A song I know all the words to: "Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler
And if you'll only hold me tight
We'll be holding on forever
And we'll only be making it right
Cause we'll never be wrong together
We can take it to the end of the line
What's the next line? My sophomore roommate, Debbie, was completely in love with this song. Had several mix tapes with this involved. There was a CD, not a Bonnie Tyler, but some sort of Best of 1983 or some nonsense. Debbie and I would have been 8 or 9 when this song was released. Turn around bright eyes. Have you ever seen the video? The height of surreal music video production.
Debbie and Traci (our suitemate--we shared a bathroom) would argue about the next lines of this garbled song. She was convinced it was "love is like a shadow of the ultimate kind." Traci, also wrongly, thought it was "love is like a shadow of your darkest side." None of this made sense, but little of that song did, frankly. The real lyric is "your love is like a shadow on me all of the time." They both thought their own version waw right--at least they continued a theme of some kind. Fit grammatically.
But then she sings, "I don't know what to do, I'm always in the dark..." and the next line had confounded Debbie, Traci, Dez, Mary, Katy--all the sophomore girls. I wasn't really a part of their clique--I never really quite fit in larger tight groups too well--and they were in our room one night pretending to kareoke to this song. When Debbie sang "I don't know what to do, I'm always in the dark" she then sort of hummed through the next part. When the song was over, Katy asked her why she didn't sing that line, since she belted out the rest of it.
"Well, can you tell me what she's singing?" Debbie threw it back to Katy.
From up in the loft where I was reading, amused, I said quietly in the moment's pause, "We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks."
Debbie never forgave me for not telling her this the moment we'd met.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
30 days of song: day 7
A song that reminds me of a certain event: "Black Water" by the Doobie Brothers
Well, I built me a raft and shes ready for floatin
Ol' Mississippi, she's callin my name
Spring 1993. Debbie, Dez, Mary, and I headed downtown to a concert, I think it was Enormous Richard and the Urge, in Debbie's VW bug. We were friends again, having recovered from the year's trauma (there is always a trauma, don't you know). We went down to Mississippi Nights, got our under-21 stamps, danced, sweat, laughed. There was fight on the floor, and the lead singer to the Urge stopped the music and lamented loudly into the microphone, "why does there have to be a fight every time?" Which of course became a floor slogan back at Marguerite Hall. Sometimes on Tuesday nights Dez and Gus would pretend to be a feisty married couple and have Tuesday Night Fight Night in the hall, and it always ended with mocking: "why does there have to be a fight every time?"
We left the hall before it was all over, and drove down towards the river. For folks who live on one of the biggest rivers in the world, St. Louisans are kind of detached from the Mississippi. I don't remember crossing the river as a child except for once a year apple-picking trips. You just didn't go east. It's a snobbery that lasts to this day in all sorts of ways, including what parishes merge with whom. So even though we were easy biking distance from the university, we just never saw it.
But we saw it that night. As college students, national news was not very important to us, and certainly not national weather reports (if it rains, I don't care, don't make no difference to me). We stopped on the street and stared at the water.
"Isn't there another street down there?" Debbie pointed out what we were all thinking. I nodded, getting out of the car to get a closer look at the water. The river was high, and it looked dangerous. It was alive, suddenly, and it could do what it wished. We got back into the car and went back to SLU.
Of course, that summer, Debbie called me. She'd spent the whole night sandbagging. Brian had to evacuate due to propane tanks dislodging from their bases and floating through his suburb. My 80 year old aunt had to show ID to get back to her house every day. Flood of '93 was here.
Well, I built me a raft and shes ready for floatin
Ol' Mississippi, she's callin my name
Spring 1993. Debbie, Dez, Mary, and I headed downtown to a concert, I think it was Enormous Richard and the Urge, in Debbie's VW bug. We were friends again, having recovered from the year's trauma (there is always a trauma, don't you know). We went down to Mississippi Nights, got our under-21 stamps, danced, sweat, laughed. There was fight on the floor, and the lead singer to the Urge stopped the music and lamented loudly into the microphone, "why does there have to be a fight every time?" Which of course became a floor slogan back at Marguerite Hall. Sometimes on Tuesday nights Dez and Gus would pretend to be a feisty married couple and have Tuesday Night Fight Night in the hall, and it always ended with mocking: "why does there have to be a fight every time?"
We left the hall before it was all over, and drove down towards the river. For folks who live on one of the biggest rivers in the world, St. Louisans are kind of detached from the Mississippi. I don't remember crossing the river as a child except for once a year apple-picking trips. You just didn't go east. It's a snobbery that lasts to this day in all sorts of ways, including what parishes merge with whom. So even though we were easy biking distance from the university, we just never saw it.
But we saw it that night. As college students, national news was not very important to us, and certainly not national weather reports (if it rains, I don't care, don't make no difference to me). We stopped on the street and stared at the water.
"Isn't there another street down there?" Debbie pointed out what we were all thinking. I nodded, getting out of the car to get a closer look at the water. The river was high, and it looked dangerous. It was alive, suddenly, and it could do what it wished. We got back into the car and went back to SLU.
Of course, that summer, Debbie called me. She'd spent the whole night sandbagging. Brian had to evacuate due to propane tanks dislodging from their bases and floating through his suburb. My 80 year old aunt had to show ID to get back to her house every day. Flood of '93 was here.
Present
Right now, Leo is chewing on a baby bottle nipple he found somewhere in a kitchen drawer.
Right now, Mike is in Indianapolis, where he's been since Friday, but he's heading home in an hour and a half.
Right now, I'm wishing the kitchen were closer to the computer so I could get more coffee without distractions leading me to do things like clean.
Right now, NPR isn't on in any room of the house for the first time in years. I got tired of the background noise.
Right now, Jack is sitting downstairs staring at the porch hoping the stray will come back so he can get all pouncy and territorial.
Right now, UPS is on its way to my house with more dyslexia tutoring materials (which are working!)
Right now, Ann just called on my cell to let me know that she's free this afternoon if I want to sit in her kitchen. Which I do.
Right now, I'm thinking about baking a cake. For no good reason.
Right now, I'm realizing that before a cake, I have to figure out how I'm going to dye Easter eggs. If I'm going natural this year, I need to collect my supplies.
Right now, I'm thinking about a salon and starting it up in May and wondering which person from a short list of possibilities I should invite to speak to me and my friends.
Right now, just right now, Leo bit my bare foot. I think he needs something.
Right now, Mike is in Indianapolis, where he's been since Friday, but he's heading home in an hour and a half.
Right now, I'm wishing the kitchen were closer to the computer so I could get more coffee without distractions leading me to do things like clean.
Right now, NPR isn't on in any room of the house for the first time in years. I got tired of the background noise.
Right now, Jack is sitting downstairs staring at the porch hoping the stray will come back so he can get all pouncy and territorial.
Right now, UPS is on its way to my house with more dyslexia tutoring materials (which are working!)
Right now, Ann just called on my cell to let me know that she's free this afternoon if I want to sit in her kitchen. Which I do.
Right now, I'm thinking about baking a cake. For no good reason.
Right now, I'm realizing that before a cake, I have to figure out how I'm going to dye Easter eggs. If I'm going natural this year, I need to collect my supplies.
Right now, I'm thinking about a salon and starting it up in May and wondering which person from a short list of possibilities I should invite to speak to me and my friends.
Right now, just right now, Leo bit my bare foot. I think he needs something.
Monday, March 29, 2010
30 days of song: day 6
A song that reminds me of some place:
"Rollin By" by Robert Earl Keen, Jr.
It's a busted old town
On the plains of West Texas
The drugstore's closed down
The river's run dry
The semis roll through
Just like stainless steel stallions
Goin' hard goin' fast goin' wild
Rollin' hard rollin' fast rollin' by
Texas is a good place to be from (it's like a whole nother country). I can't claim native Texas status, but I did spend quite a few formative years in Dallas and Houston. I learned what I liked about music, about men, friends, weather, barbecue, texmex, melancholia, solitude, and sky in Texas. Houston, Galveston, Beaumont--these are east Texas places. Wet. Green. Oily hazy ocean salty tar ball sticky. I've only been out in West Texas a few times, and all but one of those was only "west" in comparison to "east."
The drive-in don't play
No Friday night picture
With no big silver screen
To light up the sky
And gone are the days
Of post-wartime lovers
Goin' hard goin' fast goin' wild
Rollin' hard rollin' fast rollin' by
Once, a bus from North Texas U to Flagstaff. Count the Dairy Queens. Note the change from civilization to something different. Something a gray green color, the clouds hanging in the sky from wires, three dimensional, casting shadows. Shreds of towns. Cows. Grasshopper oil rigs squeezing the last bits out. Glad the truckers didn't beat Ruben up.
The mission still stands
At the edge of the plateau
And a stone marks the graves
Where the old cowboys lie
Asleep in a time
In a town just a young man
Goin' hard goin' fast goin' wild
Rollin' hard rollin' fast rollin' by
Stop in high school on the way to a retreat in San Antonio. August in Texas. Trying not to breathe. Patrick's sleeves rolled up, looking like he could fade into the crowd for the first time since I met him. The water in the glasses at the cafe hazy. John doesn't drink his; I drink mine, grinning.
And me I stand here
At the last filling station
While the wind moans a dirge
To a coyote's cry
And I'm back in my car
And I'm out on the highway
Goin' hard goin' fast goin' wild
Rollin' hard rollin' fast rollin' by
Nothing like driving alone through Texas. Except maybe sharing a cab of a truck with someone worth looking at, riding bitch between him and his girlfriend, or sitting sideways watching him tell me anything, anything just to hear the voice and see the expressions, already planned before I got in. Stopping for gas, getting back out onto the Farm to Market road, thinking, what do I say now?
Lyle Lovett's version:
"Rollin By" by Robert Earl Keen, Jr.
It's a busted old town
On the plains of West Texas
The drugstore's closed down
The river's run dry
The semis roll through
Just like stainless steel stallions
Goin' hard goin' fast goin' wild
Rollin' hard rollin' fast rollin' by
Texas is a good place to be from (it's like a whole nother country). I can't claim native Texas status, but I did spend quite a few formative years in Dallas and Houston. I learned what I liked about music, about men, friends, weather, barbecue, texmex, melancholia, solitude, and sky in Texas. Houston, Galveston, Beaumont--these are east Texas places. Wet. Green. Oily hazy ocean salty tar ball sticky. I've only been out in West Texas a few times, and all but one of those was only "west" in comparison to "east."
The drive-in don't play
No Friday night picture
With no big silver screen
To light up the sky
And gone are the days
Of post-wartime lovers
Goin' hard goin' fast goin' wild
Rollin' hard rollin' fast rollin' by
Once, a bus from North Texas U to Flagstaff. Count the Dairy Queens. Note the change from civilization to something different. Something a gray green color, the clouds hanging in the sky from wires, three dimensional, casting shadows. Shreds of towns. Cows. Grasshopper oil rigs squeezing the last bits out. Glad the truckers didn't beat Ruben up.
The mission still stands
At the edge of the plateau
And a stone marks the graves
Where the old cowboys lie
Asleep in a time
In a town just a young man
Goin' hard goin' fast goin' wild
Rollin' hard rollin' fast rollin' by
Stop in high school on the way to a retreat in San Antonio. August in Texas. Trying not to breathe. Patrick's sleeves rolled up, looking like he could fade into the crowd for the first time since I met him. The water in the glasses at the cafe hazy. John doesn't drink his; I drink mine, grinning.
And me I stand here
At the last filling station
While the wind moans a dirge
To a coyote's cry
And I'm back in my car
And I'm out on the highway
Goin' hard goin' fast goin' wild
Rollin' hard rollin' fast rollin' by
Nothing like driving alone through Texas. Except maybe sharing a cab of a truck with someone worth looking at, riding bitch between him and his girlfriend, or sitting sideways watching him tell me anything, anything just to hear the voice and see the expressions, already planned before I got in. Stopping for gas, getting back out onto the Farm to Market road, thinking, what do I say now?
