Psych!

Reason number  a lot that I'm going to hell;

I was on the elevator just now coming back from lunch when a two year old little girl announces to me very cheerfully

"You gots a BABY in you tummy!"

And for just a moment, I glanced over at her mother, face frozen in horror, clearly praying that I'm not going to go all pyscho fat bitch homicide baby killer on her, praying that her sweet little pigtailed oracle hasn't just commited the ultimate faux pas, and for just a moment, perhaps a moment too long, I contemplate bursting into tears as though mortally offended.

But I? I HAVE TURNED A CORNER and I'm all cherubic and shit and so I said "Yep!" and let the mother breathe again.

Where's my fucking gold star?

Pity

Here is what I haven't said; this is what I can't say;


The loss of her broke me. It shattered me into a thousand wee pieces and left them scattered about. There are days I do not cry, but there is not time I do not remember that she would be this big or this old. Sometimes I wake and have forgotten her absence and then I remember again and am shattered again. But mostly, I don't forget and that is both better and worse.


Sometimes, I am able to believe myself when I wish another mother a happy pregnancy. Sometimes, I'm able to be happy for them. It's easier, of course, when they're happy for themselves. But still, inside, I hate them. Just a little. For having what I don't. And then I hate myself. I don't wish them ill. But the jealousy burns; a tiny, bright flame in my gut tears me up and I hate them.


I am selfish in my grief. Forgetting that he, too, lost her. Curling up on the sofa or raging, tears streaming down my face in the grocery line as he strokes my hair, taking all the sadness in the world and making it mine alone. Your dog died? You lost your job? Your husband left? I don't care. My baby is gone. But of course I do care and then I hate myself, too. I hate that I count her absence in months now, instead of hours or days. I hate that I will one day count it in years. I hate that I have to count it at all.

I hate that the Universe gives baby after baby to mothers who hit them, or drown them, or sell them, or forget to hug them. To mothers that leave them in dumpsters or with some man they met; some man with shifty eyes, alone in the bathtub, or in a hot car. I hate that I walk through the aisles of the store and hear them crying as their mother ignores them and talks on her cell phone about how she's gonna get her hair did. I hate that someone, somewhere, some mythical force, thinks that they are better mothers than me. They must be, right? They have their babies and I do not. Their body kept their baby safe despite them and mine did not.

I hate that I am now the woman who Hasn't Move On. I used to pity that woman. Now I pity myself.

Upped

As more people in my "real" life run across this blog, I find that I censor myself more. Which sort of defeats the purpose I had for this blog to begin with. That makes me sad. I'm not, by nature, a confrontational person. I'm the one that ends the fights, not the one that starts it. To the point that I find that I don't stand up for myself when I should.

A week ago while I was in Seattle on vacation J called me and read me the riot act about having brought Shush up there with me. He didn't want M to get mixed messages about whether or not HE agreed with MY dating while the divorce was still pending. Okay. Fair enough. I think it's not a necessary concern since M is 15 and a pretty sharp kid, but okay. For almost 30 minutes he lectured me up one side and down the other about it. I stood up for myself far more than I normally do, but still, he dug in when he could with comments like "I guess it's your life and I don't have to agree with your choices anymore", and "I just don't want M around 'that kind of thing'". I was furious, I felt attacked, but he IS her other parent and does get to voice his opinion in what she is and is not exposed to. That said, Shush and I have been together since July, and have known each other for about a year. We live together, this isn't just a 'fling'.

AND THEN. Oh, yes, and then.

THEN, about two days later he tells me he's bringing a girl he's been dating for THREE WEEKS up there with him for Christmas. For the record, I'm GLAD he's dating. I'm glad that he's found a nice girl to hang out with and I'm glad that they like each other enough that they want to spend the holiday's together.

What I'm furious about is that he thought it was okay to try and make me feel terrible for having done the same thing. Seriously. Why is it okay for him ? Is it because *he's* the "wronged party" in this divorce? Because he's the one who got left, it's okay for him to move on? Is it because "everyone" (oh, yes, the ever present "everyone" gets a voice in this one too) is "worried" about him, that it's okay for him to bring a girl, but I, the one who "everyone" thinks "is making bad decisions" can't? Or is this some sort of score that needs to be settled? Some "Oh yeah? Well, *I* can move on too! See?". Either way, if he was even CONTEMPLATING taking her with him when he called me then yelling at me was not "being a concerned parent" it was being an asshole. And I thought we were past that. I thought that we'd agreed that we were going to do this differently. I know I've tried. But this? This is exactly why we had problems before.

Why can't I let this go? I didn't say anything to him about it, because, well, I have fought with him enough to last me a lifetime. It's seriously bothering me.

Natural Blonde

Me: I really doubt that truck stop has the worlds best pancakes.

M: I don't like pancakes.

Me: Me either. I like waffles WAY BETTER.

M: But not just waffles, TROJAN WAFFLES.

Me: Um.. I think you might mean BELGIUM WAFFLES.

M: what's the difference?

Me: The Trojan ones are ribbed for her pleasure.

