Quote of the Day

Declan to Emily: "Your tiny little attention span makes my life very difficult!"

A Cootie Problem

So, Isabella rolls up on The Husband the other day and asks a very odd question.

"Dad, when you were little, was there ever someone who loved you and you couldn't stand them?"
"I don't know, why?"
"Well, there's this boy Jessie at school who is in love with me."
"You don't like him?"
"NO! He is telling everyone that he wants me to be his girlfriend!" Insert exasperated eye roll here.
"Why don't you like him?"
"Well, he has a bit of a cootie problem."
"A cootie problem? What's that?"
"He has been in love with every single girl in the entire school! That's definitely a cootie problem!"

Ryan

Ryan died on Monday.

I had held out hope that the doctors had underestimated his stubborn nature and he would wake up any day to demand beer and wings. They hadn't and he didn't. So, yesterday I dressed up the kids, stocked my purse with tissues, tied a tie on The Husband and set off for the funeral.

I knew it would be unspeakably sad. Ryan was only 31 years old, and a death that young is always extra hard. What surprised and delighted me was how much laughter and joy Ryan's family managed to include. Since he wasn't religious, the service was a series of eulogies separated by songs he loved. Pink Floyd, The Beatles and Nirvana. What made me truly grateful was that the speakers, his sister, best friend and mother, spoke lovingly and frankly about Ryan. His sister spoke about the horror of not being able to date in high school because he didn't approve of anyone. His best friend talked about skipping school and unfortunate drug use. His mom, and much of the family, wore Chicago Bears gear because he had asked them to.

I had never met most of the people at the funeral yesterday. While almost all of us wept through the entire service and little after-lunch, there was also a collective joy I'd never felt at a funeral before. Everyone loved Ryan for all the same reasons. He was funny, kind, loyal, sharp as a tack and one of the finest people I'd ever met. Yesterday we all shared the pain of losing that from our lives, but we also shared the privilege of our lives having been touched by Ryan in the first place. The funeral was very sad, but it wasn't only sad.

I think Ryan would have been very pleased. Go Bears.

sad

One of my friends is going to die this week. I don't know that for sure I guess, but that what his doctors say and I'm pretty certain they don't say that unless they are confident in that fact. It's not fair. Ryan is only 30. He wasn't in an accident or anything tragic, he's just sick and is going to die.

I've never had a friend die before. I'm not sure what to do. People in my life have died, but they've either been old or not very close. Ryan isn't either. I should have made more time to see him, invited him over more, all that stuff. But damn it, he's fucking 30. He's not supposed to die on us. He's supposed to be here for Thanskgiving and the zoo in the spring and to watch baseball next summer. He's not supposed to die.

I'm going to go see him in the hospital on Thursday. I don't want to, and I hate myself for that. I want to say goodbye, and I want to hug him and tell him I love him. But, I am going to cry. A lot. I'm going to be hopelessly sad and I don't want his last week to be sad. I want him to come over for wings and scones and beer and sit on our couch and watch baseball and talk about nothing for hours and just be a part of our weird little family for a day. But, he can't. I'm going to go see him in a sterile, horrible hospital that smells like death. He's probably going to be hooked up to tubes and shit and it's not going to be normal, there will be no baseball and there will definately be no beer. And, I'm afraid I'm not going to know what to say.

I'm angry. I'm distraught. I'm guilty. But most of all, I want him back. He's a beautiful soul and it's not fair that he's leaving.

I love you Ryan. I'll see you Thursday.

The Aspiring Princess

Emily was not pleased. I had the nerve to ask her to clean her room. Gasp! She put her hands on her hips and very patiently tried to explain to me where I had gone so horribly wrong.

"Mom.

I am a princess.

And princesses don't clean their rooms.

Princesses order someone else to do it.

So, I think YOU should do it!"

In the interest of not incriminating myself I will not give all the details of what happened next, but Her Majesty went and cleaned her room after some introspection and an attitude ajustment.

Picking your Battles

I yelled at my son yesterday. I really try to avoid doing that, but sometimes I snap.

A few days ago, I made homemade chicken noodle soup. It was amazing. But, the best thing about making a big vat of soup is that for the next few days we get to have leftover soup. For the woeful beings who eat their soup out of a can, I'll let you in on a secret. Leftover soup is vastly superior to fresh soup.

So all of us were dishing and heating bowls of deliciousness, and I went to get a spoon. I opened the drawer and saw that Declan had spilled about half a cup of soup inside the drawer, picked up a clean spoon and went about his evening. Are you fucking kidding me? I lost it. He did not respond well.