Lyle Lovett's version:
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The heart of scouting
I got this email the other day about Girl Scouts and Planned Parenthood. It was one of those hardly verifiable claims. An email about a news report about an event that happened at the UN. Hardly Girl Scouts of Eastern Missouri. I checked Snopes.com to no avail. The only places I could find information online were on anti-abortion websites. It seems perhaps the Waco, Texas council had some sort of association with Planned Parenthood? I don't know. I am not a fan of Planned Parenthood; my opinions about reproduction are between me and God. I would be dismayed if Girl Scouts of Eastern Missouri had a connection to PP--and I would probably write a letter explaining how STUPID that was. Have they met St. Louisans? Have they noticed how many of them are Catholic? I am reminded of the Dilbert cartoon where Alice stands there in front of a powerpoint screen saying "you know it's true because I used math!" and behind her on the screen is the word DUH to the power of 100.
Duh to the power of 100. And as annoying as some of the Girl Scout policies seem to me, this council seems hugely interested in covering their rear ends. A connection to Planned Parenthood would cut their membership in such a huge way, it just wouldn't be worth it. Or reasonable.
So now there's a mom I know who is getting loud and angry about this--and frankly, I think it's a waste of energy if indeed our local council does not have a relationship with PP. I mean, it would be hard in this day and age to completely insulate yourself from people who have connections to people who have connections to people you don't agree with. For instance, my family boycotts Nestle, but my neighbor works for Ralcorp, which is (or was) part of Nestle. This didn't mean I didn't go over to his house for a barbecue. This didn't mean I didn't eat cookies his wife made--made from ingredients that were purchased with his salary that he earned working for a subsidiary of an international corporation that violates baby milk substitute (formula) marketing laws in the 3rd world. It would be impossible to live in the world and not touch parts of it I don't agree with.
So this mom wants GSEM to publish a position paper on abortion. I think personally this would be a huge mixing of causes. I was a girl scout throughout childhood and now have been a leader for 4 years. We are a mostly Catholic troop and never in any way have I felt pressure to do anything that wasn't in accordance with our beliefs. The fact that the diocese has an office on scouting (girls and boys) says to me that I'm not doing anything counter to my faith.
Bringing sex education and abortion into the mix is a bad idea. As an example, La Leche League almost fell apart over the abortion issue. There are many very conservative and very liberal women in LLL and sometimes it is best to focus on core values and mission instead of other issues. LLL now has rules about mixing causes--as a leader you can't even mention that you sell Tupperware, much less say things about political and moral issues. And it keeps LLL doing what it's supposed to do (for the most part)--supporting women who breastfeed their babies. Abortion and reproductive politics are very close to the heart of women who procreate, and that's the sum total of every person in LLL. But they realized wisely to narrow their focus. Girl Scouts I see as very similar--as an organization made up mostly of women and girls, again, abortion, reproduction, birth control, sex, and the politics surrounding all of these are so important to us. But if we make it a central issue of GS, we will lose what GS is for. We will lose the heart of scouting.
I have an inner city troop with girls who NEED scouting. Some of my girls have never had a chance otherwise to camp, learn about nature and the world outside of their zip code. Scouting lets me do this cheaply and within the auspices of an organization that has everything I need (camps, insurance, rules, a program, etc). A position paper on abortion would cut my troop in half. And for what gain? So a bunch of people can get angry? So that yet again one more part of our lives becomes politicized and polarized? What is Christian about that? Wouldn't it be nice to be able to look back on a grade school career filled with camping trips chaperoned by confident normal women from different backgrounds--and from these experiences draw insight and inspiration and find your own way, instead of remembering that you once were a girl scout until they screwed up and your mother pulled you out and then you didn't get to do those things anymore?
Sigh. Here's hoping GSEM will let the sturm und drang blow over.
Duh to the power of 100. And as annoying as some of the Girl Scout policies seem to me, this council seems hugely interested in covering their rear ends. A connection to Planned Parenthood would cut their membership in such a huge way, it just wouldn't be worth it. Or reasonable.
So now there's a mom I know who is getting loud and angry about this--and frankly, I think it's a waste of energy if indeed our local council does not have a relationship with PP. I mean, it would be hard in this day and age to completely insulate yourself from people who have connections to people who have connections to people you don't agree with. For instance, my family boycotts Nestle, but my neighbor works for Ralcorp, which is (or was) part of Nestle. This didn't mean I didn't go over to his house for a barbecue. This didn't mean I didn't eat cookies his wife made--made from ingredients that were purchased with his salary that he earned working for a subsidiary of an international corporation that violates baby milk substitute (formula) marketing laws in the 3rd world. It would be impossible to live in the world and not touch parts of it I don't agree with.
So this mom wants GSEM to publish a position paper on abortion. I think personally this would be a huge mixing of causes. I was a girl scout throughout childhood and now have been a leader for 4 years. We are a mostly Catholic troop and never in any way have I felt pressure to do anything that wasn't in accordance with our beliefs. The fact that the diocese has an office on scouting (girls and boys) says to me that I'm not doing anything counter to my faith.
Bringing sex education and abortion into the mix is a bad idea. As an example, La Leche League almost fell apart over the abortion issue. There are many very conservative and very liberal women in LLL and sometimes it is best to focus on core values and mission instead of other issues. LLL now has rules about mixing causes--as a leader you can't even mention that you sell Tupperware, much less say things about political and moral issues. And it keeps LLL doing what it's supposed to do (for the most part)--supporting women who breastfeed their babies. Abortion and reproductive politics are very close to the heart of women who procreate, and that's the sum total of every person in LLL. But they realized wisely to narrow their focus. Girl Scouts I see as very similar--as an organization made up mostly of women and girls, again, abortion, reproduction, birth control, sex, and the politics surrounding all of these are so important to us. But if we make it a central issue of GS, we will lose what GS is for. We will lose the heart of scouting.
I have an inner city troop with girls who NEED scouting. Some of my girls have never had a chance otherwise to camp, learn about nature and the world outside of their zip code. Scouting lets me do this cheaply and within the auspices of an organization that has everything I need (camps, insurance, rules, a program, etc). A position paper on abortion would cut my troop in half. And for what gain? So a bunch of people can get angry? So that yet again one more part of our lives becomes politicized and polarized? What is Christian about that? Wouldn't it be nice to be able to look back on a grade school career filled with camping trips chaperoned by confident normal women from different backgrounds--and from these experiences draw insight and inspiration and find your own way, instead of remembering that you once were a girl scout until they screwed up and your mother pulled you out and then you didn't get to do those things anymore?
Sigh. Here's hoping GSEM will let the sturm und drang blow over.
30 Days of Songs: Day 5
A song that reminds you of someone...."Seven Bridges Road" by the Eagles.
Now I have loved you like a baby
Like some lonesome child
And I have loved you in a tame way
And I have loved you wild
Sometimes there's a part of me
Has to turn from here and go
Running like a child from these warm stars
Down the Seven Bridges Road
Spring 1991. I have taken on the job of varsity baseball manager/statistician for my high school boys' team. I'm 16 and think I can handle this. In the end, I could handle it, actually. It taught me a lot about men, in the end, about bad men--not evil men, just men who are bad at being men--and it was another situation that I walked away from unscathed. And wondering what the big deal was. Of course, there is more here than just a little scorekeeping. There's the coach, Louis, 26 and sending out signals towards me like a friggin beacon.
Statistician means I get to ride in his truck, not the team bus with greasy Coach Dyson. Occasionally an overflow from the bus rides with us, crammed in behind us (no real backseat)--usually boys from my class I could care less about. Most of the time, we're alone. We feed each other's egos and have a great time. After games, Coach Dyson drives the van back and cleans up back at school--sometimes we don't come back to school right away. We drive down the back roads, listening to the road beneath us, the windows open and the breezy humid Houston air taking my breath away. Spanish moss in the live oaks, frogs singing in bayou as we pull around back of the school.
Eighteen years have passed. Considering the age difference, power difference, the fact that he was married, that he essentially took advantage of my desperate need for conversation, connection, and companionship I simply wasn't finding in my social crowd (I did the next year, for what it's worth), I probably should be angry--but I always felt just as responsible for every bit, and in the end, I just couldn't be angry. I just can't. It's not that I've gotten over it--there just wasn't anything to get over. There are some who probably can't fathom this, but warm nights with the windows rolled down, this Eagles song comes to mind and my head just spins.
Now I have loved you like a baby
Like some lonesome child
And I have loved you in a tame way
And I have loved you wild
Sometimes there's a part of me
Has to turn from here and go
Running like a child from these warm stars
Down the Seven Bridges Road
Spring 1991. I have taken on the job of varsity baseball manager/statistician for my high school boys' team. I'm 16 and think I can handle this. In the end, I could handle it, actually. It taught me a lot about men, in the end, about bad men--not evil men, just men who are bad at being men--and it was another situation that I walked away from unscathed. And wondering what the big deal was. Of course, there is more here than just a little scorekeeping. There's the coach, Louis, 26 and sending out signals towards me like a friggin beacon.
Statistician means I get to ride in his truck, not the team bus with greasy Coach Dyson. Occasionally an overflow from the bus rides with us, crammed in behind us (no real backseat)--usually boys from my class I could care less about. Most of the time, we're alone. We feed each other's egos and have a great time. After games, Coach Dyson drives the van back and cleans up back at school--sometimes we don't come back to school right away. We drive down the back roads, listening to the road beneath us, the windows open and the breezy humid Houston air taking my breath away. Spanish moss in the live oaks, frogs singing in bayou as we pull around back of the school.
Eighteen years have passed. Considering the age difference, power difference, the fact that he was married, that he essentially took advantage of my desperate need for conversation, connection, and companionship I simply wasn't finding in my social crowd (I did the next year, for what it's worth), I probably should be angry--but I always felt just as responsible for every bit, and in the end, I just couldn't be angry. I just can't. It's not that I've gotten over it--there just wasn't anything to get over. There are some who probably can't fathom this, but warm nights with the windows rolled down, this Eagles song comes to mind and my head just spins.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
30 Days of Songs: Day 4
A song that makes you sad.
There are many sad songs. But this one makes me melancholic every time I hear it, every time a riff is used in a movie scene. Wind Cries Mary, by Jimi Hendrix:
After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggering on down the street
Footprints dressed in red
December 1988. My damned parents were moving me, again. I had just turned 14, had just about figured out this whole high school gig, and now we were leaving the comfortable middle-class ghetto Dallas suburb for the deep south. Texas is one thing--you can live in big cities in Texas as a northern transplant and everyone just pats you on the back. Texans are so confident that Texas is the best place on earth, they simply assume you've come to your senses and joined them.
This is not so in rural Georgia. But I really didn't understand this bit yet, only in retrospect. At the moment, I sat on the front step taking one last look around the street. Everything was packed already, the jacks are all in their boxes, the movers were coming in the morning to put it all together like a cardboard puzzle, ship it off to Macon. We were towing the Triumph behind the station wagon, which would in turn be filled with kids and the cat and the houseplants. My father was already ahead of us, so it was my mother, my siblings, myself, and my little Walkman with a mix tape I made for myself this time. U2, the Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel. And this.
Lillian came walking up the street, crying. She had on a navy peacoat, unbuttoned, and inappropriate clothing for the season. I met her at the sidewalk, and she showed me. His ring was gone from the cheap chain around her neck. He'd dumped her the same day her best friend was moving to Georgia. He'd let her stay the night, one last time, and then broke it off in the morning. There was a new girl--a senior, like him. I hugged her, feeling awful for her, but at the same time thinking, what an idiot.
We're all idiots sometime.
