and such. I ran across a package of Pig Ears at the grocery. My dog used to love those. I figure it will keep Layla busy for at least 20 minutes and maybe satisfy the need to chew on our shoes. For a little while anyway.
So I buy a two pack. Upon returning home, I give her one of the ears and then notice Connor pouting. He's about to start ranting because the puppy was given a treat by someone other than him, but then he stops and says, "What IS that?" I say, "It's a Pig Ear" and then freeze, suddenly realizing that I may have just opened an can of worms I wasn't meaning to open. He doesn't hear me. "What?", he asks. I say, "It's a BIG Ear. That's just what it's called, I dunno" and then quickly drop the subject. A few minutes later I walk past Layla who is eating her pig's ear with gusto and say, "Wow. She really likes that pig ear". Connor starts laughing and says, "Mommy! You just called it a PIG'S EAR and it's a BIG EAR. You are SO silly Mommy!" I nod at him. "You're right, baby. It's a big ear. I am so silly". And then I leave the room, relieved that I'm not suddenly sucked into a conversation that reveals that hamburgers are actually made from cows.
So I buy a two pack. Upon returning home, I give her one of the ears and then notice Connor pouting. He's about to start ranting because the puppy was given a treat by someone other than him, but then he stops and says, "What IS that?" I say, "It's a Pig Ear" and then freeze, suddenly realizing that I may have just opened an can of worms I wasn't meaning to open. He doesn't hear me. "What?", he asks. I say, "It's a BIG Ear. That's just what it's called, I dunno" and then quickly drop the subject. A few minutes later I walk past Layla who is eating her pig's ear with gusto and say, "Wow. She really likes that pig ear". Connor starts laughing and says, "Mommy! You just called it a PIG'S EAR and it's a BIG EAR. You are SO silly Mommy!" I nod at him. "You're right, baby. It's a big ear. I am so silly". And then I leave the room, relieved that I'm not suddenly sucked into a conversation that reveals that hamburgers are actually made from cows.
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