Though Declan did scrub the drawer, he also launched into one of his epic fits. And I mean epic. This son of mine is known for his commitment to his own anger. His first preschool teacher only taught one year. I don't believe it had anything to do with having to carry him, kicking and screaming, back to school from an unfortunate attempt at a field trip to the public library. At any rate, because I dared demand he clean up after himself, Declan bunkered in at the top of the stairs and would use toys as projectiles to anyone who dare approach. Great.

I sent The Husband up to try and talk him down from the ledge. Literally.

Declan gave up his position and fled to his bedroom behind the safety of his door. The Husband called through the door and offered to go in and talk through it. This was completely unacceptable to Declan, and he told The Husband "Don't you come in here! I have a wrench and I'm ready to GO!"

The Husband quickly weighed the risk. Though he thought it was probable that Declan did not, in fact, have a wrench and an even slimmer chance that he would actually use it, he knew that the boy does have an impressive and very accurate throwing arm and decided it would be best to give him some space.

Before long, Declan came downstairs on his own brandishing only a sheepish apology. We discussed the appropriate and inappropriate uses of hand tools, and everyone enjoyed some soup.

Stalking for Dummies

One evening, Emily was gushing about her "boyfriend". I always protest this; I just don't like my five-year old talking about boys yet. I know it will happen eventually and that she will, despite her father's best efforts, someday date. But, I really feel as if I should have been able to enjoy the delusion of the contrary a bit longer.

At any rate, she was quite a way into her diatribe when she dropped the boy's name. It was a different name than I was used to hearing. Awesome. I made a mental note to start going through her bag to remove the covert belly shirts and hoochie pants when she turns 13.

"Really? I thought your boyfriend was Tyler. How's he going to feel about Parker being your new boyfriend?"
"Mom. Parker isn't new. They can both be my boyfriend."
"Yeah, that usually doesn't work out so well, Emily. Boys don't like to share girlfriends."

This caused her pause. She had never considered that this wouldn't be a plan eagerly embraced by all.

She thrust out a hip, planted her hands on her waist and made her decision.
"Hm. Well, I guess they're just going to have to have a fight then."

Hopefully in ten years remote tracking devices that can be embedded at the base of a skull will become more reasonably priced.

Quote of the Day

Emily, how was Kindergarten today?
"Well it was great we had free play today but we could only play with certain toys so that doesn't make it free play it makes it table time and I played at recess with Amy and Madison and we were kittens like we always are at recess but usually it is me and Madison and Bailey but today Bailey didn't want to be a kitten so we substituted Amy and she did okay and everybody was really good today and nobody's worm even moved off the green apple to the yellow one not even Anna because her worm moves every day but not today because we were all so good and we got a new alpha friend today and you'll never guess what letter it was Mom it was N and he's not an animal at all he's a NOODLE and his name is Nyle isn't that the silliest thing you've ever heard A NOODLE alpha friend and we learned a new song about him and this is how it goes..."
And she started singing.
I don't remember the song, sorry.
Longest Quote of the Day ever.

My Gifted Child

So, my oldest was placed in Talented and Gifted Reading. I was not as excited as you may think. First off, the former teacher in me does not like pull out classes at all. I don't like the idea of her leaving her regular class. From an instructional point of view, an integrated classroom just benefits everyone - especially the kids that are having trouble.

Anyway, we got the letter and she was in. I knew we were in trouble when we read the little introductory note from the teacher. Most of it was about how organized the class would be and the penalties for the students if they do not display the appropriate levels of organization and structure. Organization and structure? My kid is doomed. Since Isabella is exactly like her father, I knew it would be only a matter of time before the meetings would be called. It took less than a week.

Isabella does not have that internal voice that tells her to comply. She views instructions from adults as suggestions and pretty much sees school as a cafeteria plan. While I think this critical assessment of everything will serve her well later, it does cause problems when one is in the third grade.

Well, Isabella brought to class only the supplies with which she was interested in working, and completed only the assignments she felt were valuable or interesting. Which was none. On day four of TAG, The Husband got an email from the teacher that suggested Isabella did not belong in the class. Which is not the way to build a strong working relationship with parents. "Hi! I've never met you before, but your kid isn't smart enough to be in my very important class." Yeah, someone should not be teaching TAG. Or at least should try to avoid grammar and spelling errors and limit herself to only one punctuation mark at the end of each sentence.