There are many sad songs. But this one makes me melancholic every time I hear it, every time a riff is used in a movie scene. Wind Cries Mary, by Jimi Hendrix:
After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggering on down the street
Footprints dressed in red
December 1988. My damned parents were moving me, again. I had just turned 14, had just about figured out this whole high school gig, and now we were leaving the comfortable middle-class ghetto Dallas suburb for the deep south. Texas is one thing--you can live in big cities in Texas as a northern transplant and everyone just pats you on the back. Texans are so confident that Texas is the best place on earth, they simply assume you've come to your senses and joined them.
This is not so in rural Georgia. But I really didn't understand this bit yet, only in retrospect. At the moment, I sat on the front step taking one last look around the street. Everything was packed already, the jacks are all in their boxes, the movers were coming in the morning to put it all together like a cardboard puzzle, ship it off to Macon. We were towing the Triumph behind the station wagon, which would in turn be filled with kids and the cat and the houseplants. My father was already ahead of us, so it was my mother, my siblings, myself, and my little Walkman with a mix tape I made for myself this time. U2, the Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel. And this.
Lillian came walking up the street, crying. She had on a navy peacoat, unbuttoned, and inappropriate clothing for the season. I met her at the sidewalk, and she showed me. His ring was gone from the cheap chain around her neck. He'd dumped her the same day her best friend was moving to Georgia. He'd let her stay the night, one last time, and then broke it off in the morning. There was a new girl--a senior, like him. I hugged her, feeling awful for her, but at the same time thinking, what an idiot.
We're all idiots sometime.
Friday, March 26, 2010
30 Days of Songs: Day Three
A song that makes me happy. So I guess that means nothing by James Taylor... :)
"Age of Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine In" by the 5th Dimension. I am too young to "get" this song from when it came out--or maybe there's nothing to get--but I love when it comes on in the car and I can crank it up and sing along. I picked it up on vinyl about 14 years ago and listened to it nonstop while I cleaned our first little apartment on South Grand. Tiny place but what a dump. I'd play this song loud and try to shovel the place out.
I noticed when we were getting rid of Mike's old turntable stereo from high school, that this record had been left on it for who knows how many years. Somehow (I blame cats), a notch had been cracked into the side. Unplayable, I didn't throw it away. I put it back in its jacket. Maybe I'll melt it over a can of tomatoes someday and make a bowl.
Lots of songs make me happy, but this one does relentlessly.
"Age of Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine In" by the 5th Dimension. I am too young to "get" this song from when it came out--or maybe there's nothing to get--but I love when it comes on in the car and I can crank it up and sing along. I picked it up on vinyl about 14 years ago and listened to it nonstop while I cleaned our first little apartment on South Grand. Tiny place but what a dump. I'd play this song loud and try to shovel the place out.
I noticed when we were getting rid of Mike's old turntable stereo from high school, that this record had been left on it for who knows how many years. Somehow (I blame cats), a notch had been cracked into the side. Unplayable, I didn't throw it away. I put it back in its jacket. Maybe I'll melt it over a can of tomatoes someday and make a bowl.
Lots of songs make me happy, but this one does relentlessly.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
30 Days Songs: Day 2
My least favorite song. Hands down.
The Pina Colada Song by Rupert Holmes. More formally titled "Escape."
There is so much about this song that nauseates me that it's hard to find a place to start. It is the epitome of everything that is wrong with the late 70s/early 80s. A guy decides to find someone to cheat on his "lady" with. Lady. Love that. And it isn't that an affair simply happens--one relationship comes to an end, another begins--or an infidelity that starts at work or something like that. He doesn't find himself falling in love with someone else...his current relationship is like a "worn out recording of a favorite song" (which is ironic here) but instead of working on that (or leaving), he simply decides to fool around.
And then the ad! The walks in the rain, not into yoga, blah blah blah. Cheesy feathered hair nonsense. So of course they talk via personal ads and then decide to meet up at a bar, where, OF COURSE, the new mystery lady is the woman he's been ignoring at home.
And they have one of those "oh, gee, wow, it's you!" moments and nobody is ticked off at anybody else because they were both planning to cheat. So they go home and live happily ever after.
Right.
I know, it isn't real life. But still. Do we have to sing about it?
Oh, and when I looked it up on Wikipedia just now to find the artist, I saw what the single looked like. It's a woman's torso, dressed in a white t-shirt, with her hands in front of her in handcuffs. Yeah.
The Pina Colada Song by Rupert Holmes. More formally titled "Escape."
There is so much about this song that nauseates me that it's hard to find a place to start. It is the epitome of everything that is wrong with the late 70s/early 80s. A guy decides to find someone to cheat on his "lady" with. Lady. Love that. And it isn't that an affair simply happens--one relationship comes to an end, another begins--or an infidelity that starts at work or something like that. He doesn't find himself falling in love with someone else...his current relationship is like a "worn out recording of a favorite song" (which is ironic here) but instead of working on that (or leaving), he simply decides to fool around.
And then the ad! The walks in the rain, not into yoga, blah blah blah. Cheesy feathered hair nonsense. So of course they talk via personal ads and then decide to meet up at a bar, where, OF COURSE, the new mystery lady is the woman he's been ignoring at home.
And they have one of those "oh, gee, wow, it's you!" moments and nobody is ticked off at anybody else because they were both planning to cheat. So they go home and live happily ever after.
Right.
I know, it isn't real life. But still. Do we have to sing about it?
Oh, and when I looked it up on Wikipedia just now to find the artist, I saw what the single looked like. It's a woman's torso, dressed in a white t-shirt, with her hands in front of her in handcuffs. Yeah.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Glimpse
Last night I went to the grocery store, to Schnucks on the Hill, which is the one I know. Weird how they're all so different even though it's supposed to be a chain. I don't go often because we belong to a CSA. We eat all sorts of crazy nonsense from the CSA--long-term readers will recognize my many squash lamentations. It's made me eat beets and pickled beets and bok choy and all sorts of weird things I normally would never had tried. March is the CSA's break. For 3 weeks we are on our own, and walking into Schnucks, I didn't go back to old habits. Most of my cart was produce, most of it in season (except those bananas). I did buy cheese crackers, I will admit. But I got through the line and spent $60 and knew that we would eat everything in the cart supplemented by meat in the freezer and what's left of our canned and frozen stuff.
Before I spent the money, though, I was trapped behind the wrong person. I always pick the wrong aisle. Some elderly lady with 57 expired coupons and a post-dated check. You know? Or a price is wrong. Or they want cigarettes and the bag boy brings the wrong brand. It is always this way for me. The most innocuous looking person becomes the checkout devil when I get behind them. So I try to relax about it and read headlines on tabloids (I don't even know who they're talking about these days...) or watch other people and what they're buying.
Last night I watched the woman in front of me. Young. Her cart was filled with canned tuna and baby products. She had formula, but the rest of it wasn't really baby food, but baby, well, products. She bought the tuna first, and then the formula. Using the spit-out-at-you coupons, she then started putting the baby jars of food and little plastic containers of puree and chunky puree and toddler juice drink and toddler and overpriced containers of, essentially, cheerios with different shapes.
I thought about poverty. I thought about how my grandmother raised 8 kids on not much at all. And how they ate a lot of beans and potatoes and cheap meat and so forth. About how, even when I visit her now, there isn't a bunch of convenience food on her shelves. Peanut butter, crackers, bread, but most everything else is ingredients. Things you have to put together to make a meal. How the idea of a CSA would seem overpriced and silly to her, but she would still eat the same stuff. Just find it at produce resellers' markets where she could argue over prices. She grew up in the Depression and old habits die hard--but some of them are good habits.
I wanted to reach across our carts and hand this woman a banana. Don't buy bananas in a jar. Buy a banana. I know, jars keep longer, but at least buy one banana? Buy a box of cheerios, don't buy Gerber's version of toddler snack. What especially pulled at me was that she was looking at each jar, like she was trying to decide if it was a good idea. Some she handed to the woman at the checkout and said she didn't want. Others she put on the belt but then took off and reexamined.
Her total came to over $100. Granted, she had powdered formula, which is pricey, and she paid for most of it via WIC, but still. And I know that old habits die hard and marketing is a powerful force in this country. I also know that living in the inner city (which I think I technically do even though I live on an affluent block) means your yard, if you have one, is the size of my thumbprint. Not a lot of room for a garden even if you knew how to start one. Time is also a factor. There are so many barriers to good nutrition for the urban poor. But I left Schnucks no longer patting myself on the back for my Boston lettuce and radishes and spinach and so forth. I just left with a nagging sense of wanting to do something.
Before I spent the money, though, I was trapped behind the wrong person. I always pick the wrong aisle. Some elderly lady with 57 expired coupons and a post-dated check. You know? Or a price is wrong. Or they want cigarettes and the bag boy brings the wrong brand. It is always this way for me. The most innocuous looking person becomes the checkout devil when I get behind them. So I try to relax about it and read headlines on tabloids (I don't even know who they're talking about these days...) or watch other people and what they're buying.
Last night I watched the woman in front of me. Young. Her cart was filled with canned tuna and baby products. She had formula, but the rest of it wasn't really baby food, but baby, well, products. She bought the tuna first, and then the formula. Using the spit-out-at-you coupons, she then started putting the baby jars of food and little plastic containers of puree and chunky puree and toddler juice drink and toddler and overpriced containers of, essentially, cheerios with different shapes.
I thought about poverty. I thought about how my grandmother raised 8 kids on not much at all. And how they ate a lot of beans and potatoes and cheap meat and so forth. About how, even when I visit her now, there isn't a bunch of convenience food on her shelves. Peanut butter, crackers, bread, but most everything else is ingredients. Things you have to put together to make a meal. How the idea of a CSA would seem overpriced and silly to her, but she would still eat the same stuff. Just find it at produce resellers' markets where she could argue over prices. She grew up in the Depression and old habits die hard--but some of them are good habits.
I wanted to reach across our carts and hand this woman a banana. Don't buy bananas in a jar. Buy a banana. I know, jars keep longer, but at least buy one banana? Buy a box of cheerios, don't buy Gerber's version of toddler snack. What especially pulled at me was that she was looking at each jar, like she was trying to decide if it was a good idea. Some she handed to the woman at the checkout and said she didn't want. Others she put on the belt but then took off and reexamined.
Her total came to over $100. Granted, she had powdered formula, which is pricey, and she paid for most of it via WIC, but still. And I know that old habits die hard and marketing is a powerful force in this country. I also know that living in the inner city (which I think I technically do even though I live on an affluent block) means your yard, if you have one, is the size of my thumbprint. Not a lot of room for a garden even if you knew how to start one. Time is also a factor. There are so many barriers to good nutrition for the urban poor. But I left Schnucks no longer patting myself on the back for my Boston lettuce and radishes and spinach and so forth. I just left with a nagging sense of wanting to do something.
30-day song challenge: Day 1
That'll keep me busy until I can get back to the 100 species (in the winter, I don't think it has the same impact to take pictures of dormant twigs--but it's coming back. I have, what, 60 left? 50?).
Kaylen at Happy Notions piqued my interest.
Day 1: My favorite song
Well, it seems like quite a way to start out. Well then. I have a lot of favorite songs: "Love City" by Peter Paul and Mary; "Gringo Honeymoon" by Robert Earl Keen, Jr.; most everything Paul Simon has set to music; quite a bit of what Willie Nelson has as well. "Half Acre" by Hem, "Bea's Song" by Cowboy Junkies, and of course, the Dead's "Cassidy." But those will happen later this month.
I think my favorite song is "Old Fashioned Lovin Man" by Joe and Blake (Joe Bidewell and Blake Travis). It's on their Seasons of Happiness album, which is only on tape and only available by stalking Blake Travis at clubs where his current band, Dangerous Kitchen, plays here in town.
I'll make a little money for you, honey
You cook my biscuits
When my back gets to achin, sugar,
I want you to fix it
I'm an old time lovin man
Set yourself down lovin man
Silver haired lovin man
Old Fashioned lovin man
Freshman year of college, sometimes Mike and Vanessa let me tag along. Other people tagged along, too--Elliot, Eric, Carlos--but I was the true extra, without a car, living next door to Mike, my only connection to these people being brief encounters with them in Mike's room. I was the (shocking, now) shy freshman next door. Who was going to break up with her boyfriend and steal Mike. But that was later.
