Serrano Family 2006

 

On Death and Funerals

My aunt betty recently passed away. And I have to say that Oh MY God It Was the Worse Funeral Ever!!! I don’t know how many funerals you’ve been to, but I do know that going to only one bad funeral is all you need in order to put your affairs in order.

My Aunt Betty passed away the weekend after Thanksgiving. Now, my Aunt Betty was a fashion-ista if ever there was one. She didn’t leave the house unless she was looking her best. And if she didn’t look her best, you better believe she wasn’t feeling well. This woman who was definitely the red suit type of woman – was buried in what appeared to be man’s button down shirt that was about 3 sizes too big and some loose frumpy skirt. She was frumpy – My Aunt Betty was never frumpy a day in her life.

And then the actual funeral. My goodness, I don’t know who the man was who gave the sermon, but I do believe that he had just been released from Western State Hospital. He spent more time telling us how he didn’t want to die and leave his wife – and how it says in the Bible that you won’t recognize the people you love when you get to heaven and if that was the case he wasn’t so sure he wanted to go. I kept waiting for a word of comfort to come out – and occasionally he would mention that Aunt Betty was in heaven – but then he’d say something that made heaven seem to be a really terrible place to be. Now, the music was pretty good – but that may be because Daddy and Jodi were the ones who were singing. And Aunt Betty’s daughter got up and said a few words, as well as Caroline, Aunt Betty’s granddaughter. That part of the service was really good – and I would highly recommend it to anyone and everyone.

Anyway, as I was walking out of the funeral home, I decided that it was important to know what you wanted to do during a funeral. Now, personally, I’m not planning on having a funeral. Why you ask? Well, do I need to remind you of my 13th birthday party. I am not paying a bunch of money for a funeral to which on one will attend. For the very few people that I know that I think will come to my funeral, I’m thinking that they can come to the house or something. Besides, I’m going to be cremated. I’m still flirting with the idea of donating my body to science – because then they cremate you for free and send you back after a year. At which point, anyone who is still alive will be ready to go on a trip to dump my ashes someplace cool. Of course if Jose is thinking of using that dump the ashes thing as a free second honeymoon then my spirit will come right back down and crash his plane.

So, I suppose when I think of funerals, I don’t really think of my own. I think of my grandma walker’s and my mom’s. I think grandma walker’s should be a more formal, traditional affair. I’m sure daddy will give the sermon – he did for granddaddy walker. But I think it would be nice for Jodi or someone to get up and say something. But Mom’s funeral I think is going to be different. I think we’ll have joyful not sorrowful music. I can already hear Spirit in the Sky blasting the funeral home speaker system. And I know that she has often mentioned having a new Orleans brass band playing – but I’m not sure we’ll be able to pull that one off – but maybe some music.

If anyone has seen love actually – I would love the video slide show thing – or the movie with all the pictures and happy memories put together. Laughter through tears sort of thing.

The other thing that struck me as I was sitting in the funeral - trying not to listen to the crazy man who was telling us that dying sucked for everyone – was that when you are in a funeral – you grieve not just for the person who has just died. You grieve for every loss you have ever had. It is the biggest, most intense pity party ever held. But it is cathartic. There is release and you do feel better after it is all said and done. I suppose it’s the same at weddings – the reason why people cry when they aren’t really that close to the bride or groom – because it’s a new beginning, a rite of passage, a momentous, life-changing event – and we are either remembering our own, imagining that of our own children, or perhaps mourning some lost chance / love. Either way – there is an outpouring of emotions – and I suppose it explains why so many people get laid right after. Though I must say that I have never had funeral sex -- but then I haven’t been looking for it either – so who knows – maybe the next funeral I’ll get lucky.

On the perfect gift

I have long been in search of the perfect gift. Each Christmas and birthday, my family and friends come to me and ask “what would you like?” And I never seem to have an answer. There are many things that I like, but what do I want to receive as a present. I am not one of those people who likes to receive practical items for gifts. I would rather purchase a practical item myself. Unlike many, I will not use the money that I would normally have spent on that item and buy something frivolous for myself. For example, my mom wants someone to get her a norelco shaver for Christmas. And all I can think is what a crappy thing to unwrap. Sure it’s something that I wanted, but if I really wanted it, I would have already bought it for myself. Which leads me to the other problem with buying me presents. If I want something, usually, I’ve already purchased it for myself. Unless it’s really expensive, at which point, no one that I know will be able to buy it for me anyway.

Deep down inside, I want someone to know me well enough to find that perfect gift for me. I don’t want to open a gift, see a leopard skinned make-up case, and wonder – who do you think that I am – that you think this is a good gift for me – it’s clearly not a good gift for me – 1. I’m not a leopard skin print person – have you ever seen me in leopard skin print? No. And 2. Unless you are planning on dying immediately after I open the present, there’s really no need for the make up as I haven’t worn make up in probably 10 years- I know that I wore some to my wedding – and perhaps some to my friend Mary’s wedding – but when I saw the pictures that showed me looking like Lulu from Hee Haw (big hair is not my thing) – well that was probably it. So why did you think that I would want a leopard print make up kit –do you know me? I think not.

Jose, particularly, has difficulty buying gifts for me. He asks what I want – and every time, I feel like it’s a test. What would you buy me on your own. Now to be fair, most gifts he has bought for me are touching – I look at them and see the thought he put in them and am grateful and happy. But, Jose lacks a general sense of taste – or at least his is different than mine. But he’s getting better. But there is no fun in telling him what I want – because there is no surprise there – and I would so love – some Christmas or birthday morning to unwrap a gift that is exactly what I always wanted even though I never knew that it was exactly what I always wanted. But I’m doubtful that such a thing will ever happen.

Tumblebugs

Tumblebugs

It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a video game mode. I just haven’t really been into playing too much. Not since the days when Craig, Lesa, Mom and I would pile up on the floor of the living room with the Nintendo guide, some sodas and snacks and begin to conquer the worlds of Final Fantasy or Zelda have I really been interested in any sort of gaming. Sure, I’ll play tetris, or scrabble, or some card game – especially when I was on dial-up and had to wait for hell to freeze over so that a file could download or upload.

My friend Jenny invited me to play a game at her house – called Tumblebugs. Now you can get a free demo of the game online – but let me warn you that if you have not played it, you do not need to do so – it’s crack / meth / heroine in the form of little multicolored balls that move around your computer screen. Sure at the beginning, on level 1 or 2, you’re thinking oh this is nice. It’s pretty easy, nothing too difficult. It’s a great distraction. And when you reach level 3 and see the pretty purple and orange colors begin to show up – well you are just so excited for the additional challenge – and that’s when they get you. Those first levels are so easy, that as you advance, you just know that it won’t take anytime for you to make it through the next board. And it’s faulty logic. It’s a scam.

I spent almost 2 weeks on level 8 – two weeks mind you shooting little balls at other little balls and getting killed. Over and over again. I played so much that when I went to sleep at night, I could see the moving line of colored balls and hear the satisfying pock pock sound that it was made when I fired another ball. The happy little jingle when I “freed” some of the bugs from the evil black herding bugs. Even now, while I’m typing, I’m thinking of the stupid game and wondering if this time I’ll make it through all 6 boards of level 9 – wondering if somewhere there is a cheat that will give me 10 lives so that I can make it through all 9 boards of level 9; hoping that level 10 isn’t more difficult – though I know it will be and wondering how bad was level 12 that had jenny stumped 3 weeks ago when we’d stopped by –

I tell you video games are evil. And I’m not sure that we need them in the house. How can I tell the boys they can’t play their games because there are more important things to do – and then jump on the computer the instant they get off. I hate those damn bugs – and if it weren’t for the fact that it’s taken me so long to get where I am and I don’t want to do those boards again – I swear I’d delete the damn thing and never play again – but – well – i’ve come so far – and I have two weeks vacation – and I’m hopeful that maybe, just maybe I’ll make it through – but I swear if this game is like chips challenge and has 100 levels instead of just like 15 – I’ll have to put it away --

The Sick Husband

O.K. sick husbands are the most annoying creatures on the face of the earth. I had thought, until this point, that the worst sick person in the world was the child on the 3rd day of an illness. The first day is the day when they are too sick to do anything but sleep and rest. The 2nd day is the day they go to the doctor. They are still sick and want to be cuddles. The 3rd day, well that day is the first step into hell. When the child feels poorly but well enough to know they feel poorly. They are tired of sitting and sleeping all day. They are whiney, grumpy. Now, take that 3rd day child and multiply it by 10 and you have the sick husband.

Jose had to have two hernia’s repaired on Thursday. The only day since then that I have liked him much at all was Thursday afternoon when he was still under the effects of the anesthesia and sleeping a lot. Since then he’s been a bit like a bear in winter. Shuffling out of the bedroom. Grumbling through the living room and complaining about every thing. Now, it may surprise you to know that Jose is a bit of complainer about housework anyway. The fact that he prefers to focus on the negative and complain about anything that I do instead of saying thank you (because when I clean it does look better than it did before I cleaned) is the reason that I refuse to do any cleaning around the house at all. My argument being that if you are going to give me a lecture or complain when I clean just like you do if I don’t clean – then why put forth any effort for the lecture. I’d just as soon get the why don’t you clean lecture while reading a steamy romance than have spent 2 hours scrubbing and get the same lecture because I didn’t see a piece of paper under the table.