M: They....EW. GOD MOM, you're SO GROSS.

Bet I'll get some interesting Google Searches from THIS one.

M is very joiny. She signs up for EVERYTHING. Which would be fine except she can't drive and *I* wind up driving her all over town. (That's a lie. Usually I make her ask other people for rides because I have things to do).

This year, after many years of begging I finally consented to let her work as a cast member at the local Rennaissance Faire. And by local? I mean AN HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES AWAY EACH WAY.

Anyway, the Faire entertainment director holds cast workshops on Wednesday night (a scant 45 minutes away). They're a good way to bond with the other cast members and we usually go.

Except this week, I was pretty sure I had maggots eating my brain (or that I was turning into a zombie. Could go either way.) and so I just dropped her off and holed up for the two hours they did dancing and singing and whatever else it is they do fully costumed on the play ground of a school.

As we're driving home M cheerfully announced

" I learned how to FLUFF!"*

Um. What. The. Fuck.

I assume that some of you are thinking something wholly innocent** and if that's the case I urge you to click here . Unless you're at work. Or around children who can read. Or don't like porn.

If you don't like porn what the fuck are you doing HERE though?



(* she meant arranging your lady lumps so they're properly supported and presented in your corset. But that's far less interesting. So I'm not telling that part of the story)

(**I know, right? Who doesn't know what fluffing is? Some people are so repressed. I bet they still wear white underwear, too!)

(PS. Sorry about the soda you just spit onto your key board)

(PPS. No, I'm not.)

Defense Exhibits A, B, C & D

I understand that I have a touch of The Crazy. I understand that it makes me a bit difficult to deal with.

But COME ONE, PEOPLE. You're killing me here.

Exhibit A

As you can see, we have a small kitchen. This kitchen has a designated location for refuse. You know, so we don't wind up on Hoaders.

Exhibit B

See? I bet YOU can figure out where the trash belongs, can't you? Perhaps in the TRASH CAN, for example? The trash can that has been in the EXACT SAME FUCKING PLACE FOR ELEVEN MOTHER FUCKING YEARS, for example? The trash can that I empty daily? The trash can that is FOR FUCKING TRASH?

Exhibit C

Which leads us to this:

Exhibit D

I had no choice. It was that or this

Polished Toes Are The Keynote of Good Grooming

Hey. Did y'all know that some people on the interwebs AREN'T imaginary? Weird, right?

Today, the blogging world is a bit sniffly and on edge as we wait for news of Anissa Mayhew, a fellow blogger (fellow. Ha. She totally kicks my ass at blogging. And also at tweeting) who was struck down by a stroke. Anissa is in a coma right now and she and her family could really use your positive vibes/prayers/whatever that she recover as quickly and as fully as possible.

Secondly, one of the very first blogs that I started reading and one of my favorites is She Just Walks Around With It. Seriously, Kristy cracks me the hell up and is one of the major reasons that I moved to blogger in from Spaces. Also? She has an adorable new baby named Eve. And those cheeks? OH MY GOD. Kristy also write as site where she reviews products. She doesn't even use the F-word in her reviews. I KNOW, that's some talent right there. And you know what ELSE? She give stuff away. WAY better stuff than I give away. I love her blog. I love that she laid out everything from a gut wrenching divorce, to a new life on a different coast right down to a brand new baby and joys and trials that come with her in a way that you can related to and laugh with because you know exactly what she means when she tells you that the biggest accomplishment some days is managing to shower. It's one of those rare mommy-blogs that isn't a mommy blog at all, but rather a blog that just happens to be written by a mommy. A mommy who puts her baby first but isn't defined by her. The kind of mommy you want to invite over for wine and cupcakes.

And I? Love wine and cupcakes. I also love winning stuff. Like that time in 1986 when I won the Spelling Bee because I could spell "chief" and Bevin couldn't and I'm pretty sure it's only because I was wearing my awesome Little Orphan Annie knickers. (the short pants kind, not the slang-for-panties kind. I imagine my panties were probably Underoo's. Remember those? I loved mine. I had Wonder Woman.) What the hell was I talking about? Oh yes. Winning stuff. Apparently Kristy's contests aren't imaginary because I won a pretty awesome prize from her last give away. Which means that YOU could win the next one which includes a $100 Visa gift card. So go over there and enter.

Lastly, apparently not imaginary interwebz peoples, I thought we'd do something interactive today that may or may not include a prize that I may or may not remember to mail to you in a timely fashion.

The other day I mentioned that a major deciding factor in my life is how my Gram would do or handle something. My Gram, in addition to being hilarious, a kick ass party guest and a gracious hostess is a font of knowledge and I was lucky enough to grow up down the street from her. She taught my sisters and I all kind of important things. Like a girl should always have a red bra in case she needs to flag down a train. That you should always name a child something that makes an easy nickname or they'll wind up called something horrible like Lumpy. That you can get past forgetting anyones name by calling them honey, and that if you can't be nice you better at least be polite.

So that brings us to what may or may not be our contest, but is definitely going to be a blog entry.