Mike had started dating Vanessa the same month I'd started dating Johnny, actually. They were in their ninth month of dating when I hit the scene, the longest Vanessa had been with anyone, I think I remember being the story. And everyone wanted to date Vanessa--all those tagalongs included. Asinine things were said along the way about how much they were in awe of her and her power over them.
But Mike was the one she picked. And for good reason, I suspect, now that I've been married to him for almost 14 years. He was the best chance at a good guy she ever had (mine too). Old-fashioned lovin man.
Kaylen at Happy Notions piqued my interest.
Day 1: My favorite song
Well, it seems like quite a way to start out. Well then. I have a lot of favorite songs: "Love City" by Peter Paul and Mary; "Gringo Honeymoon" by Robert Earl Keen, Jr.; most everything Paul Simon has set to music; quite a bit of what Willie Nelson has as well. "Half Acre" by Hem, "Bea's Song" by Cowboy Junkies, and of course, the Dead's "Cassidy." But those will happen later this month.
I think my favorite song is "Old Fashioned Lovin Man" by Joe and Blake (Joe Bidewell and Blake Travis). It's on their Seasons of Happiness album, which is only on tape and only available by stalking Blake Travis at clubs where his current band, Dangerous Kitchen, plays here in town.
I'll make a little money for you, honey
You cook my biscuits
When my back gets to achin, sugar,
I want you to fix it
I'm an old time lovin man
Set yourself down lovin man
Silver haired lovin man
Old Fashioned lovin man
Freshman year of college, sometimes Mike and Vanessa let me tag along. Other people tagged along, too--Elliot, Eric, Carlos--but I was the true extra, without a car, living next door to Mike, my only connection to these people being brief encounters with them in Mike's room. I was the (shocking, now) shy freshman next door. Who was going to break up with her boyfriend and steal Mike. But that was later.
Mike had started dating Vanessa the same month I'd started dating Johnny, actually. They were in their ninth month of dating when I hit the scene, the longest Vanessa had been with anyone, I think I remember being the story. And everyone wanted to date Vanessa--all those tagalongs included. Asinine things were said along the way about how much they were in awe of her and her power over them.
But Mike was the one she picked. And for good reason, I suspect, now that I've been married to him for almost 14 years. He was the best chance at a good guy she ever had (mine too). Old-fashioned lovin man.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Ten on Tuesday: 10 things that bug me about having a baby
Not obvious things, like changing diapers....
1. "Your baby's feet are so cold! WHERE ARE HIS SHOES??"
2. Connected to #1, owning 4 pairs of stay-on-the-feet leather booties, but only having one of each pair. Where are the others?
3. Getting him down for a nap in a quiet room. Admonishing everyone in a 2 mile radius to be quiet. And then stubbing my toe on the door, making it rattle, and he wakes up. Completely.
4. Cat food is a toy.
5. Pant crotch snaps that require two hands to snap and unsnap.
6. On the other hand, snaps that constantly unsnap on their own, creating a weird skirt.
7. Baby shirts with slogans like "My daddy dressed me" or "My momma is hot." I hate clothes that talk for the nonverbal...
8. Car seat buckles that are impossible to undo. Maybe I'm just weak now after 3 kids (see #5)
9. The finger swipe. Everything goes into his mouth. Most of it must be retrieved. Finger swipes mean a good chance of a nice crunchy bite of Mom's finger.
10. Man, keeping up with the blog is really hard!!
1. "Your baby's feet are so cold! WHERE ARE HIS SHOES??"
2. Connected to #1, owning 4 pairs of stay-on-the-feet leather booties, but only having one of each pair. Where are the others?
3. Getting him down for a nap in a quiet room. Admonishing everyone in a 2 mile radius to be quiet. And then stubbing my toe on the door, making it rattle, and he wakes up. Completely.
4. Cat food is a toy.
5. Pant crotch snaps that require two hands to snap and unsnap.
6. On the other hand, snaps that constantly unsnap on their own, creating a weird skirt.
7. Baby shirts with slogans like "My daddy dressed me" or "My momma is hot." I hate clothes that talk for the nonverbal...
8. Car seat buckles that are impossible to undo. Maybe I'm just weak now after 3 kids (see #5)
9. The finger swipe. Everything goes into his mouth. Most of it must be retrieved. Finger swipes mean a good chance of a nice crunchy bite of Mom's finger.
10. Man, keeping up with the blog is really hard!!
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Things I learned the First Two Years of Irish Dance
The other night, the night before the parade, I was at the Irish parish here in town (which is a misnomer, considering that my parish was an Irish parish, too, as was the one in north city where my family lived--but those neighborhoods changed and Dogtown did not). Anyway, I was there for a show with Sophia. Maeve's hair was in curlers for the parade the next day, and we were hanging out in the gym while the dancers did their thing in the all-purpose room where they take class one night a week (otherwise they're at the studio out way out in the county).
There was a mom there who brings her daughter to the local class that Maeve attends. Her daughter's a kindergartner, I believe. Beginners are so adorable. She was going to the parade tomorrow as well and an older girl's mom was going to show her how to curl hair. I followed her over, since I'd just curled Maeve's, thinking I'd probably have something to add.
We both looked at her bag of supplies. She had foam curlers from Target. She had a tube of gel that an adult might use to blow dry and set hair--a light application, nothing like what we needed. She already looked tired and frustrated.
Once again I was reminded how little we're actually told about how to be the moms behind the dancers. I don't know if that's just our school or if it's more global than that, but it is so confusing to try to find your way as a beginner. If I hadn't had Janine down the street, I probably would have thrown my hands up at the first St. Patrick's Day season.
I brought Maeve over to show this mom what curlers she really needed. Thing is, you can only get them online. We described end papers and the correct gel to use. She admitted that she hadn't gone to the beginner meeting in January, where they probably did teach some of this (that's where I learned the basics, although Janine taught me hands-on). It was too late that afternoon to get it ordered and ready for the next day, obviously. And her daughter's hair was like Maeve's, but straighter. Not the kind that could be faked with enough hair product and a curling iron (as opposed to Sophia's).
We got the mom set with Janine's spare curlers, gel, and papers, since her daughter was playing the role of a boy on the float, complete with Aran sweater and plaid cap. So she showed up the next morning with curly hair and it lasted through the parade just fine--although I have a feeling if she continues much longer, her mom will invest in a wig. Her hair was so thick and straight it wouldn't stay long.
It made me realize that I know things now that I didn't know then. And I don't know who it would help, but I decided I needed to write them down. Our school already has a beginner's guide, but really, it's more of a list of alphabetical definitions of headband, spankies, and so forth. Nothing that really tells you what's going on. How to find a dance costume. When to ask about a school dress. How to curl hair. How to find a wig. Where to find hard shoes. Poodle socks. The sweatshirt you have to wear in the parade. What to do with hard shoes. How to put on a wig. A headband. What a feis is and whether you should go. Team dances. Nursing homes. What shows you might be able to sneak a peek at and which ones you should bring the DVD player for your younger kids. Parade. Studio. Oxyclean. Cover-ups.
I'm not going to say that all here right now, obviously, but I decided I'd start a small series while it's still fresh in my mind. If you aren't an Irish dancer mom, it will probably seem monomaniacal and dull. But that's what a subculture is to those looking in from the sane world...
There was a mom there who brings her daughter to the local class that Maeve attends. Her daughter's a kindergartner, I believe. Beginners are so adorable. She was going to the parade tomorrow as well and an older girl's mom was going to show her how to curl hair. I followed her over, since I'd just curled Maeve's, thinking I'd probably have something to add.
We both looked at her bag of supplies. She had foam curlers from Target. She had a tube of gel that an adult might use to blow dry and set hair--a light application, nothing like what we needed. She already looked tired and frustrated.
Once again I was reminded how little we're actually told about how to be the moms behind the dancers. I don't know if that's just our school or if it's more global than that, but it is so confusing to try to find your way as a beginner. If I hadn't had Janine down the street, I probably would have thrown my hands up at the first St. Patrick's Day season.
I brought Maeve over to show this mom what curlers she really needed. Thing is, you can only get them online. We described end papers and the correct gel to use. She admitted that she hadn't gone to the beginner meeting in January, where they probably did teach some of this (that's where I learned the basics, although Janine taught me hands-on). It was too late that afternoon to get it ordered and ready for the next day, obviously. And her daughter's hair was like Maeve's, but straighter. Not the kind that could be faked with enough hair product and a curling iron (as opposed to Sophia's).
We got the mom set with Janine's spare curlers, gel, and papers, since her daughter was playing the role of a boy on the float, complete with Aran sweater and plaid cap. So she showed up the next morning with curly hair and it lasted through the parade just fine--although I have a feeling if she continues much longer, her mom will invest in a wig. Her hair was so thick and straight it wouldn't stay long.
It made me realize that I know things now that I didn't know then. And I don't know who it would help, but I decided I needed to write them down. Our school already has a beginner's guide, but really, it's more of a list of alphabetical definitions of headband, spankies, and so forth. Nothing that really tells you what's going on. How to find a dance costume. When to ask about a school dress. How to curl hair. How to find a wig. Where to find hard shoes. Poodle socks. The sweatshirt you have to wear in the parade. What to do with hard shoes. How to put on a wig. A headband. What a feis is and whether you should go. Team dances. Nursing homes. What shows you might be able to sneak a peek at and which ones you should bring the DVD player for your younger kids. Parade. Studio. Oxyclean. Cover-ups.
I'm not going to say that all here right now, obviously, but I decided I'd start a small series while it's still fresh in my mind. If you aren't an Irish dancer mom, it will probably seem monomaniacal and dull. But that's what a subculture is to those looking in from the sane world...
Friday, March 19, 2010
The worst I've ever been!
I am the worst blogger I have ever been since I started 4 years ago. Blame Leo. Blame Maeve. Blame me. But the house is clean...and the yard is more ready (not "ready" but closer). Kids are happy and sewing is getting done.
And genealogy is sucking all my computer time away. So I'm going to turn it off for a while and try to get back into the groove. Last year my goal was 365 entries...and so I just assumed that would happen this year, too. Not at this rate. So I have work to do.
I spent yesterday with my sister Bevin, mostly talking about genealogy, but also about her new-found singleness. Yup. I wish I were a matchmaker but I'm not.
And now I must leave you again for the day because I have to go fold ten thousand pounds of laundry. I can watch TV or netflix while I do that but I can't actually type. Alas.
And genealogy is sucking all my computer time away. So I'm going to turn it off for a while and try to get back into the groove. Last year my goal was 365 entries...and so I just assumed that would happen this year, too. Not at this rate. So I have work to do.
I spent yesterday with my sister Bevin, mostly talking about genealogy, but also about her new-found singleness. Yup. I wish I were a matchmaker but I'm not.
And now I must leave you again for the day because I have to go fold ten thousand pounds of laundry. I can watch TV or netflix while I do that but I can't actually type. Alas.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Twenty Questions
Because I'm under the weather (dang baby) and Mike's laptop is here in bed with me...twenty questions via Ann's blog. Cause like she and I always say, it's all about me (she says it's all about her, you see, we both say that quote, not that we both think it's about me, Bridgett....).
1. Explain what ended your last relationship?
I did. I got smart and it was time to move on. Immediately to Mike, actually. Within 24 hours.
2. When was the last time you shaved?
I'll stick with Ann's answer: Saturday. It was time.
3. What were you doing this morning at 8 a.m.
Hoping, wishing, praying that Leo would go back down for just a little bit (he did) so I could rest just a little bit more before getting up and making breakfast for the slumber party crowd.
4. What were you doing 15 minutes ago?
Making my usual "I feel like poo" meal of bagel with peanut butter and jelly.