Anyway – that is the part of Jose who is walking through the kitchen every few minutes. I got up early this morning and went to town to get lesson plans ready for tomorrow and Tuesday and go grocery shopping. When I got back, I was hungry and began to cook my breakfast / lunch once the groceries were put away. Jose arrives in the kitchen and begins to complain about the dishes in the sink from the night before. The same dishes I asked him to get Franklin to wash as I had just cleaned the kitchen / washed the dishes and cooked supper that night. Jose stands in front of the dishes, picks up the bowls and begins to put them away all the while talking (seemingly to himself but loud enough for me to hear – though I can promise you he doesn’t want a response and definitely not the one that I was about to give him) about how it looks like he’s going to have to put the dishes away if he wants the kitchen clean. Even though he’s had surgery, he guesses he ‘s going to have to keep working because he wants the house clean – despite the fact that the two nights before I had spent 2 hours in the kitchen cleaning it from top to bottom for which I got a “looks pretty good” the highest praise ever from said grumpy-puss. If it’s not the kitchen it’s the toys in the living room. The same toys he’s left in the floor for 2 weeks when he feels well – suddenly has to be immediately picked up at that very instant.

Anyway, we’re in day 4 of his recovery. He’s shuffling a little more quickly now – though apparently hernia surgery sometimes makes your cahoonas ache so much that you don’t even want to touch them – and I’m hoping we’re on the downward slide. It’s bad enough that I’m back on laundry duty because of the damn surgery – This complaining stuff will have to stop soon or you’ll find dermabond on Jose’s mouth before Christmas.

Mother of Three

 


Well, as many of you know, or may not know, Franklin, Jose’s oldest son has come to live with us. He’s been here just over a month and it has been an interesting experience to say the least. Though I work with 15 year old boys every day, I have learned that living with them is quite different. I have detailed some of the things that I have learned in my latest video (located on myspace http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.myvideos). Let me take this opportunity to share my learning experiences here.

1. I have learned that 15 year old boys are about the same as an 11 year old girl. They still very much like to play. Franklin will go outside with Elijah and Isaiah and jump on the trampoline, or get guns and play army with Elijah. This has really been a blessing. Isaiah loves Franklin as much as he ever loved Elijah.

The downside:
Franklin who takes care to bundle up himself with sweats, shirt, sweater, jacket, socks and shoes will then walk outside with Isaiah who is wearing only a diaper. Apparently if you were born in Kentucky you don’t feel the cold the same way. And, when Franklin decides to come back in, he does leaving Elijah and Isaiah to follow. Elijah follows and thus Isaiah is left outside alone. And let me describe to the how wonderful is the music that comes from the back seat and the living room when Franklin and Isaiah begin to play together. I didn’t realize how annoying the word Mama could be until I heard it uttered time and again in the slightly higher pitched whine of Elijah who was ready to tell on Franklin for doing something.

2. 15 year old boys are social creatures. Socialization is really more important to the teenager than anything else. I suppose that’s true unless you were a loser like me – for whom socialization was really not an option (I had no friends in high school).

The downside:
Franklin was having some trouble staying away from MSN Messenger and the computer his first couple of weeks of school. As I was spending 3 or more hours every night working with him on his homework (having to do twice as many problems because I didn’t want to show him how to do the work by doing his homework); Imagine my surprise and irritation when I walked over to the computer to check on his work (he was translating English to Spanish) and discovered he was chatting with his friend on messenger. Though Franklin doesn’t speak English very well (or at all really) he was more than able to understand that if he did that again, I would throw the computer away (not true for those of you who know how cheap I am – but I would have at least moved it out of the living room). And he was even able to find the English skills to inform me that the world can no longer exist without technology. My creative solution was to put a password on the computer so that he couldn’t log onto the computer until all his homework was completed. The result – his grades have risen from a 69.8 on his first test to a 94 on his last one. His first password? Geometry. And each password since has been math related.

3. Apparently Jose has passed on the finicky eater / picky / ungrateful cuss gene to his child. Franklin, who after living in a 3rd world country with little variety in his diet, would perhaps be excited and grateful for new and abundant food. That is, emphatically, not the case. Franklin doesn’t like anything I cook. And he has not yet been trained, as has Jose, to just keep his opinions to himself. Instead, he looks at what I’m cooking and if he doesn’t like it makes gagging motions, faces and sounds over my food. Which usually makes me very grumpy. So, like his father, he must fend for himself in the kitchen. He does like chocolate though – and sometimes, if I’m feeling friendly, I’ll get him a chocolate bar.

4. There are different rules that come from having an older child come to live with you. I am always very cautious about going into this room – especially when he’s home. But I’m beginning to lose my respect of the space when he’s not at home. I’m thinking that I’m going to be one of those snoopy mothers who feels quite happy piddling through backpacks, drawers, diaries, whatever. I am also about ready to start treating him like a child instead of a guest. I’d prefer he be able to speak better English so that when I give him a lecture he understands all of it – though, like all kids, he’ll tune out 80% - with the language barrier he’s currently only getting 80% of 2% - which he may hear and understand the word good when I’m telling him that it’s no good – and that’s not the message that I want him to walk away with.

5. Boys are different from girls. Franklin has been here a month and is calling his mother tonight for the 2nd time. It’s her birthday. So he gets some credit for calling tonight. But he didn’t want to write or send a card and though that sending pictures was just silly.

6. Desire for high fashion is apparently cross cultural. Being a cheap apparel person myself, I don’t fully appreciate or understand why anyone would want to spend a lot of money on any piece of clothing – especially when it looks like any other piece of clothing. But Franklin seemingly is a bit of a clothes snob – and I feel a bit sorry that he will be slumming at walmart until he find a way to support himself independently. He is grateful that shoe carnival has good shoes on sale at a price that Jose considers affordable.

7. 15 year old boys don’t make good babysitters. Not only does Franklin sometimes forget to clothe and retrieve my child who is outside; he is not very interested in the other aspects of childcare (and really, let’s be honest, this is one of the reasons I was so excited for him to be coming up). On the few occasions that he has been left in charge of the kids it has been disasterous. The first time, Isaiah got the salt shaker and dumped the entire contents on the table, kitchen floor and living room. Large salt shaker, newly filled, lots and lots of salt. When Jose and I arrived home, Franklin was on the computer and the house looked like the snow globe had finally settled. The second time, Isaiah had taken off his own poopy diaper (sort of a nice feature if you’re able to keep up with him because at least you know he knows when he needs to be changed). However, Franklin, who apparently feels diapering is beneath him, just let Isaiah wander around. Those of you who are moms know that poopy diapers also mean poopy bottoms – which means that the couch became the largest most expensive piece of toilet paper ever. Fortunately, Franklin decided to tell me that there was poop on the couch right before one of Isaiah’s therapists arrived for a session. This was about 2 hours after I had arrived home. The last time that he was in charge of the kids, we had another poopy diaper issue, but this time it was on the kitchen table. So, on the top of my to do list is to teach that child how to change a diaper – as I’m sure he’d rather learn how to do that than have to clean poop off the table, couch, floor, etc. 

Images of Fall

Fat People

I was sitting at Elijah’s football practice talking with Melanie and Ashlee (two of the parents). And I was discussing my blog about the back-handed compliment. Melanie then proceeded to tell me this story.

My aunt and I were in Krogers. She’s about my size. (Melanie is heavy – not huge – I’d guess a size 20/22). And this woman and came up to us and said “You two look like you know how to cook, can I ask you a question.”

Now what makes you think we know how to cook, Melanie thought to herself. The woman then proceeded to hold out a pound of hamburger and a can of manwich mix. “can you tell me what I can do to dress this up?” Melanie responded, “Please don’t tell me that you’re on a date and fixing him manwich?” The gentleman next to the woman responded that they were married. And Melanie’s aunt, told the woman to sautee some onions and green peppers.

Now, while I was laughing joyously at the story – which is much better when she tells it than when I write it, I decided that it was a blog worthy topic. There are some inherent differences between fat people and skinny people. And you can tell if someone has been fat or if they will be fat using this one criteria.

Fat people – past, present and future – will give you directions to any place in town by using food stores.

A fat person would tell you that to get to my house from WKU, you needed to take the bypass and turn right onto Scottsville Road, there will be a Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Taco Bell on opposite corners. Take that road until you get to Crossroads IGA – you’ll pass the sonic, the zaxby’s and a high school.

A skinny person will use road numbers, stoplight numbers, street names. But fat people will use restaurants. I first noticed the phenomenon when I worked at Kinko’s. The fat people used restaurants to guide to the store and skinny people – well truth be told they tended to give crappy directions.

I am a bit interested in the ask a fat person how to cook while in the store. Which is a new approach to be sure. Though to be fair, as I told Melanie, fat people may not know how to cook – we are simply gifted at lifting the utensil to our mouth with astonishing frequency and accuracy.