Anyway, we scheduled the meeting with the principal, regular teacher and the genius TAG teacher. We also lectured Isabella and instructed her to do her work, even if it was stupid or boring.

Two days later, I was driving Isabella to dance. I asked how TAG went that day.

"Oh... yeah... Mom. I don't remember."
"Isabella. It was today."
"Oh! TAG! Yeah it was great!"
"Really? What did you do in class today?"
"We took our test over The Dollhouse Murders."
"Yeah? How did you do?"
"Great!"
"So you did finish reading the book, then?"
"Hmmm. Well, sadly Mom, I did not actually finish the book."
"If you didn't finish the book, how did you do great on the test?"
"Well, it only had three questions on it! Isn't that awesome?!?"
"Isabella. In my entire life I have never seen a test with three questions on it."
"Hm. Well, Mom, I guess you should have been in TAG today, huh?"

Yep. I guess I should have been.

Earning Great Kids

I was emailing with the principal of my kids' school last week (who is totally great and I think should make $100,000 a year) (seriously) and he closed one of his messages with "you are blessed to have such great kids". First of all, we absolutely are. They are beautiful, athletic and have a very high capacity for intelligence. No bias.

But, we have also worked our asses off to have great kids. Starting from day one. One week after I went back to teaching, The Husband quit his job to stay home with our daughter. We decided that we were going to raise her, not a daycare. There are some amazing day cares out there for sure, but our decision was not to go that route. As a result we were poor. Really fucking poor. Go without power for a week until you can pay the bill and eat spaghetti for a month straight poor. The Husband starting driving a cab and we would eat based on how much money he made in tips. If he made $3 in a night (and sometimes he did you cheap fuckers) then we had spaghetti with the ghetto canned sauce.

The point is not to feel sorry for us, just to illustrate that we made huge sacrifices to spend time with our kids. We did not have cable and spent a lot of time watching Street Smarts and NYPD Blue reruns. We did not have a cell phone. Either of us. We shared one crappy car. I did not go to the salon. All of our clothes came from Goodwill. We did not eat out and did nothing recreational that cost a penny. We even had *gasp* DIAL UP INTERNET!

Do you know what we did do? We read to our kids. We went to state parks and walked trails. We visited family - partly for the free food. We hung out, played games and talked to our kids. Actually talked to them. Got to know them. Watched them grow. One of us was there for every single milestone.

And you know what? None of them remember eating ghetto spaghetti. They don't remember not having cable and they didn't know it was weird that our family only had one car and basically no technology. They do remember us. They remember our experiences and they still like hanging out all together.

We are a tight family. We hang out. Things are better financially, and we do have cable and fast internet and a couple cars. But we still have each other. We still go camping for vacation. We still go hiking and we still read. Now my kids are recommending books to me. And we talk. A lot. The reason I have so many great stories about my kids and my friends pestered my into this blog is because I actually hang out with my offspring. I like them. I enjoy spending time with them. I don't shove them off on my parents every weekend so I can go get drunk with my friends. I would rather read Wimpy Kid books or watch iCarly.

Do you know what else? All of my kids are the very best in their class at reading. They get great grades, and all love school. And, this may be a bit of wishful thinking, but I think I'm going to have great teenagers, too. I'm sure they will make bad decisions sometimes, but because I've been interested in them their entire lives I think they'll do okay.

We do have great kids. But, we didn't get them by magic. It has been hard fucking work. But, I think the payoff will be some excellent people with whom I will enjoy sharing my life. Who knows what life will bring. Maybe someday the Husband and I will be eating ghetto spaghetti again. But, I know that if that happens I'll have a table full of people that I love. Nothing else matters.

Quote of the Day

Declan: "You know, Dad, I don't think I'm going to get a wife when I grow up."
Dad: "Well, that's up to you. Why not, though?"
Declan: "Well, I don't think I want someone telling me what to do all the time and stuff."
Dad: "Yeah, well there is that."

Quote of the Day

My kids and I were discussing Katy Perry being disqualified from Sesame Street for wearing a slutty outfit. I don't actually use the word "slutty" with my kids. I don't need those calls from school. We say "hoochie". It's more fun to say, anyway.

So my oldest two were outraged that Ms. Perry would hoochie out on Sesame Street.

"That's just stupid." "Doesn't she know that little kids watch Sesame Street?!?!" "If little kids see her dressed that way, they might grow up and think that it's okay to be a hoochie!"

My youngest had just been taking it all in, but here she interjected "Hoochies are for grown ups!  Especially if they are drinking beer."

Indeed they are, my dear. Indeed they are.