5. Some things you are excited about?
Sophia is really enjoying reading. Maeve has done a lot of maturing and blossoming under my Lenten vow of not yelling at my kids. And I went to a fabric store that is going out of business and bought an obscene amount of fabric for quilting.b
6. What is your favorite flavor of JELL-O?
Ew. I think cranberry because I like that "salad" with cranberries and pineapple and celery in it.
7. Your prom night, what do you remember about it?
Rhonda had a black and white plaid taffeta gown on. John and I had gone out with Lisa and her flavor of the month beforehand, somewhere in the city I'd never heard of. Afterward, driving down to the Brazoria County Airport to watch the stars (or whatever it is they call it these days). Waking up in my parents' house the next morning and my father handing me a kitten. Seriously.
8. Do you have any famous ancestors?
The sheriff of Jamestown. I could join the Jamestown Society (Bevin exclaimed: "We could have been debutantes!!"). His line actually is well known back to England and across the channel, where I become part of an obnoxiously well-researched line of petty kings and women with titles like Queen of Thuringia. That same line has some minor French nobility and so forth. Nobody you've heard of unless you really enjoy medieval history. In my line also is a man who sat on the committee that came up with the plan to divide the city and county of St. Louis. Idiot. One of my German lines contains the last name Goebbels but I have scoured it to the point that I know we're not directly related to Hitler's propaganda minister. Beyond that, it's all potato famine diaspora and a group of enterprising German farmers.
9. Last thing received in the mail?
Two little books on the tin whistle.
10. How many different beverages have you had today?
Chocolate milk (mistake), coffee (another mistake), water.
11. Do you ever leave messages on people’s answering machine?
Yes. Long and stupid ones for the most part.
12. Do you draw your name in the sand when you go to the beach?
Not as a rule. I tend to do more complaining than drawing. Though I will help with a sand castle, and I like to look for shells.
13. Any plans for Friday night?
I'm going to my niece's 6th birthday party, in the theme of Pink Poodle. This thrills my daughters to no end. I plan to not feel as bad as I do now.
14. Do you like what the ocean does to your hair?
Oh my goodness yes. It spiral corkscrew curls and sets off the light sunburn on my cheeks and I look like I've been to the beach.
15. Have you ever received one of those big tins of 3 different popcorns?
Yes. I kind of love them. I've even ordered one myself from the Boy Scouts. I shared it at least.
16. Do you re-use towels after you shower?
Absolutely. I'm from a family of 4 kids.
17. Describe your keychain(s)?
The great big fob/key thing that goes to my car. Otherwise, nothing.
18. Where do you keep your change?
In an altoids container in the car for the meters.
19. When was the last time you spoke in front of a large group of people?
At the trivia night I ran three weeks ago.
20. What kind of winter coat do you own?
Gray wool with hood. For now. My goal is next winter to be back into my German army (bundesrepublik, not nazi...) coat. Too busty this year (sigh).
---
Well, the boy did not nurse down, but it sounds successful downstairs. I think I'll creep down to see...
1. Explain what ended your last relationship?
I did. I got smart and it was time to move on. Immediately to Mike, actually. Within 24 hours.
2. When was the last time you shaved?
I'll stick with Ann's answer: Saturday. It was time.
3. What were you doing this morning at 8 a.m.
Hoping, wishing, praying that Leo would go back down for just a little bit (he did) so I could rest just a little bit more before getting up and making breakfast for the slumber party crowd.
4. What were you doing 15 minutes ago?
Making my usual "I feel like poo" meal of bagel with peanut butter and jelly.
5. Some things you are excited about?
Sophia is really enjoying reading. Maeve has done a lot of maturing and blossoming under my Lenten vow of not yelling at my kids. And I went to a fabric store that is going out of business and bought an obscene amount of fabric for quilting.b
6. What is your favorite flavor of JELL-O?
Ew. I think cranberry because I like that "salad" with cranberries and pineapple and celery in it.
7. Your prom night, what do you remember about it?
Rhonda had a black and white plaid taffeta gown on. John and I had gone out with Lisa and her flavor of the month beforehand, somewhere in the city I'd never heard of. Afterward, driving down to the Brazoria County Airport to watch the stars (or whatever it is they call it these days). Waking up in my parents' house the next morning and my father handing me a kitten. Seriously.
8. Do you have any famous ancestors?
The sheriff of Jamestown. I could join the Jamestown Society (Bevin exclaimed: "We could have been debutantes!!"). His line actually is well known back to England and across the channel, where I become part of an obnoxiously well-researched line of petty kings and women with titles like Queen of Thuringia. That same line has some minor French nobility and so forth. Nobody you've heard of unless you really enjoy medieval history. In my line also is a man who sat on the committee that came up with the plan to divide the city and county of St. Louis. Idiot. One of my German lines contains the last name Goebbels but I have scoured it to the point that I know we're not directly related to Hitler's propaganda minister. Beyond that, it's all potato famine diaspora and a group of enterprising German farmers.
9. Last thing received in the mail?
Two little books on the tin whistle.
10. How many different beverages have you had today?
Chocolate milk (mistake), coffee (another mistake), water.
11. Do you ever leave messages on people’s answering machine?
Yes. Long and stupid ones for the most part.
12. Do you draw your name in the sand when you go to the beach?
Not as a rule. I tend to do more complaining than drawing. Though I will help with a sand castle, and I like to look for shells.
13. Any plans for Friday night?
I'm going to my niece's 6th birthday party, in the theme of Pink Poodle. This thrills my daughters to no end. I plan to not feel as bad as I do now.
14. Do you like what the ocean does to your hair?
Oh my goodness yes. It spiral corkscrew curls and sets off the light sunburn on my cheeks and I look like I've been to the beach.
15. Have you ever received one of those big tins of 3 different popcorns?
Yes. I kind of love them. I've even ordered one myself from the Boy Scouts. I shared it at least.
16. Do you re-use towels after you shower?
Absolutely. I'm from a family of 4 kids.
17. Describe your keychain(s)?
The great big fob/key thing that goes to my car. Otherwise, nothing.
18. Where do you keep your change?
In an altoids container in the car for the meters.
19. When was the last time you spoke in front of a large group of people?
At the trivia night I ran three weeks ago.
20. What kind of winter coat do you own?
Gray wool with hood. For now. My goal is next winter to be back into my German army (bundesrepublik, not nazi...) coat. Too busty this year (sigh).
---
Well, the boy did not nurse down, but it sounds successful downstairs. I think I'll creep down to see...
Sunday, March 14, 2010
What I didn't mention
What I didn't mention was that Mike was out of town for the parade. Yes. Mike went to Indianapolis for work on Friday and gets back here in about a half hour. Yes. I did the parade on my own.
Not really--my mother-in-law came into town and went with us and got to see Sophia dance at McMurphy's and all that. Pete and Kaylen went to the parade with us as well. My parents got us a table so we had a place to sit where we could see the dancers. So it wasn't impossible. It was just, well, not optimum. Optimal? I can't decide.
So now it is Sunday and the girls are up cleaning their room. I'm going to go join them because frankly, it is beyond the power of ordinary 8 and 5 year olds to accomplish at this point.
But one thing--I walked from Jefferson to Busch Stadium, and then from there to Washington & 11th Street (that second leg was with Maeve on my back). I got to McMurphy's, where my parents already had a beer waiting. I had two Irish coffees and reminisced about the Buena Vista. And I turned to the people at the table and remarked that even though I was the parade-marcher this year, I wasn't nearly so exhausted and stressed out as the year before when Mike marched. "I don't get it," I started to say, but then I remembered. I hurt like an expletive deleted last year. I had a 6 week old. I'd stayed up till after midnight curling hair. And Sophia was at that turning point in any sport/hobby/career/activity where she felt like she wasn't getting it and wasn't any good and wanted to quit.
So yeah. Marching through downtown carrying a banner written in Gaelic (one mom said, "I hope that says something good") and then hoofing it another 12 blocks to a bar was no big thing at all.
I love Irish dancing. Love it. I'm so glad we wound up being a part of it. Yay.
Ah. Warm cat on my lap. Too bad. Time to clean the room.
Not really--my mother-in-law came into town and went with us and got to see Sophia dance at McMurphy's and all that. Pete and Kaylen went to the parade with us as well. My parents got us a table so we had a place to sit where we could see the dancers. So it wasn't impossible. It was just, well, not optimum. Optimal? I can't decide.
So now it is Sunday and the girls are up cleaning their room. I'm going to go join them because frankly, it is beyond the power of ordinary 8 and 5 year olds to accomplish at this point.
But one thing--I walked from Jefferson to Busch Stadium, and then from there to Washington & 11th Street (that second leg was with Maeve on my back). I got to McMurphy's, where my parents already had a beer waiting. I had two Irish coffees and reminisced about the Buena Vista. And I turned to the people at the table and remarked that even though I was the parade-marcher this year, I wasn't nearly so exhausted and stressed out as the year before when Mike marched. "I don't get it," I started to say, but then I remembered. I hurt like an expletive deleted last year. I had a 6 week old. I'd stayed up till after midnight curling hair. And Sophia was at that turning point in any sport/hobby/career/activity where she felt like she wasn't getting it and wasn't any good and wanted to quit.
So yeah. Marching through downtown carrying a banner written in Gaelic (one mom said, "I hope that says something good") and then hoofing it another 12 blocks to a bar was no big thing at all.
I love Irish dancing. Love it. I'm so glad we wound up being a part of it. Yay.
Ah. Warm cat on my lap. Too bad. Time to clean the room.
Friday, March 12, 2010
In the thick of it
Tomorrow is the parade. It's supposed to rain. The internal debate is raging: do I disappoint girls and not go, or do I suck it up and get wet so we can say we did it?
Talking to Mike tonight, I said something that shocked me. It shocked me because it was so so true and I really believed it. I said, "You know, all the little bad things that happen, all the crisis moments, if nobody is permanently hurt, if nothing earth shattering happens, then it's just fodder for good stories later."
And for me, at least, that's true. Maeve had a seizure a year ago--it's horrible, but later on I can look back, tear up a bit, and have this new thread in that tapestry of family history. We go on a camping trip from hell, and even three days later we're laughing so hard we're crying. The power goes out and it makes us ruminate on society. All these little bumps in the road, really, are just things that make our life stories more intricate and rich. Car trouble, c-sections, small kitchen fires, poorly timed business trips, funerals, getting lost--it all makes for good stories if you let it.
Last year this time, I had thrush so bad I thought I was going to have to temporarily wean Leo. We had a wedding and a rehearsal dinner at my parents' house. I was 6 weeks post-partum and I had to curl two girls' heads of hair after the reception. I hurt, I was worn out, I was craving sugar like a hummingbird. But looking back, I just have to shake my head. I'm some sort of combination of Lucy Ricardo and Ramona Quimby. Cockamamie would be a good adjective.
So tomorrow we march in the parade. Tomorrow I think about Bridget Kidney and Jennie Daus and Sarah Donnelly and Ellen Cronin and Mazie Akin and Anna Blake and all those Irish women from the diaspora in my family tree, and try to figure out how it came to be that they converged on a single point to bring me into a parade as part of a float representing a school of Irish Dance, which is some weird combination of jig music and overactive Irish-American pride. I don't know if they'd laugh at it, but sometime soon, I will.
Talking to Mike tonight, I said something that shocked me. It shocked me because it was so so true and I really believed it. I said, "You know, all the little bad things that happen, all the crisis moments, if nobody is permanently hurt, if nothing earth shattering happens, then it's just fodder for good stories later."
And for me, at least, that's true. Maeve had a seizure a year ago--it's horrible, but later on I can look back, tear up a bit, and have this new thread in that tapestry of family history. We go on a camping trip from hell, and even three days later we're laughing so hard we're crying. The power goes out and it makes us ruminate on society. All these little bumps in the road, really, are just things that make our life stories more intricate and rich. Car trouble, c-sections, small kitchen fires, poorly timed business trips, funerals, getting lost--it all makes for good stories if you let it.