The Fall

 

There is something about fall that makes me want to go driving on the back country roads. To find someplace to park, sit an talk. It makes me want to find new people to meet, and get to know. It's really exciting and fun getting to know new people. It's not so easy to maintain those relationships - I can only assume that i am a particularly difficult person to get to know or to get along with - as most of the people I know all say the really like me but don't particularly want to spend any time with me. Which ultimately isn't a bad thing because i like doing nothing. Though i feel bad for Elijah, because I think that life long friendships tend to be formed when parents get along and have a relationship as well. But who knows.

Anyway, the days have been so nice. And it's a great time to be outside. Not too hot, not too cold. Today, the boys and i headed out to Jackson's Orchard. Elijah played for all of 10 minutes on the hale bales and was done, but it was something to do -- something different. I of course took pictures, but they weren't too great - the sun was wrong. We'll go back when Franklin comes and i'll take some more.

And those of you who are reading this - quit and go enjoy the weather. 

Futbol vs. Football

 
Football vs. Futbol

Elijah has started playing American football this year. Flag football actually. And I’ve noticed some huge differences between football and soccer. Unexpected differences, but not surprising ones.

First of all, it is apparent to me that those who are involved in football must have secret prescriptions of testosterone somewhere. At the sign-up, there were gruff men everywhere, loud voices, shouting. Imagine if you will the Tim the Tool Man growl going on every single second. It was a little overwhelming. It would appear that Bowling Green dads take football much more seriously than soccer (which I suppose they must consider some sort of foreign sissy sport). Practices seem to be modeled after the US military with a lot of hurry up and wait. As the boys have learned a bit more, the practices have been a bit more active. And there is really nothing more exciting than seeing 5 year old boys having to run because they weren’t paying attention. I of course know all about running in football thanks to Joel Taylor, the history teacher I work with. Running is apparently an effective punishment. Odd that I haven’t seen it included in any parenting magazines. Is your son out of control and disrespectful. Have him run to the edge of your property and back. Eventually, that child will be just too tired to do anything.

More dads attend the practices as well. There are still the mom’s, typically grouped in bunches chatting and laughing, occasionally looking up to cheer for their son. But the dads, well they are out there in the practice. I’ve seen a couple of dads pull their kids aside for a intent discussion on the finer points of the game (looks a lot like a lecture to me . . . but I’m sure they’d disagree). These dad take this flag football very seriously.

Now those of you who know me, know that I’m a relatively competitive person. Those things I can do well, I like to do the best (or at least better than anyone I know). But Elijah is bigger than most of the other kids (at least 2 – 3 inches taller than most and probably 20 pounds heavier). And those of you know football, know that means he plays center. The first game, I watched my son hand the ball, slowly and carefully, to the coaches son (who surprisingly plays quarterback), a total of 3 times. The rest of the time, I watched him sit on the sideline, play with his friends, or just stand around a bit. Once the ball is handed off, the game tends to lend itself to a bit of a melee. A free for all where everyone is running about. The running seem to take on a bit more organization once the boys find out who has the football. Elijah doesn’t set any speed records, and tackling is a penalty here – so he sort of stands on the field a bit after that.

Another huge difference is that at the game, instead of having an 8 year old boy or girl ref the game; there are 3 to 4 adult men in referee uniforms. This last game, we even got to see a few flags thrown. There were penalty yards awarded. I think Elijah got called for holding, which by the way he did very well. He grabbed that little boy and that kid couldn’t go anywhere until the play ended. The referee took a few minutes to show them how to push with their folded arms instead of holding – which I thought was a very nice way to address a teachable moment. And of course, then Elijah spent the next 30 minutes sitting on the sideline. It’s a hard game for the parent of a slow runner to watch. There’s no glory there; nothing to really cheer for. The first game, it took me until the last 5 minutes of the game to talk myself into being proud that every touchdown we scored was because Elijah was able to pass the ball off well (if they drop it or set it down, it counts as a fumble). But still, that’s a bit of a straw grasper by any definition.

Jose is, of course, little help. He doesn’t watch football, doesn’t understand the rules, and is indifferent to any success that Elijah may have in the sport. Elijah likes soccer more. And I can understand that because in soccer at least he’s on the field and doing something. But, Elijah is not going to be a small, slim, slight person able to dart about on the field. There’s a slight chance that he may build some speed – even a rhinoceros can lumber along pretty quickly. But, I just don’t see him on a soccer field as easily as I see him knocking some poor kid down and running over them, leaving cleat marks on their cheeks. So we’re focusing on learning the game, enjoying the practices, and waiting until we can tackle. And we’ll make long term decisions when he’s older and it counts.

In the meantime, I’m going to start carrying a bit of estrogen spray in my bag and sprinkle it over everyone. When they are 5 and just playing a game, I don’t think it’s really a matter of life, death or penis – it’s just for fun. 

The backhanded compliment

The backhanded compliment

A friend who should really be considered a relative, of mine recently sent me an email with this comment:
I don't know if I have told you but I am very proud of the wife mother, and person you have turned out to be. When I think back to your younger days I am amazed at how well you have done. Keep up the good work.

And you know, I didn’t really know how to take it. My first instinct is to see only that she is offering me a compliment on being a good wife, mother and person. And then, I tend to take a bit of offense that it seems that she is very surprised that I turned out so well considering how bad I was when I was younger – of course she doesn’t mention that the corrupting influence on me at that time when she knew me was her own son. But to be fair, she’s equally surprised that he is going to turn out well too.

The odd thing is that I don’t really feel any differently than I did then – and it’s been 18 years. I still feel about the same as I did in high school. I have more friends. But I do the same things now that I did then – or would have done then if the personal computer had been such a big thing. But really, I didn’t do that much stupid stuff. I was usually the designated driver on the weekend, not the drunk throwing up in the car. Though the one time that I got really drunk, was in her basement. But better to get drunk in a basement than out and about somewhere.

I suppose I could go on and on about how I wasn’t such a bad person – and haven’t evolved into anything special. I will say that all things considered, I’m a bit calmer about what I believe and what others believe. I don’t feel that it is my job to change the minds of others. And, after working with republicans through two elections, I have learned to keep my opinions to myself while others spout theirs. There’s really no point in going there – because no one is going to change their mind, and people are just going to get angry.

A part of me believes that Kay, like my dad, feel that I’ve improved because I go to church regularly. Though I should warn them that actual attendance does not a pathway in the Christian heaven make. I still struggle with the basic principles of organized religion. I’m not a big fan in the one and only way to heaven – just like I’m not a big fan of the we are the sole reason the universe was created. And should the rapture come in my lifetime, well, thank god for the seven years of trials and tribulations. Though it will suck because you know Jose will be a first draft pick and who will I find to do the house work and grow the vegetables in the garden when I’m not going to be able to buy them from the bad people – do you think that will be a good diet?

But I digress. So, I’ll take the compliment as exactly that. I’m not going to lose any sleep over the so much better than I thought. I’m sure, if my graduating class manages to have the 20 year reunion, that I’ll probably hear a bit more of that this year than I’d like to – although I’m also sure they’ll all say I look just like I did in high school – fat people just don’t age – it’s a gift.

The Perfect Saturday Morning

 

Do you remember when you were in your early twenties . . . maybe in your first apartment. It was Saturday morning, in the fall. The windows are open, because the weather outside is so nice, and the sound of rain seeps in through the curtains that billow ever so slightly overhead. And you can just lay there, quietly, maybe go back to sleep, maybe get a book to read, but just sit there and be still and quiet and enjoy the sound and feel of the air. Even better is when you were in high school, and it was your turn to mow that Saturday and waking up to the sound of rain means that mowing isn’t an option today. At which point, you roll over, burrow down into your covers and head right back to sleep – BECAUSE YOU CAN.

I almost had one of those moments this morning. I woke up, in the wrong bed (I was in Elijah’s room) facing the wrong way – my head was at the foot of the bed, turned the wrong way (facing the wall where the covers from the top bunk come down so I was staring at Dinosaur print) – and I awoke to the pitter patter of for little paws jumping on my back as Elijah, my oldest son, crept into the bed – which then squeaked loudly in protest (which is just something that it does). Radley soon joined the puppy fray, acting as if he was so excited that someone was up and could take him outside. And that’s when I heard it, the soft sound of rain rustling through the trees in the front yard. Yes! Jose would not be able to mow! I would not be stuck inside with the boys all morning while he mowed, and all afternoon as he’d decided to work overtime this evening. My morning was FREE! At which point, I immediately got up to pee, because I’m old and if you don’t hit the bathroom right away, you might pee in your pants – and once in the bathroom, I had to brush my teeth because – it was morning and the funk was too great, at which point I was too awake to go back and lie down to sleep – so I went to get Isaiah out of the bed so that Jose could sleep – since he works 2nd shift it’s only fair to give him a few extra minutes on Saturday. Of course, as soon as I sat down here, the boys immediately went back to the bedroom and crawled back into bed to watch television – creating their own rainy Saturday morning memories – while Jose grumpily got up, shuffled over to Elijah’s room and shut the door. I’m quite certain his blog would be quite different than mine. 

The Worst Feeling

 

The Worst Feeling

Some of you know that I’ve been a bit concerned about Isaiah and his general lack of desire to be a true member of my family. By that I mean that he’s not really interested in chatting. And if you know anyone in my family, you know that talking is second nature to us all. I know what you’re thinking. Jose’s not much of a chatter though. And those of you who mistakenly have that idea let me just say you have never seen Jose sit on the phone for 2 hours talking to his sister or brother about god only knows what. It’s enough to make you jealous if you were the jealous type.

Anyway, we looked around and found out about First Steps a program that provides free evaluations and cheap intervention for kids aged 0 to 3 years. So, I signed Isaiah up. And today, I got a copy of his evaluation report. And let me just say that I don’t much care for reading those reports. Although I wanted Isaiah to qualify for services. And although I feel that he really needs to receive speech/language therapy there is nothing relieving in reading a report that says your child has a moderate to severe delay in anything. I found myself arguing with parts of the report. “Sure Isaiah does that.” And “of course he doesn’t know his body parts, we haven’t even bothered to teach them.” It’s a bad parent moment all written up and presented double-spaced and most likely in triplicate.

Needless to say that Isaiah qualified for services. And my mental conversation is that it’s just as well that they scored him so low (notice that he didn’t score lowly surely it’s the evaluator’s fault that she wasn’t able to see everything that he could do…sigh) because now he’ll just look like a child genius when they reevaluate in 6 months. The bright side of the report is that he is smart – his cognitive abilities were fine. He just apparently doesn’t understand anything you say or feel compelled to let you know what he wants or thinks. And further more, I don’t think the fact that he’s not scared to jump off the table into Jose’s lap (a game we play all the time) means that he doesn’t understand what danger is. The evaluator has never seen him walk very carefully on the wet kitchen floor so that he doesn’t fall down and bust is butt, but good. It’s a lesson that he learned pretty early. Tell me my child doesn’t know what danger is… shoot! Nor has she seen Isaiah physically put your hand on his sippy cup and then do a Lassie impersonation (running to the door and looking back while sticking his hand out toward the kitchen) to get me off my fat butt and get him something to drink. What do they know!

The good news is he qualifies for services at only $20 per month – so hopefully whatever is wrong will be taken care of by the time he gets to kindergarten. I’d sure like to have several proud parent moments with my youngest son as well. 

Proud Parent Moments

  

There are several types of proud parent moments. My favorite proud parent moments are when your child does something, on their own, without knowing that you are looking at them – and it’s the right thing.

If Elijah stops and picks up his toys and puts them away before going outside or doing something else. I am always amazed and happy. It’s not in his nature (or mine which is probably the problem) to do such a thing and if he does. Well I’m just proud.

It’s also the same as watching Isaiah practicing blowing his nose on his shirt (or paper towel; or putting stuff in the trash can (stuff that’s supposed to be there).

And then there are the proud parent recognition moments. I had one of those yesterday. In the morning, I wait with Elijah to catch the bus. I usually start to walk away before the bus gets there. Usually in the morning, I tease Elijah and ask him if he wants me to give him a kiss in front of everyone on the bus – which is a big NO! Though he still likes the hugs – so we settle.

Anyway, as I was walking back to the school, letting Elijah hover on the curb and look cool in his grown up aloneness. All of the sudden, I heard the bus horn. I glanced back and saw the bus driver (a little old lady who looks like she should be making cookies in a kitchen instead of driving a bus) beckoning me.

“I just wanted to tell you what a delightful young man Elijah is.” She said. And per my accepting a compliment for my children training, I said “why thank you.” “He’s just a good boy.”

I was quite pleased. It is so nice to have someone tell you that your son is a good child.

Of course, then I began to ponder my own childhood dilemma. The fact that adults always seemed to like me while I had a hard time making friends my own age. Isn’t it odd how parents worry that children will have the problems that they had growing up. I never had many friends my own age until I became an adult. I wouldn’t wish that middle school or high school experience on anyone. I wouldn’t want Elijah to not have many friends when he is younger. Of course fate doesn’t actually work that way. What will happen is that he’ll have a whole bunch of different problems that don’t have anything to do with my own issues. Although, let me say that if my child comes home and starts talking about other people the way those teenagers on Laguna Beach talk about their classmates, he’s going to have a hard row to hoe at his house – because I just won’t have it. Mostly because I was always the weird person being talked about.

Finding Beauty

Finding Beauty

As many of you know, I’ve been having a bit of trauma at work. Joel, at work, keeps telling me to focus on the positive. A weak coaching thing that only elicits the response that I’m positive that work sucks eggs. And I was sending an email to a friend of mine, the old director of my school, and told her that I was actually contemplating wearing make up again just to feel good about getting up and going to work. Make-up, ya’ll! I haven’t worn or owned make up since I was in college almost 20 years ago. And the few times that I’ve been bored at home and piddled with a little lipstick the shocked stares that I got from my boys promptly made me put it away again. But, since I’ve been so much time each day shaking my head, biting my tongue and just trying to ignore the break down of order as I know it (I mean really, why have rules if you aren’t going to enforce them… truly), I thought I needed to take a positive moment break – to look around and find some beauty in my life. So here is my humble attempt.

1. The sight of Elijah and Isaiah piled up on the couch or in the chair watching television together. It’s just a nice quiet moment of male bonding.
2. The look on Isaiah’s face when he sees Elijah walking down the hallway on the way out of school. He smiles so big and is so happy to see Elijah every day – who needs a puppy for that. And Elijah is always as happy to see him at the end of the hall too. The first day of school, Isaiah got down and ran (yes ran) up to Elijah and gave him a hug (something that the little bugger has never done for me).
3. Jose. Every day when his truck pulls up at the school, I am still excited to see him. Now often that excitement is quashed when he opens his mouth to complain about something – which is just his way of discussing anything (he sees the bad – never hopes for the good – so frustrating). But the first time I see him in the afternoon, I’m always happy to see him – that’s a good sign I think.
4. The bright orange of the sun through the misty fields in the morning.
5. The glee in Isaiah’s face when he blows on Elijah’s or Jose’s belly.
6. the sound of both my boys laughing out loud – belly laughter is the best thing ever.
7. sleeping children early enough in the evening that I can watch any adult, non-cartoon show that I want to watch (happy sigh).
8. Extra money in my checking account two days before payday – enough to spend on something totally frivolous – you know like underwear or a cheap pair of shoes (for me there are no other kind)
9. waking up in the morning and seeing that it’s past 7:00 a.m.
10. Elijah and Isaiah dancing – or Isaiah spinning until he makes himself so dizzy that he falls down.

O.k. now, I’m at the point that I’m having to think too hard. I’m sure I’ll have to do this more than once in the next few weeks / months. But it does make you feel a bit better