Last year this time, I had thrush so bad I thought I was going to have to temporarily wean Leo. We had a wedding and a rehearsal dinner at my parents' house. I was 6 weeks post-partum and I had to curl two girls' heads of hair after the reception. I hurt, I was worn out, I was craving sugar like a hummingbird. But looking back, I just have to shake my head. I'm some sort of combination of Lucy Ricardo and Ramona Quimby. Cockamamie would be a good adjective.
So tomorrow we march in the parade. Tomorrow I think about Bridget Kidney and Jennie Daus and Sarah Donnelly and Ellen Cronin and Mazie Akin and Anna Blake and all those Irish women from the diaspora in my family tree, and try to figure out how it came to be that they converged on a single point to bring me into a parade as part of a float representing a school of Irish Dance, which is some weird combination of jig music and overactive Irish-American pride. I don't know if they'd laugh at it, but sometime soon, I will.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Never Never Land
In the car, Sophia mentioned that they'd been learning about figurative language at school. "And we've been listening to Michael Jackson songs because of the figurative language."
I thought about this a moment, trying to consider what songs that would be. I frankly don't know many Michael Jackson songs, so I inquired further: "Why Michael Jackson?"
"Mr. Rouse went there this weekend. That's why he wasn't here Monday, he was visiting his family and went to visit Michael Jackson's home."
Mr. Rouse is her assistant teacher, who has essentially taken over the older children as his responsibility (3rd-5th grade, while Miss Anne has the first and second graders--this does work out numbers-wise, by the way). Mr. Rouse is this rather shy unassuming character, seems incredibly patient and wise and funny and once again, another awesome teacher at my daughters' school (c'mon kindergarten....don't fail me now). Anyway, the idea that first of all, he went all the way to California for a weekend seemed a bit far-fetched considering that spring break is coming up so soon. Maybe a wedding to attend? I thought. But even stranger, the idea that on a three day weekend to visit family in California, he spent time at Neverland Ranch.
Is Neverland Ranch even open to the public? He just doesn't strike me as the sort to go there. I thought these things in the amount of time it took me to make a left turn across traffic on Grand, and I glanced back at Sophia, who, in perfect dyslexic style (according to the psychologist who tested her), doesn't think anything is strange about what she's just said. She's humming and looking out the window.
"Mr. Rouse went to Neverland Ranch where Michael Jackson lived?" I ask for clarification. "The man who sang Thriller and Beat It?"
Then she gets that look, that furrowed brow confused look. "No. The man who sang Hunk of Burning Love."
Oh.
Elvis.
"That makes more sense," I say with great relief. A trip to Graceland while visiting relatives in Tennessee on a 3 day weekend doesn't seem at all strange to me. I don't know why--I haven't ever been to Graceland myself, and I don't know many people who have, but maybe it just sounds kitschy and fun while Neverland Ranch sounds downright creepy and pathological. Maybe time after his death will make it less so.
"What else did you listen to?"
"Oh, a couple other songs."
"Hound Dog?"
"No."
"Are You Lonesome Tonight?"
"No."
"Return to Sender? Suspicious Minds? Kentucky Rain?"
"No," she giggled. "He sang a lot of songs!"
I guess he did. I'm glad she got to hear some. And I'm glad for a lot of other things.
I thought about this a moment, trying to consider what songs that would be. I frankly don't know many Michael Jackson songs, so I inquired further: "Why Michael Jackson?"
"Mr. Rouse went there this weekend. That's why he wasn't here Monday, he was visiting his family and went to visit Michael Jackson's home."
Mr. Rouse is her assistant teacher, who has essentially taken over the older children as his responsibility (3rd-5th grade, while Miss Anne has the first and second graders--this does work out numbers-wise, by the way). Mr. Rouse is this rather shy unassuming character, seems incredibly patient and wise and funny and once again, another awesome teacher at my daughters' school (c'mon kindergarten....don't fail me now). Anyway, the idea that first of all, he went all the way to California for a weekend seemed a bit far-fetched considering that spring break is coming up so soon. Maybe a wedding to attend? I thought. But even stranger, the idea that on a three day weekend to visit family in California, he spent time at Neverland Ranch.
Is Neverland Ranch even open to the public? He just doesn't strike me as the sort to go there. I thought these things in the amount of time it took me to make a left turn across traffic on Grand, and I glanced back at Sophia, who, in perfect dyslexic style (according to the psychologist who tested her), doesn't think anything is strange about what she's just said. She's humming and looking out the window.
"Mr. Rouse went to Neverland Ranch where Michael Jackson lived?" I ask for clarification. "The man who sang Thriller and Beat It?"
Then she gets that look, that furrowed brow confused look. "No. The man who sang Hunk of Burning Love."
Oh.
Elvis.
"That makes more sense," I say with great relief. A trip to Graceland while visiting relatives in Tennessee on a 3 day weekend doesn't seem at all strange to me. I don't know why--I haven't ever been to Graceland myself, and I don't know many people who have, but maybe it just sounds kitschy and fun while Neverland Ranch sounds downright creepy and pathological. Maybe time after his death will make it less so.
"What else did you listen to?"
"Oh, a couple other songs."
"Hound Dog?"
"No."
"Are You Lonesome Tonight?"
"No."
"Return to Sender? Suspicious Minds? Kentucky Rain?"
"No," she giggled. "He sang a lot of songs!"
I guess he did. I'm glad she got to hear some. And I'm glad for a lot of other things.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
And then suddenly Julian was right
All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. --Julian of Norwich
The 504 meeting went fine. The accommodations were correct and succinct. We approved them unanimously and the administrator apologized for the delay (since October). Anytime anyone apologizes for the great delay I am reminded of Monique from Isle de la Reunion, one of my high school penpals from the days before the internet when that meant something. I got a letter from her after a long silence and she wrote, Je suis désolé pour le grand retard.
I left the meeting, overcome with the weight of the past few weeks and wondering when life will be lazy again. But of course it probably won't for a long time and I need to get into some sort of crash course training program to be fit for this whole mother-of-three stint I've taken up.
The 504 meeting went fine. The accommodations were correct and succinct. We approved them unanimously and the administrator apologized for the delay (since October). Anytime anyone apologizes for the great delay I am reminded of Monique from Isle de la Reunion, one of my high school penpals from the days before the internet when that meant something. I got a letter from her after a long silence and she wrote, Je suis désolé pour le grand retard.
I left the meeting, overcome with the weight of the past few weeks and wondering when life will be lazy again. But of course it probably won't for a long time and I need to get into some sort of crash course training program to be fit for this whole mother-of-three stint I've taken up.
But then there's always girl scouts
So something is going well. We have a plan for next year.
1. We will remain one troop BUT will split into two patrols, one at the parish school run by my enthusiastic coleader, and the other at Sophia's school (with neighbor girls) run by me.
2. Parish will meet after school one weekday and Neighbors will meet at my house on a Sunday afternoon. Each patrol will meet once a month on their own to work on badges and other projects. Then, once a month, we will meet back together as a whole troop for a meeting, event, field trip, or camping trip. We already have many of these planned for next year.
3. This way we don't have to split the money or the expertise (turns out my coleader is first aid and CPR certified so I DON'T HAVE TO! But I've got the camping and the camping and the more camping). Also, this insures us against attrition as time goes by, so that one troop doesn't dwindle to the point that it's too small to be fun anymore. At some point in the future, we will probably move back to one single group. But for now, this is good. We will still have the various age groups (well, 4th and 5th grade only) together, various schools, but won't be so big that we can't get anything done in an hour (next year I was looking at potentially 24 girls).
4. We have a Brownie troop in the works as well, with 6 girls interested and 4 moms ready to volunteer. Thus, my one very young 2nd grader has a place to go. With her mom.
5. And of course there's the upcoming Maeve Daisy Troop....
6. The moms who came to the meeting were upbeat and enthusiastic about volunteering--I guess when something has a good reputation, it's easy to get excited about it. I have 3 moms thus far who have pledged to help out at my patrol meetings. One more and spreading that around, each mom only has to sit in on 2 meetings a year. I've never had trouble getting drivers/chaperones for field trips, and these moms are begging to camp (go figure).
But the BEST PART?
Cookie Mom is part of the parish school, not a neighbor or at Sophia's school. She's still in the troop, but she will definitely be more intensely involved with my co-leader's patrol. She'll still volunteer to drive to camp but then crap out at the last moment because her sister-in-law's father's cousin's former college roommate stole the keys to basement; she'll still bring the wrong item to the potluck because she thought the barbecue was at 5 and she was ready to go at 4:30 but then realized she hadn't purchased the veggie hot dogs and will send her long-suffering high school aged daughter to go buy some and they will arrive after we're done eating, in frozen Sam's Club-sized packs; she will still tear up when she realizes she has to be out of town for the camping trip that I already have too many adults attending; and she will still buy too many cookies and turn the money in late because the troop can cover it......
But she won't be at my meetings.
And because of that, I know I won the meeting on Sunday. I almost broke out a bottle if champagne. This is what serenity feels like.
Ah.
1. We will remain one troop BUT will split into two patrols, one at the parish school run by my enthusiastic coleader, and the other at Sophia's school (with neighbor girls) run by me.
2. Parish will meet after school one weekday and Neighbors will meet at my house on a Sunday afternoon. Each patrol will meet once a month on their own to work on badges and other projects. Then, once a month, we will meet back together as a whole troop for a meeting, event, field trip, or camping trip. We already have many of these planned for next year.
3. This way we don't have to split the money or the expertise (turns out my coleader is first aid and CPR certified so I DON'T HAVE TO! But I've got the camping and the camping and the more camping). Also, this insures us against attrition as time goes by, so that one troop doesn't dwindle to the point that it's too small to be fun anymore. At some point in the future, we will probably move back to one single group. But for now, this is good. We will still have the various age groups (well, 4th and 5th grade only) together, various schools, but won't be so big that we can't get anything done in an hour (next year I was looking at potentially 24 girls).
4. We have a Brownie troop in the works as well, with 6 girls interested and 4 moms ready to volunteer. Thus, my one very young 2nd grader has a place to go. With her mom.
5. And of course there's the upcoming Maeve Daisy Troop....
6. The moms who came to the meeting were upbeat and enthusiastic about volunteering--I guess when something has a good reputation, it's easy to get excited about it. I have 3 moms thus far who have pledged to help out at my patrol meetings. One more and spreading that around, each mom only has to sit in on 2 meetings a year. I've never had trouble getting drivers/chaperones for field trips, and these moms are begging to camp (go figure).
But the BEST PART?
Cookie Mom is part of the parish school, not a neighbor or at Sophia's school. She's still in the troop, but she will definitely be more intensely involved with my co-leader's patrol. She'll still volunteer to drive to camp but then crap out at the last moment because her sister-in-law's father's cousin's former college roommate stole the keys to basement; she'll still bring the wrong item to the potluck because she thought the barbecue was at 5 and she was ready to go at 4:30 but then realized she hadn't purchased the veggie hot dogs and will send her long-suffering high school aged daughter to go buy some and they will arrive after we're done eating, in frozen Sam's Club-sized packs; she will still tear up when she realizes she has to be out of town for the camping trip that I already have too many adults attending; and she will still buy too many cookies and turn the money in late because the troop can cover it......
But she won't be at my meetings.
And because of that, I know I won the meeting on Sunday. I almost broke out a bottle if champagne. This is what serenity feels like.
Ah.
504 Plan
To continue.....
Sophia, as readers know, is dyslexic. Moderate to severe with dysgraphia to match. Dyslexia and dysgraphia are not learning disabilities. They do not fall under special education law, but instead under ADA. A language processing disorder is special education, as are developmental disabilities and a whole slew of other conditions. These things require IEPs--individualized education plans. IEPs provide for specific specialized education, often with various support services included. There are goals and benchmarks and evaluations and a lot of stuff I don't know because as a classroom teacher I was only vaguely aware of the IEPs in my classroom and as a mother of someone who doesn't qualify for an IEP, I don't care right now.