Dreams of Dramamine

It seems that every person in the world has a “car” story. We all know the trials and tribulations of being a child and having to suffer through the anxiety of going anywhere in the car with a parent... and even worse... brothers and sisters. Let me refresh your memory.
“Kids, it’s time to go to town (the store, the ball park, kalamazoo, you pick a destination — the outcome will be the same)” your mother yells out.
“I call shotgun!!” that of course from your little brother, who God has seen fit to give the reflexes of a cat. Now, it is a given that he has indeed called shotgun first, but you are sure that you can talk your way into that front seat
“You had front seat last time. That’s not fair.” This is said calmly to your brother with a touch of snippiness. But, louder to your mother in a full tilt whine you say “Moooooooom! That’s not faaaaaaaaaiiir. He alwaaaays gets to ride up front. I NEVER get to ride in the front seat. Mom, make him ride in the back.” In retrospect, I have found that children under the age of 18 suffer from either one of two faulty beliefs. They either firmly believe that their parents have no long term memory, or they believe that persistence alone will win in the end. Which is why they consistently use the exact same argument every time a situation arises. Either their parents won’t remember that they have heard this brilliant strategy previously, or if by some remote chance their parents do remember the argument, a fresh perspective will result in success.
And as I sit in the back seat of the car going into town, I am shocked that such a heartfelt, well-worded plea for the front seat was summarily denied. Was it my mother who over-ruled my plea. Oh no, my case did not even reach it to the Walker House Supreme Court. I was overruled in the big sister courtroom. That is the most difficult hurdle of all. From her, my brother and I get “neither one of you is sitting in the front seat. I get car sick if I sit in the back seat, so I am sitting up front.”
Car-sick. I always wanted to get car-sick. I had never seen my sister actually get car-sick. But I always saw my sister sithng up front. To me, car-sick didn’t mean motion sickness it meant first class ticket. Now, with a better understanding of my older sister, I realize that she did not realty get car-sick. Oh no, not my sister. What probably happened is that once when she was two, she ate too much candy and happened to be in the back seat when she threw up. Someone mentioned while they were cleaning up the mess, that “poor baby, must’ve gotten car-sick” From then on she could carve her name on that front seat, because no one else was ever going to use It but her. I know that this Is what happened because my sister, in her great wisdom spent my first 6 years telling me that she was just like that boy In the bubble When she was born she was put in a bubble too, to keep her from getting sick The famous Jodi-birth story In actuality, she was a c-section baby and merely put in an - incubator. Which, to give her some credit, is actually clear. And this is the girl, who until she was 16 got to ride up front; not because of any true illness but because she had the best misconception of the world
So, here I am, with my brother in the back seat of the station wagon Every family with more than two children had a station wagon in the 1970’s, God only knows why. Perhaps because they were like moving playgrounds Personally, I believe it was the space to brake ratio. The break to space ration is the amount of space a misbehaving child can travel from the back of the vehicle to the front of the car when the brakes are applied firmly in a disciplinary manner Station wagons have the highest space to brake ratio Today you will find similar space to brake ratios in utility vehicles. Fortunately child safety laws have seriously limited the needed for space to brake ratios The relationship between the brakes and the space are inversely proportional: meaning that the harder the brakes ware applied the smaller the amount of space between your face and dashboard My mother would apply this relationship as means of enforcing discipline
My mother would not use this disciplinary tool unless we had committed a serious offense, or a number of minor offenses. For example, an all-out brawl in the back seat, would immediately result in the application of the brakes. But it would usually take a good 20 minutes of whining before the breaks would be applied. Now, for most parents of this decade, the brake itself would be punishment enough. It was the attention getting device that enabled the parent to engage in a long meaningful discussion as to why that behavior was inappropriate (i.e. lecture). My mother took the brake discipline method a step further. Because my mother was only 5’2” and sitting in a car that was so huge that she could barely reach over the seat, my mother used the brake method to bring us into reach. If we were fighting in the back seat of the car, my mother would simply slam on the brakes and grab the closest flailing child. That unfortunate child would invariably receive a pinch, or a small hand slap before both of us would receive the lecture. She would then separate my brother and myself, using those wonderful seams in the vinyl, and order us to not touch each other for remainder of the trip. And like the wonderfully imaginative children that my brother and I were, we developed the intricate “no-touch game.”
The rules of the game were as follows:
I .you could touch the air space on the other side of the seat
2.you could not touch the other person’s seat
3.you could not touch the other person
4.if you did touch the other person or the other person’s seat, you would receive a punch from the touched person.
This was a game at which my brother with the cat-reflexes excelled. For the next 20 minutes, my brother would place his finger a mere centimeter from my face. He would usually place it right in front of my eyes, or right at my cheek. All the while he would be singing “no touch game... oh no touch game... don’t touch me... ooh ooh don’t touch me.” I would then try to be as cool as he was by putting my hand over his hand. So that if he moved, he would have to touch my hand. Unfortunately, my coordination and spatial abilities are seriously lacking. And within seconds, I had touched his hand. After about the third punch, I would get tired of the game that I would never win, and I would turn to look out the window. I would assume that since I had stopped playing, my brother had stopped playing as well. So, when he would tell me to look at something on his side of the car, I was always surprised when I ran into his finger as I turned my head to look. Which would then result in another “You touched me! I win, you touched me!” followed by a punch.
My response, in my truly adult manner was “Mom, make Jason stop. He’s hitting me. I didn’t do anything to him, and he just hit me.” And once again, I must call into question the logical reasoning of child. To again invoke the whining power after the awesome brake incident, It was a dangerous move to be sure. On a lucky day it would result in the famous “Do you want me to turn this car around right now?” But today, today was different. As soon as I uttered the words, I say my mother’s arm straining over the back seat. She was groping behind her, looking for something maybe? And then they came. The dreaded words. “Hand me your hair.” This was all new. What do you mean hand me your hair. What are you going to do with my hair. What about, “do you want me to turn the car around.” She was entirely out of protocol. And I didn’t know what to do. So I reached up and grabbed my hair, and then slowly, I approached my mother’s disembodied hand. I placed my hair in my mothers hand, and she yanked. I was so surprised, that my head pulled forward and bumped into the back of her seat. Tears sprang to my eyes. I was not a tender-headed person, and the hair pulling didn’t really hurt that much; it was more the shock, the betrayal and the shame. “Hand me your hair.” I mean that was like telling a man in an electric chair to just pull this switch. What did she mean to make me an active participant in my own punishment. My job was to cry, feel guilty and try to cover my butt when the spanking came. Her job was to say “this hurts me than it will hurt you (which I always found doubtful as she never looked like it hurt, and I never saw her crying or rubbing her hand after a spanking). But not this time, this time, she made me work for my demise. What cruelty was this? In all fairness, my brother received the same punishment. Though he knew what was coming. And as I sat back in my seat, rubbing my scalp, I kept thinking “How stupid am I. She couldn’t have reached my hair. If I hadn’t given it to her, nothing would have happened.” But the smarter part of me knew that any woman who was creative enough to have me hand her my own hair would have come up with something truly bizarre if I ignored the command. She may have handed me her belt and told me to whip myself for all I knew. No, I had definitely chosen the right path. And my final thought after the incident was “I’ll bet if I sat in the front seat, none of this would ever have happened. I wish I got car-sick.”

Strike a Pose

Well, it’s official. Elijah is no longer my little baby – I look at him each day and it becomes easier and easier to see him as a teenager. And it’s such a combination of strange emotions. There’s a part that’s sad for the time that has passed, never to return. And my heartfelt desire to hold on to those moments; remember them; so that I can share them again later. But so many moments come and go without my even being aware of them. And there are even more for which I’m unprepared – those are the moments in which I say to myself, man I wish I had my camera.

Last week, when Elijah finally to be his classroom’s superman for the day. I was waiting for him outside. I looked up and here he came, barreling down on me, hands in the air, a smile beaming from his face. And I wish that I had known – so that I could have had my camera at the ready to capture that look of pride and happiness on his face. I did have my little camera and grabbed a picture – but the real moment was gone.

And having these thoughts with Elijah, makes me ever more conscious of Isaiah’s passing moments. Especially as he’s beginning to become a real person. Today he figured out how to flush the toilet. His first reaction was startled. But he got over that pretty quick and went back for more. He’s learned how to blow raspberries on Jose’s and Elijah’s belly. And it’s so funny. He also tries to give Jose a ride on his shoulders – by putting his head between his legs and walking around. So many things I want to remember, and I’m going to just have to live with my camera in my hand – something that I haven’t been doing of late.

The same will be true for Elijah. Though starting school will make his days seem more and more like the last and time will begin to pass more quickly for him, he’s going to change so much this next year, and the next and the next. Though no matter how much he changes, or how old he gets, I sure hope that I will always see in him that same little boy who ran out of school on Wednesday in a Superman costume and stuck a pose.

The First Day

Well it’s official. I survived my first day on the job. It could have been much worse than it was, and it could have been much better. So I’ll settle for survived.

More importantly, today was Elijah’s first day of kindergarten. And let me just go ahead and tell everyone now, first day moments should be handled by dads. Now dads should take video and pictures, but dad’s need to be there. Why. Because the first day is a nervous day. And the last thing a kid needs on a nervous day is a weepy mom. I consider myself to be largely unsentimental (motherhood has increased this for me, but still, I’m not a weepy person) but here I was, driving Elijah to TC Cherry elementary school and getting choked up. Moms out there, if you have to go, realize that the camera is really a wonderful screen when the tears really start to well up. I couldn’t believe it really. He was at preschool all last year, and I thought I’d be fine, but nope – there were a few tears that actually escaped and trailed down my cheeks.

And as I got back in the car, I had to deal with the fact that it was possible that I was going to face what could easily be the worst day of my entire teaching career. Worse than the day when MaryAnn Cole, my first director, walked into my classroom as I was mocking something she said to the kids; worse than when that same Mrs. Cole jerked so hard on my door that it opened, though the deadbolt was fastened (though it is a very old school and the deadbolt is really more of a request for privacy than a mandate), and then caught two people chewing gum in my classroom. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a job that I didn’t look forward to going to in the morning. And it didn’t help that first day of school confusion had to be dealt with (schedules misplaced, schedules incorrect, blah blah blah) and some things that I could easily have dealt with – well were no longer my responsibility. So every question got asked, I’m sure 3 times. My response was always – You’ll have to ask the director– But in the long run, it will be really nice to be able to focus just on instruction for a while – I’m not sure what I’ll be able to do if all I have to do is teach – it’s been a long time since that’s been my reality – no college classes this semester – except for Joel’s but really I don’t care that much about his GPA – though I did sit for 2 hours and help him create a unit outline – not really too specific – but in the time frame, pretty good – as he’s also in ass-cover mode – better safe than sorry. And, of course, he’s planning to use it every year until he retires – but it’s a good lesson plan – he should use it a lot.

So that was my first day. Tomorrow is my second first day – as we’re getting the other ½ of our students in – no one has really yet realized that they have lost many more benefits than a choice of wardrobe (we went to dress code this year) – and to be honest – there’s still a big part of me that wants to see a huge event / explosion. I’ve long believed that the teachers of eleventh street really represent the students that we work with. And like our students, the teachers are testing – and though we may not want to push her buttons ourselves – we sure want someone else to do it and see what happens.

My goal remains to stay out of the way – so if the shit hits the fan – I’m no where near the blame zone.