If you don't qualify for an IEP, you might still qualify for a 504 plan under ADA. As a side note, I love things that get initials and titles from what section of the law they are found in, like 501(c)(3) and 401(k). 504s are like that, too. Then they become nouns and lose the connection to the reason in everyday speech. Anyway, let's say your son was diabetic and needed to be able to take insulin, maintain his blood sugar, and so forth during a school day. There is no reason for him to have an IEP--he's an average student with no educational impairments. But if he doesn't regulate his blood sugar, he won't be able to learn. So you write him (the school writes him) a 504 plan stating what he needs to be allowed to do and what the school is required to assist with under the Americans with Disabilities Act. Epilepsy, visual and hearing impairments, Tourette's Syndrome, some psychological disorders--all these are probably best served by 504 plans rather than IEPs.
Don't ask me why, I don't know, but dyslexia is not a learning disability, but instead an OHI--"other health impairment"--and therefore, legally, is closer to epilepsy than LD. And in some ways, this makes sense. The brain works differently with dyslexia, but it doesn't work less. With a few small changes, a student does not require special services from a special education resource room. Reading programs like Reading Recovery do not work with students with dyslexia--but there are things that do work.
For instance, don't have a dyslexic student copy from the board. Hand him a photocopied sheet with the notes or assignments. Or have another student slip a piece of carbon paper under his notes. Don't call on a dyslexic student to read aloud the next paragraph. Don't put her in a spelling bee. Allow for dysgraphic students to turn in papers typed up on the computer instead of handwritten. If a standardized test is a fill-in-the-bubble style answer sheet, provide for a scribe to keep all those bubbles straight. Copy tests onto light blue paper. Allow for lower light conditions. Allow the use of a bookmark to keep her place line by line on a page.
I don't expect Sophia to do LESS. I only want certain specific things to change, and in fact, in the classroom, they've already changed them or they didn't need changing (there is no copying from the board; montessori materials are tactile; etc). The only thing is, we needed to write it all down and make it official so Sophia can carry it with her when she leaves this school. She needs to have a paper trail in her file so she can continue to have these modifications in the future.
So the school put me off and put me off some more. We were going through administration changes and I understood. Finally a meeting was scheduled and we met Friday. The woman they've contracted to do their special education i-dotting and t-crossing has 20+ years of experience and Sophia's teacher was impressed by her. So I was open to this meeting. Not guarded.
She caught me off guard. One of the first things she says to me after introductions was to ask if Sophia had ADHD. No, I replied. She flipped through the huge report from the psychologist and points out that it doesn't say she DOESN'T have ADHD. "It's going to get to the point that work will get so hard for Sophia that she will need special education services and an IEP."
You know, I think I've handled the dyslexia stuff pretty well. It's not what I would have wanted, but I can look at what Sophia does in other realms of her life and I have hope that one day she will go to college (or do something similar in terms of further education), have a job, her own apartment, life, and so forth. I worry about her, but I worry about Maeve, too (I don't worry about Leo yet because I don't have a topic yet...). But this was a slap across the face. Everything I've read, everything that's been said to me has implied (or said outright) that if we deal with this RIGHT NOW and fix it RIGHT NOW and work hard, that by high school, she'll probably be fine. Standardized tests and foreign language aside, she'll be ok.
So we had an argument. At one point she even tried to brush me off with "I know ADD isn't what you WANT" and I shrieked in reply, "I didn't want dyslexia either, but I know she has that. She doesn't have ADD."
Sophia's teacher finally stepped in and reassured this person that she hadn't noticed anything of that sort with Sophia. And it's not that I have anything against ADHD. Whatever. Maeve probably could be diagnosed with it if she continues down this path. What I do have a problem with is giving my daughter a special education diagnosis she doesn't have in order to receive services she doesn't need in order to avoid work she should be doing. It's a slippery slope, and the moment I say ok to school district testing, well, that whole Permanent Record and all that jazz. I don't want to set her up and I don't want to lie, either.
So then.
So then this woman admits SHE'S NEVER WRITTEN A 504 PLAN.
And later, she admits she's never worked with dyslexic students. "What is dyslexia anyway?"
Fight or flight, baby. Kicked right in. I was so angry. But I stayed and we talked a bit more and blah blah blah.
We are supposed to meet this afternoon to approve the plan. She was supposed to email it out to us this week already. Nothing in my inbox, how about yours?
I've already called the psychologist who tested Sophia and left a message. I'm tempted to call SLU next. I feel like the time for patience is over (depending on whether she comes through with a usable plan after all).
So now I'm off to get rid of more girl scout cookies and find some second-hand shorts and t-shirts for Sophia to wear this summer. And breathe.
Sophia, as readers know, is dyslexic. Moderate to severe with dysgraphia to match. Dyslexia and dysgraphia are not learning disabilities. They do not fall under special education law, but instead under ADA. A language processing disorder is special education, as are developmental disabilities and a whole slew of other conditions. These things require IEPs--individualized education plans. IEPs provide for specific specialized education, often with various support services included. There are goals and benchmarks and evaluations and a lot of stuff I don't know because as a classroom teacher I was only vaguely aware of the IEPs in my classroom and as a mother of someone who doesn't qualify for an IEP, I don't care right now.
If you don't qualify for an IEP, you might still qualify for a 504 plan under ADA. As a side note, I love things that get initials and titles from what section of the law they are found in, like 501(c)(3) and 401(k). 504s are like that, too. Then they become nouns and lose the connection to the reason in everyday speech. Anyway, let's say your son was diabetic and needed to be able to take insulin, maintain his blood sugar, and so forth during a school day. There is no reason for him to have an IEP--he's an average student with no educational impairments. But if he doesn't regulate his blood sugar, he won't be able to learn. So you write him (the school writes him) a 504 plan stating what he needs to be allowed to do and what the school is required to assist with under the Americans with Disabilities Act. Epilepsy, visual and hearing impairments, Tourette's Syndrome, some psychological disorders--all these are probably best served by 504 plans rather than IEPs.
Don't ask me why, I don't know, but dyslexia is not a learning disability, but instead an OHI--"other health impairment"--and therefore, legally, is closer to epilepsy than LD. And in some ways, this makes sense. The brain works differently with dyslexia, but it doesn't work less. With a few small changes, a student does not require special services from a special education resource room. Reading programs like Reading Recovery do not work with students with dyslexia--but there are things that do work.
For instance, don't have a dyslexic student copy from the board. Hand him a photocopied sheet with the notes or assignments. Or have another student slip a piece of carbon paper under his notes. Don't call on a dyslexic student to read aloud the next paragraph. Don't put her in a spelling bee. Allow for dysgraphic students to turn in papers typed up on the computer instead of handwritten. If a standardized test is a fill-in-the-bubble style answer sheet, provide for a scribe to keep all those bubbles straight. Copy tests onto light blue paper. Allow for lower light conditions. Allow the use of a bookmark to keep her place line by line on a page.
I don't expect Sophia to do LESS. I only want certain specific things to change, and in fact, in the classroom, they've already changed them or they didn't need changing (there is no copying from the board; montessori materials are tactile; etc). The only thing is, we needed to write it all down and make it official so Sophia can carry it with her when she leaves this school. She needs to have a paper trail in her file so she can continue to have these modifications in the future.
So the school put me off and put me off some more. We were going through administration changes and I understood. Finally a meeting was scheduled and we met Friday. The woman they've contracted to do their special education i-dotting and t-crossing has 20+ years of experience and Sophia's teacher was impressed by her. So I was open to this meeting. Not guarded.
She caught me off guard. One of the first things she says to me after introductions was to ask if Sophia had ADHD. No, I replied. She flipped through the huge report from the psychologist and points out that it doesn't say she DOESN'T have ADHD. "It's going to get to the point that work will get so hard for Sophia that she will need special education services and an IEP."
You know, I think I've handled the dyslexia stuff pretty well. It's not what I would have wanted, but I can look at what Sophia does in other realms of her life and I have hope that one day she will go to college (or do something similar in terms of further education), have a job, her own apartment, life, and so forth. I worry about her, but I worry about Maeve, too (I don't worry about Leo yet because I don't have a topic yet...). But this was a slap across the face. Everything I've read, everything that's been said to me has implied (or said outright) that if we deal with this RIGHT NOW and fix it RIGHT NOW and work hard, that by high school, she'll probably be fine. Standardized tests and foreign language aside, she'll be ok.
So we had an argument. At one point she even tried to brush me off with "I know ADD isn't what you WANT" and I shrieked in reply, "I didn't want dyslexia either, but I know she has that. She doesn't have ADD."
Sophia's teacher finally stepped in and reassured this person that she hadn't noticed anything of that sort with Sophia. And it's not that I have anything against ADHD. Whatever. Maeve probably could be diagnosed with it if she continues down this path. What I do have a problem with is giving my daughter a special education diagnosis she doesn't have in order to receive services she doesn't need in order to avoid work she should be doing. It's a slippery slope, and the moment I say ok to school district testing, well, that whole Permanent Record and all that jazz. I don't want to set her up and I don't want to lie, either.
So then.
So then this woman admits SHE'S NEVER WRITTEN A 504 PLAN.
And later, she admits she's never worked with dyslexic students. "What is dyslexia anyway?"
Fight or flight, baby. Kicked right in. I was so angry. But I stayed and we talked a bit more and blah blah blah.
We are supposed to meet this afternoon to approve the plan. She was supposed to email it out to us this week already. Nothing in my inbox, how about yours?
I've already called the psychologist who tested Sophia and left a message. I'm tempted to call SLU next. I feel like the time for patience is over (depending on whether she comes through with a usable plan after all).
So now I'm off to get rid of more girl scout cookies and find some second-hand shorts and t-shirts for Sophia to wear this summer. And breathe.
Loser Bridgett tries to write some more
Leo is sick with RSV. Turns out he's had it a while--at the doctor's visit this Saturday the doctor, not our usual, sighed and said, "yeah, the year you get RSV is a tough one." The nurse practitioner we'd seen in January had failed to mention this. I might have handled February differently, had I known. Maybe not.
So he's not sleeping. Just coughing and crying, really, and nursing like a newborn. Last night he stayed on from 2 until 6 in the morning. Seriously. Thank goodness I learned a long time ago how to nurse lying down. You sort of snooze and wake and spend the night in half-awareness. Which is ok when you're a nursing mom, actually, because your body adjusts to it pretty well. Mike, however, is exhausted from the cold we're passing around. So yeah.
This past Friday, in the midst of Leo's fever, we had a 504 plan meeting. Sophia, as readers know, is dyslexic. Moderate to severe with dysgraphia to match. Dyslexia and dysgraphia are not learning disabilities. They do not fall under special education law, but instead under ADA. A language processing disorder is special education, as are developmental disabilities and a whole slew of other conditions. These things require...shoot. I need to write a whole post on this in a minute. Let me finish this update.
Anyway, on Sunday, I got to go to the nursing home where my Aunt Sarah is living, just by chance because Sophia was dancing there. Gracemarie and Jim were there, too, having lunch, and so they all joined us in the rec room to watch the dancers. I love nursing home shows except for the intolerable heat (and those girls are in gabardine and wigs...). Otherwise, they are wonderful--everyone LOVES the dancers, nobody sees any mistakes, everything is lovely. Nobody spills any beer or blows smoke around the room. Sarah looked good for 93. Small and weak, but sharp as a tack. I have a lot of opinions about why she's gotten better since getting there but I'll keep them to myself for now. I'm glad she's there.