On Summer Vacation

Perhaps it's because I've been a student for almost 32 years, but summer vacation is really a state of being for me. Even when I worked at Kinko's full time, summer vacation (when i wasn't working and taking classes) was this special time. You guys know what i'm talking about...
it's that feeling when you're driving down the road on a summer's evening and you feel like rolling down your window, cranking up the radio, and driving around those back roads. But summers also, always, make me nostalgic. If it hadn't been for summer nostalgia, I would have never gotten back in touch with my friends Terri and Sandy Nutgrass. Summers make me crave to recapture my youth -- for some reason that I can't quite explain. I want to be a teenager again, for a short while, with no real responsibliities -- which wasn't even my teenage reality -- right now, I'd be happy to feel carefree and not have to worry about changing a diaper, or stopping a squabble in the back seat. I'd be happy to drive alone with the the soupy air rushing through my hair, listening to music, without a thought in my head or having to listen to some inane 5 year old chatter.

It's the same as meeting someone that you really liked in college -- and didn't that almost always happen in the summer too? And how much fun it was just to sit outside on the steps and talk about anything and everything. To get to know someone new - and learn something new about yourself at the same time. I miss that -- more so in the summer than any other time of the year. it just makes me sigh - it makes me search online for old high school people -- there aren't any college people really -- i don't know - summer is a time for memories i guess -- and i suppose that's why i try to go and do with the boys in the summer -- to fight that i wish i were younger and carefree sort of mood -- and that's why i'm writing here today - because there is no one that i really want to get in touch with - to find - to write - it never works out well -- i'm not good at keeping and maintaining friendships - as attested by the sheer minute number of people who are my friends that i don't work with - and the fact that no one struggles to keep in touch with me either - i don't know what that says about me - what that means - it's just the way it is... and summer brings it out and puts it front and center --

Protests in San Salvador

The last three days of our visit to El Salvador were marred by strife. On Wednesday, there was a ¨parade¨ in town to protest the 20 to 25 cent rate hike for bus travel. It made since to me with gas prices being so high. But I can also understand that someone with only 200 per month to spend, can´t really afford to spend 20 a week on bus travel to and from work. It´s really an unwinnable situation. Anyway… during the parade, two police officers were killed. Today, Friday, the day before we leave, there is another parade. They have closed off the main roads in San Salvador so that it is impossible to come into or to leave the city unless you´re on foot. This includes the road to the airport. Now, Eliseo is pretty calm about this whole thing, telling me it´s really no big deal .. but I don’t´really believe him. Mostly because, well, it seems to me that there are a lot of armed people walking around. Here the police officers are walking around with semi-automatic weapons --- at least i´m going to call them that. Guards are hired for the stores and protect them with the same types of rifles. And you know as well as I do that every single time there is a some protest, a reason to be angry, the crazies come out of the closet and use it as an excuse to do something well crazy. But Jose and Eliseo are out walking to buy souveniors --- I expect huge thanks for that – and to go to the office (I don´t know which one) to get Isaiah´s birth certificate for Salvadoreno citizenship (you never know if he´ll be good in soccer --- maybe he can play for the Olympics that way… though it´s doubtful that El Salvador would ever get team to the Olympics). And so, I´m here, writing to help take my mind off the danger that may be out there – wearing Jose´s wedding band because it´s too dangerous to have it on in the streets today.

Something Pretty

Last night, on my way back to Eliseo´s house from El Paisnal (where Jose´s dad lives), I tried and tried to find something about El Salvador that was truly beautiful—purely beautiful --- not marred. And try as I might, even thinking back to the entire trip, there´s not one thing that is truly beautiful in this place --- even in the most picturesque locations, if you move your eyes away from the view for a second, you will be overwhelmed with the poverty, the trash of the place. I met this girl who was visiting from Las Angeles at the beach this weekend. She told me that she couldn´t believe that I had to stay in San Salvador because it was like staying in a slum. She was staying in another town --- whose name I can not pronounce, spell or really remember. But she thought it was so beautiful. She loved the provincial towns. And she told me that she was staying with a family that had two cars --- that told me that she was staying with someone who had a little money, because no one I knew in El Salvador had two cars …. But anyway… She also said the weather was beautiful. Right then, I realized that we were seeing with two very different sets of eyes. First, if the weather was anything but hot --- well she was crazy. But I suppose summers in LA are a bit different than the cool June we had in Kentucky. And I would imagine that living in LA is much different than rural Kentucky --- but I thought about what she said, and I just couldn’t, can’t find the beauty. In the back of the truck (my travelling location for the past two weeks), I´d look up at the volcanoes and mountains that surround the city and think, man they are so pretty … but then i´d lower my eyes and see the road side shack made from corrugated metal that looked as if it has been recovered from a tornado, and shake my head and feel – I don´t know, pity, sad --- I don´t know if Elijah sees the same that I do --- I hope not --- but it seems to me that life in general is so difficult. Cristabel is a teacher here, she makes 400 a month – 200 of which goes to a loan payment (she´s building a retirement house) – so that leaves 200 a month to live on for a family of 3. I can´t imagine it --- no one seems too unhappy, even the beggars are relatively polite. They might ask once or twice for money, but seem to be quite used to refusal and don´t make it a big issue – they aren´t aggressive, just hopeful. And of course, no one else seems to have any money to give them anyway … so what´s the point. But, I can´t say that anyone is unhappy. Not the same as saying there is a jolly group of people who are blissfully unaware of how difficult their life is --- but then I can only speak for Jose´s family – and you must remember that my Spanish is really quite limited.

A Prisoner in la Casa

It would appear that the protective instincts that Jose fails to show when he is at home, really come to the front when we are in El Salvador. Except to me, it doesn´t seem to be protective, but rather a belief in my general incompetence to cope with any hardship. Unlike rural Kentucky, most of the transportation in El Salvador is done by bus. With regular gas prices at 3.73, diesel at 2.73 and a bus ride across town .25 …well travelling by bus makes sense. However, Jose feels that travelling by bus would be too much of a hardship for me. So he told his entire family that I wouldn´t want to travel by bus. And he tells me that it´s too dangerous. If by dangerous he means that I may be asphyxiated by the fumes of the diesel engines that run amok among the streets in el Salvador, well then maybe. Or perhaps he means that there might be an accident … and after being on the bus when the driver decided that he didn´t want to wait in traffic and decided to back up …. Yes I said back up a big school bus sized vehicle in the middle of a busy street during a busy time of day …. Well.. I can believe that too. I´m quite sure that no where in America would a bus decide to back up in main street and get away with it. So on the days when Jose wanted to go out with Eliseo, I was essentially a prisoner of the house. Which, if you know me, isn´t anything too bad … as long as I had a fan and a book. But then there was Isaiah, who wanted someone to entertain him, or wanted someone to keep him from eating something rotten from the floor, or to keep him from falling from the 2nd story floor … quite selfish of him, I know … did he not realize that this was my vacation … I think not.

Luckily, Cristabel, my sister in law, decided one night to take me to the Plaza de Mundo. So she grabbed up Isaiah, and we walked up to the bus station, got on the bus, and were there in just a few minutes. The Plaza de Mundo is essentially a mall … nothing too extravagant. It has the hint of air conditioning, but nothing that really satisfies you desire to be cold. But thank god that Cristabel broke the bus barrier, because the next day, Jose, Elijah, Eliseo, Isaiah and I all took the bus to the souvenior shop … which is a whole different entry … Although Jose would look at me and say, we´re going to have to walk a few blocks. Which made me grumpy … but I suppose to be fair, he knows that I´m not much of a walker, despite my maiden name, and would most likely complain …

The Mommy Brain and Visions of Doom

I don’t know what it is about being a Mom that makes visions of doom and gloom follow any thought you have about doing something with your children. Case in point, today, as I was driving to work in the early dawn hours, I was thinking of the plane ride that we would be taking to El Salvador. I was hoping that maybe we’d get the seats in the front that have a slightly larger leg space than the rest of the seating. It’s usually the place next to the door. Immediately after this thought ran through my head, I saw a vision of the door flying open (I think this happened over Hawaii a decade or so ago) and Isaiah, who wouldn’t be in a seat being ripped out of the door. Typically, these thoughts are followed by rescue scenarios – I know, I’d grab a parachute and then jump out after him, once I caught up to him, which should be quick as I only way a gizzillion pounds more than he does, I’d put the chute on and save us! This time I stopped myself with the question – oh my god! Why are you even thinking this? I then began to reminisce about how when Elijah was first born, I’d have these same little scenarios every 5 minutes or so. Deciding whether to run the yellow light was accompanied by an accident scene in which I would have to drag my torso (my legs were gone, trapped, something) back to Elijah where I would try to comfort him until help arrived and I could tell someone to call Jose. I soon realized that the 90% of my brain that I wasn’t using – that part that I had assumed held all the histories of my past lives – actually was there for creating nightmare scenarios in which my children were in danger and I had to find a way to save them. Fortunately, this morning I was soon distracted by the fact that Hardees pork chop biscuit has returned (not the grilled one that sucks but the really good fried one!!) and I happily worked at hardening my arteries instead of working my way through a death scenario.

Logically, I realize that these little visions are probably nature’s way of protecting children – preventing mothers from blindly saying sure, go ahead and climb up on the roof, that seems fine – it’s solid. It’s these visions that run through our mind when a dad has his child perched on his knee mowing the yard; or when the dad sends the child into the house to get the sharp knife and hurry back. Now, that doesn’t mean that dad’s don’t have the gene / ability for the visions. Jose has found a few visions himself – usually involving water – and true, most of the time he’s asleep – but it’s a step in the right direction.

By and large these visions have been my least favorite part of motherhood. There’s nothing like having a vision pop into your head at 2:00 a.m. and not being able to get back to sleep because you have to figure a way to rescue the child – the evil scene playing over and over in your head without ceasing – I don’t know if it gets better when the kids get older – though I truly doubt it – it’s worse – because you’ll have those scenarios and you won’t be there to save your child from whatever bad thing has happened. And as I type, I am thinking – it’s a bit of a shocker that you’re able to be so casual about your kids in general if you have all these nasty death /injury images floating about in your head – though, I’m thinking that nothing they have asked to do – or that we have done – is really as bad as what I’ve seen in my head. Though don’t kid yourself, images of death and dismemberment are in my head the entire time I’m on the top ½ of the wild mouse – and if it weren’t for the wonderful lawsuit that would result from my death on that ride, I probably wouldn’t ride it – that and the fact that Elijah can’t ride without and adult and jose doesn’t like it.

On Pulling the Plug

You know, I’ve often thought that if something happened to mom, or to Jose that left them breathing / or on life support but everything else was shut down, that I’d be o.k. with pulling the plug – sending them on to a better place. Well, I’ve come to the recent discovery that there is no way that I’ll be able to do that – I’m pretty sure—Or I might be able to say do it, but then am going to have to run away and not be there at the moment. The reason for the revelation? Well, Atticus, who really was the best dog ever created – except for the inordinately massive amount of hair that always seemed to be falling off but steadfastly refused to be clipped, was hit by a firetruck (not sure but there were several passing by that morning and anything smaller would have been totaled by running into her) – and this past week has been a daily hope that she would improve. That Saturday morning, when I rushed her to the Vets on the way to my Praxis test, the Vet told me that he couldn’t even give me her odds – I took that to mean probably 60-40 – when he told me the best he could offer was 80 – 20 – I assumed he meant 70-30. And when, on Thursday afternoon, they let me take her home because really they’d done everything they could – I took that to mean she was well on her way to recovery and I should expect a couple of weeks or rehab for her to regain her strength – and that most likely she would never be a spry dog again. That’s not what happened. The first couple of days, I felt pretty sure that was what was happening, and then Monday, she just sort of gave up and shut down – Probably she was given me silent signals all along and I just wasn’t seeing them – to happy planning how I was going to create a large doggy wheelchair to help her get around. Monday, she gave up on subtlety and just quit eating, then she quit looking around, and then she quit breathing normally – and I had to adjust my she’s getting better to an oh my god, she’s dying – and quick. My husband, who had since Thursday been telling me that she wasn’t looking good and that he didn’t think she was going to make it – responded to my concern that I was sure she was dying – an assertion made with tears in eyes, quivering chin, and unsteady stuttering speech – answered my concerns with “well, she’s not dead yet, you never know.” For which I could have happily hurt him – So I called Patti, my neighbor who has the Vet’s number on speed dial – and she, agreeing with my summation that Atticus wasn’t doing well, hit the other end of the spectrum and wanted me to jump in the car with Atticus and take her to the vet to be put to sleep – what I wanted was a vet to come out and say – oh no, really, she’s fine, she’s just a bit over drugged – here give her this magic bean and she’ll be fine in the morning. I couldn’t do that either. Letting Atticus die was one thing – but actively going to the vet to ask them to put her to sleep was way too much for me. So I made a deal with Atticus: I asked her to please either be much better in the morning or to be dead – A deal that Atticus in her drug induced state (I’d decided to give her double doses of her muscle reliever while we waited) apparently didn’t hear or understand. Instead, she decided to move around the room (flipping really from side to side) and let her breathing get shallower and shallower so that when I would get up in the middle of the night to check on her, I couldn’t tell – then I’d think it was over – only to realize that it wasn’t over after all.
This morning, I found the strength to call and leave a message on the answering machine of the Vet’s office – I didn’t have the strength to talk to someone in person. And I had the strength to ask patti to call them again and ask them to come out and put Atticus to sleep. But I didn’t have the strength to be there – there is no way that I could have been in the room, petting her head, while the doctor gave her final shot. And even now, hours after the event, and a full 24 hours after the realization that she was going to have to be put down – I’m still holding back the tears, feeling as if I’m the worse dog owner parent ever and fighting down the thought that I have paid over $500 in bills this week for a grave – and we are not mentioning that amount to Jose – I told him Patti paid all of it – she helped – but not all. Anyway… so sitting here, searching for Ashlee’s cell phone on ebay – with my crappy slow internet, I thought to myself, man, if it’s this hard for a dog, can you imagine how bad it would be for a person. I had always thought that if someone were on life support system and no hope of recovering that I would be able to just say turn them off – but man – after doing this thing with atticus and thinking to myself – really if she’s breathing then hope is not yet lost – is it? Really? That I would do the same thing in a hospital with a person – so – let me say it speaks to the need for a living will – I can say take my life if I’m in this situation because I don’t want to go on like this – but you really can’t ask someone else to make that decision for you – the guilt is unending – the responsibility to great – and the eternal doubt that maybe some miracle could have occurred and a cure found, a recovery made – and I’m just saying right now – I’m not doing it – not going to do it – and no one can make me – and that’s all I have to say about that.

A small World Rules

Well, I’ve been getting complaints from family members at least about my lack of posts.  So since I’ve turned in one of my big projects, with a final lack of caring about the final grade, I thought I’d get back to journaling a bit.

I’ve been pondering about what to journal.  Should I talk about the family trauma that my brother has set in motion.  This week, I popped in for part of his weekly family therapy sessions at his rehab program.  It was his last week, and I just wanted to stop by to show support before the whole thing was over.  And of course that was the day that he got kicked out of rehab because he had sexual relations with another patient.

Now, when we were called into the office, my first thought was surely this is bad – because I always think that being called to the office is bad – but I also had in my mind a thought that the director was going to comment that Jason had just been a great asset to the program.  When we walked in, he informed us that Jason was going to be asked to leave.  Jason said it was because he’d had sex with another patient.  My first thought was, oh my god, you had sex with a guy?  That was straightened out soon enough.  My second thought was, oh well at least he wasn’t doing drugs.  

However, my sense of relief was soon destroyed when it turned into a bit of a dramatic session.  My mom was angry because Jason was really showing no remorse for the action – though he seemed a bit sorry that he got caught.  And at this time, my mind was mentally moving through the faces from the therapy room to figure out which girl he’d had sex with – during which time I seemed to miss several key points of the conversation.  I did notice that Jason’s hands were trembling at the beginning of the session.  Which told me that he was upset – or anxious.  And after that my only true contribution was that man, he’s being such a bully- which he is.  When we were talking about that later, my mom said that she felt that I was a bit of a bully as well – or at least manipulative – not going to go into that here – or ever –

It was however a rather good excuse not to go walking at the park – been finding way too many of those.

There were some points of the conversation that struck me – that I let passed uncommented on – at one point my brother mentioned that he felt that he had been neglected during his childhood – which surprised me.  I had never really considered myself neglected.  I have some of my own issues with my childhood rearing – and who doesn’t – but I don’t know – I guess I figure that there are two basic types of people in the world – those who make excuses and those who don’t.  I mean if Jason wants to blame his drug use on the pressures of helping out grandma, or of running the barber shop, or paying back small business loans, or on having a difficult childhood, or post traumatic stress syndrome from the gulf war – well I guess he can use those as excuses.  But really what’s the point. Today is what it is.  I can’t change my past – though I can change how I choose to remember or deal with the past.  I can use it as an excuse to not try or to fail.  Or I can just get on with the business of living.  A small business loan is no different than a home mortgage and I’m sure no more than one.  I don’t perhaps I’m not sensitive enough – which could be true – I’ve never considered myself to be a very sensitive person – I’m not very good at saying the right or polite thing – I’m often surprised that I hurt someone’s feelings (usually Vickie’s when she asks me about some fashion thing - - but who knows how many other people fall prey to my general insensitivity).  I try to focus on what I can control, what I can change – and if I can’t get my way – well I’ll do what I can to make the reality I want to exist the actual reality – but when it doesn’t work out – well then I am able to let go.  Case in point – Atticus, my dog.  The neighbor took her – I had David Cole write a scary lawyer letter, called the police, and then wrote a I hope you feel really, really guilty letter.  And after that, well I said I did all that I could do and let it go.  And then of course, an old friend of mine found her at her house, called Patti (without knowing what was going on) and now Atticus is back at my house.  Or going to talk to Mr. Tinius, the superintendent, about how incompetent our staff members are when it comes to classroom management.  I suppose for me it’s about doing what I can to mold the world, my world, the way I want it to be – and if I can’t mold the world – well then I have to accept it, and work within it the best I can.  But my world is very, very small.  I don’t worry about changing international policy or the president (who I hate by the way), or the government or politicians in general – those things are beyond my capabilities – nothing I can do or say is going to change what will happen in those areas.  I can vote – which I do – and I can write a letter to my congressmen if something bothers me – which I also do – but I don’t expect great things from those – and I don’t not pay taxes because things don’t go my way.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to deal with the world around me – I don’t feel that this is necessarily a dysfunctional way of working my way through the world  -- though others may disagree – but well, I don’t really care – it works well – And because I feel that I can change my small world, I get to maintain a general sense of optimism about the world around me – and looking at life optimistically is not a bad place to be at all.