Sunday also saw the end to the spring shoveling, I mean cleaning. The main two floors of my house needed a once over, and all the boxes in the trunk room (aka "Mike's closet") needed to be sorted through. Like, why did I save all this crap? Some of it I understand--I saved a bunch of girl playclothes in case Leo was a girl. But he's not and I'm pretty confident our baby girl days are at an end. So all those t-shirts and shorts and stretch pants are outta here. I kept some things that were worthy to pass on to neighbors or even save for any future nieces that might appear (a few adorable sweaters I couldn't pass on...). But I cleaned out all these huge tubs and had 5 empty ones at the end. Those have been filled with fabric, which in turn makes the guest room livable again.
We realized we had no spring or summer clothes for Sophia, though. That's the first time this has happened. I've always been in some chain of hand-me-downs but now that she's a size 7/8 that's dried up. I am looking. Picked up some shorts at Once Upon a Child. I'm going out to the awesome new Fenton Value Village after I pick up Maeve from Atrium here in a few minutes.
So we've been busy with the St. Pat's stuff and the sick baby and getting rid of winter here in the house. And the 504 plan is making me crazy. In a minute.
So he's not sleeping. Just coughing and crying, really, and nursing like a newborn. Last night he stayed on from 2 until 6 in the morning. Seriously. Thank goodness I learned a long time ago how to nurse lying down. You sort of snooze and wake and spend the night in half-awareness. Which is ok when you're a nursing mom, actually, because your body adjusts to it pretty well. Mike, however, is exhausted from the cold we're passing around. So yeah.
This past Friday, in the midst of Leo's fever, we had a 504 plan meeting. Sophia, as readers know, is dyslexic. Moderate to severe with dysgraphia to match. Dyslexia and dysgraphia are not learning disabilities. They do not fall under special education law, but instead under ADA. A language processing disorder is special education, as are developmental disabilities and a whole slew of other conditions. These things require...shoot. I need to write a whole post on this in a minute. Let me finish this update.
Anyway, on Sunday, I got to go to the nursing home where my Aunt Sarah is living, just by chance because Sophia was dancing there. Gracemarie and Jim were there, too, having lunch, and so they all joined us in the rec room to watch the dancers. I love nursing home shows except for the intolerable heat (and those girls are in gabardine and wigs...). Otherwise, they are wonderful--everyone LOVES the dancers, nobody sees any mistakes, everything is lovely. Nobody spills any beer or blows smoke around the room. Sarah looked good for 93. Small and weak, but sharp as a tack. I have a lot of opinions about why she's gotten better since getting there but I'll keep them to myself for now. I'm glad she's there.
Sunday also saw the end to the spring shoveling, I mean cleaning. The main two floors of my house needed a once over, and all the boxes in the trunk room (aka "Mike's closet") needed to be sorted through. Like, why did I save all this crap? Some of it I understand--I saved a bunch of girl playclothes in case Leo was a girl. But he's not and I'm pretty confident our baby girl days are at an end. So all those t-shirts and shorts and stretch pants are outta here. I kept some things that were worthy to pass on to neighbors or even save for any future nieces that might appear (a few adorable sweaters I couldn't pass on...). But I cleaned out all these huge tubs and had 5 empty ones at the end. Those have been filled with fabric, which in turn makes the guest room livable again.
We realized we had no spring or summer clothes for Sophia, though. That's the first time this has happened. I've always been in some chain of hand-me-downs but now that she's a size 7/8 that's dried up. I am looking. Picked up some shorts at Once Upon a Child. I'm going out to the awesome new Fenton Value Village after I pick up Maeve from Atrium here in a few minutes.
So we've been busy with the St. Pat's stuff and the sick baby and getting rid of winter here in the house. And the 504 plan is making me crazy. In a minute.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Being on correct thyroid medication means:
*I can cook dinner starting at 5:30 and get it on the table in an hour, with 3 separate dinners and dessert.
*I don't have to leave the dishes till the morning.
*I can carry laundry up and down the stairs without dreaming of a nap afterward.
*I can drink coffee for pleasure instead of survival.
*Naps are a luxury item.
*I can see the mess and don't need to hide it for sometime in the future when I might have the energy to finish a project.
*I can have a bad night with Leo and the next day isn't totally shot.
*I can walk down the stairs without holding onto the wall.
*I get tired at night and wake up in the morning feeling ok.
*I can go to the zoo twice in one week with Maeve without napping even one time.
*I can look forward to the summer and know maybe it'll go just fine.
*I can cook dinner starting at 5:30 and get it on the table in an hour, with 3 separate dinners and dessert.
*I don't have to leave the dishes till the morning.
*I can carry laundry up and down the stairs without dreaming of a nap afterward.
*I can drink coffee for pleasure instead of survival.
*Naps are a luxury item.
*I can see the mess and don't need to hide it for sometime in the future when I might have the energy to finish a project.
*I can have a bad night with Leo and the next day isn't totally shot.
*I can walk down the stairs without holding onto the wall.
*I get tired at night and wake up in the morning feeling ok.
*I can go to the zoo twice in one week with Maeve without napping even one time.
*I can look forward to the summer and know maybe it'll go just fine.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
The second post
Sophia is taking a cartoon drawing class. This past Tuesday, the teacher handed her an old copy of a Yosemite Sam and Bugs Bunny comic book, circa 1972. She left it in the car because this has been a week of hurry up--my car needs a good cleaning now, just objects, you know, uniform shirts, lunch boxes, that sort of stuff. Maeve picked up the comic book and started looking through it.
Remember those old comic book ads for things like Daisy Rifles and embroidered patches with Popeye on them? Well, she was highly interested in the ads. Specifically the Sea Monkey ads. Now, Sophia knows what Sea Monkeys are (I think they had them in a classroom one time but I can't remember for sure). And of course I know what Sea Monkeys are:
But Maeve of course is thinking it's going to be something more like the ad:
Or at least something like this (maybe even preferably in her mind):
I told her that we weren't going to buy any sea monkeys. Then we went inside the nursing home for an Irish dance show. They dropped out of mind until today at preschool pick up time when she found the comic book again. Brought it inside with her and tried the big-eyed pouty mouth beg tactic that really doesn't work with me but she tries nonetheless.
"Please, can we have some of the sea monkeys?" she said, pathetic as possible.
"Honey, they aren't really monkeys in the sea."
"I know--they're little monkeys in the sea."
"No, Maeve, they're tiny little brine shrimp." I googled sea monkey and found the first picture. She looked at it and walked away for a minute. But then she came back and attempted the "level with Mom" approach:
"I know they don't look like real monkeys but can we still get some? They're so cute!"
"Honey, this comic book?" I held up the ancient yellowed crumbling pages. "It was written two years before I was born. They aren't real monkeys and they aren't only a dollar."
She nodded. Not even that disappointed--there are other interesting things in the world to beg for, frankly.
But I remember reading those comic books and looking at those pictures and thinking, "wow, why do we have a cat when we could have tiny monkeys that live under water?" So I can dig it.
More bizarre sea monkey fandom here.
Remember those old comic book ads for things like Daisy Rifles and embroidered patches with Popeye on them? Well, she was highly interested in the ads. Specifically the Sea Monkey ads. Now, Sophia knows what Sea Monkeys are (I think they had them in a classroom one time but I can't remember for sure). And of course I know what Sea Monkeys are:
But Maeve of course is thinking it's going to be something more like the ad:
Or at least something like this (maybe even preferably in her mind):
I told her that we weren't going to buy any sea monkeys. Then we went inside the nursing home for an Irish dance show. They dropped out of mind until today at preschool pick up time when she found the comic book again. Brought it inside with her and tried the big-eyed pouty mouth beg tactic that really doesn't work with me but she tries nonetheless.
"Please, can we have some of the sea monkeys?" she said, pathetic as possible.
"Honey, they aren't really monkeys in the sea."
"I know--they're little monkeys in the sea."
"No, Maeve, they're tiny little brine shrimp." I googled sea monkey and found the first picture. She looked at it and walked away for a minute. But then she came back and attempted the "level with Mom" approach:
"I know they don't look like real monkeys but can we still get some? They're so cute!"
"Honey, this comic book?" I held up the ancient yellowed crumbling pages. "It was written two years before I was born. They aren't real monkeys and they aren't only a dollar."
She nodded. Not even that disappointed--there are other interesting things in the world to beg for, frankly.
But I remember reading those comic books and looking at those pictures and thinking, "wow, why do we have a cat when we could have tiny monkeys that live under water?" So I can dig it.
More bizarre sea monkey fandom here.
There will be two posts today
So the first one is small. Go here to Unhappy Hipsters (thank you Lisa). It catches the pretension angst, and misplaced priorities of the new yuppies perfectly. And mocks them in single sentence captions below incredibly far-fetched interior design photos.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
St. Pat's Season
I'm thinking about going over to Moo and printing a bunch of cards that simply say "I'm so sorry."
It's St. Pat's Season. I am now suddenly and without warning incredibly busy.
This is not the most opportune time, for instance, for Mike's company to decide to move offices. But they are.
This is not the most opportune time for a 504 evaluation meeting but of course now all of a sudden the school is ready to get it done after 3 months of asking.
This is my 3rd St. Pat's Season. My first, I broke a tooth and somehow got lost in Dogtown (non-St. Louisans: the traditionally Irish neighborhood, where the Irish who had the means to flee the slums went a century ago). My second St. Pat's Season, last year, I had thrush, Mike's brother got married, I had a 6 week old baby and had to curl two girls' heads' of hair after the wedding and reception in the middle of the night.
This year looks like it will not be as bad as last year--I don't have thrush, and that alone, I mean, if you've never had it, imagine lighting a match and letting it burn your finger for a solid 15 seconds. Now imagine your finger is really your nipple and it's not 15 seconds but however long your baby needs to eat. Every time.
So that alone makes this a better year. But Mike is super busy with work, Leo is reaching a "I'm afraid to be put down on the ground to play where did Mommy go" phase, and I'll still have to curl two heads of hair for the parade. And Sophia is in a lot of shows during the season coming up.
But this is why we do this. Mike asked what would happen if he had to work the weekend of the 12/13th in order to get the office ready to go, and I kind of laughed into the phone. "Would it be up there with missing Christmas and Thanksgiving?"
I thought for a moment. "Add Triduum in there, and St. Pat's comes in 4th."
"Ok," he said with a sigh. But we both knew he had to do it. And it's ST. PAT'S SEASON so let the beer flow and laugh and laugh and laugh and get the damned thing done.
It's St. Pat's Season. I am now suddenly and without warning incredibly busy.
This is not the most opportune time, for instance, for Mike's company to decide to move offices. But they are.
This is not the most opportune time for a 504 evaluation meeting but of course now all of a sudden the school is ready to get it done after 3 months of asking.
This is my 3rd St. Pat's Season. My first, I broke a tooth and somehow got lost in Dogtown (non-St. Louisans: the traditionally Irish neighborhood, where the Irish who had the means to flee the slums went a century ago). My second St. Pat's Season, last year, I had thrush, Mike's brother got married, I had a 6 week old baby and had to curl two girls' heads' of hair after the wedding and reception in the middle of the night.
This year looks like it will not be as bad as last year--I don't have thrush, and that alone, I mean, if you've never had it, imagine lighting a match and letting it burn your finger for a solid 15 seconds. Now imagine your finger is really your nipple and it's not 15 seconds but however long your baby needs to eat. Every time.
So that alone makes this a better year. But Mike is super busy with work, Leo is reaching a "I'm afraid to be put down on the ground to play where did Mommy go" phase, and I'll still have to curl two heads of hair for the parade. And Sophia is in a lot of shows during the season coming up.
But this is why we do this. Mike asked what would happen if he had to work the weekend of the 12/13th in order to get the office ready to go, and I kind of laughed into the phone. "Would it be up there with missing Christmas and Thanksgiving?"
I thought for a moment. "Add Triduum in there, and St. Pat's comes in 4th."
"Ok," he said with a sigh. But we both knew he had to do it. And it's ST. PAT'S SEASON so let the beer flow and laugh and laugh and laugh and get the damned thing done.
Station Identification
You are tuned in to South City Musings, a record of life in South St. Louis since 2006. This frequency is being kept open.
Please Stand By.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