Back from the Dead

Back from the Dead

I know, I know it’s been a blue million years since I’ve blogged at all – and let me say that it’s just been a busy time here and everywhere.  Shall I fill you in on the all that has been happening around me?

1. I no longer have a planning period at my school because we have an incompetent math teacher whose kids write profanity on the board, do drugs in the classroom and steal stuff and of course she’s totally unaware of what’s going on.  So, in order to keep the headache to a minimum – we gave up a planning period so that her classes would be smaller and the trauma less pervasive – it hasn’t made me happy.


2. Today, my sister is becoming a grandmother.  Her stepson and his wife are to be having a little girl named Elida Inez something Wilson – all I can say there is that it’s a damn good thing that the child doesn’t realize how strange her parents are and won’t realize until she’s already come to love them – otherwise, she’d cling to the inside of that womb with everything she’s got to keep from coming out.


3. My brother was admitted today to a 28 day rehab facility to fight his addiction to oxycontin and other opiates – he’s going to try to quit smoking while he’s there as well – might as well.  So he and my mom were at my house for a week – which is a bit stressful – though I did get to take week off from work to help with the detox thing – and it was hard to decide which was worse being here or being at work – I think work was worse – thank god for sick days


4. I’m taking 2 of my last 3 college classes and apparently they decided to save all the big assignments for this semester – so that was glorious.  So I’ve been mentally doing work in my head while I tried to steal time at work and at home to write the gazillion page reports that I had to do – and if weren’t for the fact that I really like having a 4.0 and that the work really isn’t that difficult – it’s just a bit time consuming – I’d be quite satisfied with the B I Have right now in one of the classes without having all the work turned in – sigh… I have praxis in april and comps in june and happy I’ll be to get this done and not have to take classes for a while –

The good news – I got front row seats to the circus on April 1st – if you’re there, I’ll be the one screaming like I’m at a rock concert – I’m thinking of getting a clown wig – just can’t decide – but I’m awfully excited and I’m trying not to think of the fact that I ordered the tickets from the emergency room while my brother was getting needless x-rays for the dehydration that resulted from his withdrawal – gotta love someone who adds to the bills.

1. I believe my son has a sty – not happy about that and am going to have to take him to the doctor to get eye drops – waste of time really – I wish he’d just call in the drops – but you know that won’t happen


2. Isaiah has to get tubes in his ears as he’s probably had an ear infection for an entire year but has been relatively uncomplaining about it – so we have to deal with that next Tuesday


3. my son’s monster truck is broken and I have to take it to  Nashville to get it repaired – Nashville – is that not insane – makes me way to grumpy for words.  And since it was a gift – I have no receipt so I’m on good graces and act of faith that I don’t have to spend the money we’re saving for a trampoline on that.  Speaking of which – Ashlee – if you want to store your trampoline at our house the next few months while you’re not living anywhere permanent – I’d be happy to do that for you – yes I would.  Hoping you’re reading this.

And that’s about it – nothing big really – though it may seem like it – just a big ole buffet plate of minor trauma here and there – and my eyes are a bit bigger than my stomach in this case – but that’s o.k. too – it’s all good.  And I’m fine, and my sons don’t really think anything is different – and I’ve had a bit of pre-teen training on how to deal with drug addiction.

I’ll try to write more as time goes on and I apologize to all my faithful readers (all 2 of you) for my neglect.  I’m about 2 weeks from being finished with all my projects – for better or for worse and then I’ll have more idle time on my hands.

In the mean time, peace out.

Visions of Sugarplum

Visions of Sugarplums

I’m not an avid dreamer – to my knowledge.  I know that I talk in my sleep on occasion – but very seldom have any memory of the dreams that I have.  Jose however remembers many of his dreams – and remembers several of them.  Now, they are almost always set in El Salvador – and there’s usually some sort of gun / danger or sign from god – and I suppose if my dreams were ½ as interesting, I’d remember them more too.  But I don’t.  Now that’s not to say that I don’t have a relatively vivid imagination.  I remember that not long after I became a mother, I discovered that the 90% of my brain that I wasn’t using was apparently devising scenarios in which I would be in some life threatening situation and I would have to figure out a way to save Elijah and then myself.  Every yellow light – go or stay – decision was met with a flash of a horrific car crash and my trying to get Elijah from the burning car.  And such a “fantasy” is what had me up this morning at 3:45 – and then coloring my hair at 4:00 a.m. because I couldn’t get back to sleep.  I don’t know if I was having a dream – but I awoke in the save the kids mode – the scenario – someone was trying to steal my car – (the scenario was from the Law & Order episode from that evening).  And how would I talk the man with a gun into letting me get the kids out of the car and not killing any of us.  That turned into a simple stolen car with baby inside scenario.  On some level these scenes seem psychotic – crazy – but as I was brushing my teeth at 4:15 with hair dye in – I decided that there was some benefit to the scenario.  They are sort of like personal plans of actions.  I mean at least I’m thinking about something – how is it any different from a fire escape plan for the house.  At which point I immediately decided that I would have to get Elijah out of the window first and then hand him Isaiah.  And of course as I’m typing I’m hoping if ever there is a fire – I have enough warning to grab all my pictures and scrapbooks before I have to leave – because my pictures are irreplaceable – though the first few years should have thousands scattered among family members – Anyway – I’ll probably invest in a fireproof box someday and store my stuff in there – As for my carjacking scenario – I didn’t really get anything resolved with that issue – and have decided that it would be good to carry my digital camera in my pocket at all times to get pictures of anyone who tries to steal my kids – unless I’m have a really bad day and then decide they can keep them for an hour or two.

As an aside – I saw the news today with the 2 month old who was pulled from the water in a garbage bag.  And after I recovered from the total lack of understanding and healthy dose of horror that anyone would do that as I’m trying to find some way to prevent such things from ever happening to my kids – I wanted to point out that the people who saved that child were Hispanic.  And thank god for the Hispanic people who are out by the river in February – probably fishing – and able to save that child’s life.  What a lucky little kid he/she will be – cure for cancer as we walk.

The Minority

The Minority

We had an F.F.O to Atlanta this weekend to see the Honda Battle of the Bands.  A marching band competition, not unlike the one seen in Drumline – without all the extra drama of course.  It was something that my mom wanted to do – and so we all piled up in the car and headed on down.  

The band competition itself was alright.  Jose, the kids and I only stayed for the first 5 bands.  They sort of all blended together and seemed a bit the same.  And marching bands in the Georgia dome really start to sound like a lot of noise and rumbling after a while.  

There were 70,000 people in the Georgia Dome and I would say that 69,985 of them were black.  I think that Jose was the only Hispanic person that I saw – but to be fair, I didn’t see all 70,000 people.  It was a bit of a lesson in cultural diversity.  There was a dj who would come on and talk to the crowd a bit between sessions.  And then they would play some music – I had always operated under the assumption that it was possible to enjoy music without standing up to do so.  Engaging in seat dancing is perfectly acceptable as well.  But such was not the case at the Battle of the Bands.  You’d have thought we were at an exercise class the people were up and down so much.   It was sort of like going to a Pentecostal church except we were worshiping sound instead of Jesus.  It was very interesting.

I spent no small amount of my time there trying to find people like me – and the rest trying not to piss the man off in front of me – he was bald and Isaiah thought this was really interesting and anytime he came close to the man’s head, he had to touch it.  And if he wasn’t touching the blind man’s head, he was throwing his boppy down by the bald man’s son’s feet.  The son was always very helpful in retrieving it – but kept looking at us as if we were aliens from another planet.  I don’t know if perhaps he’d never seen anyone Hispanic before – or if he was trying to figure out how the Hispanic man fit into the group with the old white woman, the two fat white women (who really would have fit into the crowd as big white women are always fag hags or dating black men), the big redneck looking white boy and the two white kids.  

Overall, it was a decent experience.  No one seemed thuggish, or rude, or ill mannered – but perhaps they bought their seats late and were sitting up high in the ranks.  I think that we were sitting in the seats with the parents of the participants – so that means we were with the families of college kids – which is not the same as the kids who go to my school.  

All in all – I would recommend that you watch it on television instead of going – unless you want to see the aquarium – which was pretty nice – but you need to see it on a weekday – because it’s busy fast and that’s no where you want to be with little kids.