What piece of wisdom would you give to a child? What one little thing, simple or not, do you think that everyone should know? What is you version of WhatWouldGramDo?

Straight to Hell

M: MOM.* Why do that Mormons have a statue of Mowgli on top the thingie on their temples?

Me: Because they're telling Jesus "You!I wanna be like you-oo-oo I wanna talk like you Walk like you, too! You'll see it's true! Someone like me can learn to be Like someone like me Can learn to be Like someone like you Can learn to be Like someone like me!"

(*aside - M starts EVERY sentence she says to me with MOM. Not a question, not an alert that she means to speak to me, just a single word demand. MOM.)

Judge Kiki

Much like my housekeeping, my style of parenting mostly involves ensuring that no one is in immanent danger of death or dismemberment.

The older M gets the more lax I get. If the child doesn't know not to stick a fork in the light socket, then, well, I'll just give her a lovely funeral and buy a smarter kid to replace her.

When she was little though, I was much more vigilant. The drawers had little tabby whatsits that prevented adults from opening them and the sockets had covers and the dresser was bolted to the wall and so on. She was always belted to her seat and never allowed to ride in the basket of the grocery cart. Because babies? ARE STUPID. That's why they have parents, right?

Apparently someone has forgotten to pass that memo around.

Yesterday, while wasting my lunch hour at Target I was standing in the Christmas card aisle (side note: WHAT THE FUCK? It's the MIDDLE OF OCTOBER) when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a woman herding four children through the aisle. Three were running around like mental patients on cappuccino and the littlest, a boy about two, was standing in the baby-seat part of the basket.

Oh, yes, you DO know exactly where this is going.

I watch Baby start to sway and just as I yell out "HEY!" to alert the mom to sit his wicked little ass down, he FALLS OUT head first onto the floor.

It's been a while since my first aid certificate was valid, but I dashed over and whipped a Kleenex pocket pack out of my purse and pressed it to his bleeding head while the little fucker squirmed and tried to bite me. His mother was wailing like a tea kettle in Spanish causing the other children to begin to howl, while I tried to remember anything to say to her that wasn't insulting or obscene. As it turns out I don't KNOW anything in Spanish that's not at least suggestive. Because I'm classy like that.

Luckily, an employee arrived right about that time and then the ambulance was called and the cops arrived and I had to give a statement to absolve a certain Bullseye from liability. My statement went like this "Her back was turned and the baby was STANDING in the cart unrestrained and then he fell out. The end. It was COMPLETELY the mothers fault". Because you KNOW in this society someone is going to try to sue over this situation. God forbid we take responsibility for our own actions! NO! It can't POSSIBLY be your own fault, that's just CRAZY TALK.

But you want to know the best part? After staunching a (superficial, luckily) head wound? I didn't get a single drop of blood on my white tee-shirt!

Sometimes a good deed DOES go unpunished.

Well, until they call me to testify. And then? I will judge. OH YES I WILL JUDGE. Because any parent less attentive than I am is probably....uh...Jon Gosselin and that deserves some serious punishment.

Martha Went Home

I am not a neat freak. (Shut up CK) I accept that. That said though, neither am I a slob. I like to call my homemaking style "benign neglect". We're not being buried in trash, but you can sometimes (most of the time) write your name in the dust on the television.

My husband? IS a slob. Like a serious Collyer Brothers style house keeping when he's in charge.

I know this. I mean, after all, we've been married for about a hundred years. In theory, he also knows that I get majorly stressed out when people are coming over and the house is a mess. More of a mess, I mean. Not the haha yesterday's mail is on the coffee table and there are dust bunnies under the china hutch! messy. Really messy. Messy like a sink full of dishes, the dining room table piled with school papers and dust bunnies forming a zombie-style Apocalypse in the hallway. Messy like the laundry is over flowing and the shower looks like a science experiment. Messy like the camera crew is going to show up with Neicy Nash at any moment. I cleaned the house Friday morning before I left for home, but still. It's a bit of a wreck.

So what does my husband tell me last night at 10pm? That one friend is coming over for help with his resume and another is bringing her car to have the A/C looked at.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

My unpacked suitcase is still on the bedroom floor. There are two baskets of unfolded laundry stacked on the desk and Jack has decided the dining room is a reasonable place to relieve himself and so the carpet needs shampooing and...and...and...STRESS

I think it's a girl thing. It's not so much that I notice if other women scrub their baseboards and dust their ceiling fans, it's that I think they'll notice if *I* DON'T.

Do you girls do this? Do you make yourself insane thinking that the minute your back is turned that someone is going to run a finger down the lampshade and then NEARLY DIE OF DUST POISONING and then they're going to sit down to a cup of coffee with another woman Nescafe commercial style and dish that you never vacuum under the sofa?

Why do we DO this to ourselves? It's not like other women don't realize that we're busy balancing a full time job with a full time home. It's not like we're not all trying to run circles around life and produce a Betty Crocker Dinner in a Martha Stewart home while looking like June Cleaver and staying as cool as dammit?

I get it. I get that you'd rather watch TiVo'd episodes of Chopped than organize the bookshelf, I understand that you spend seven hours a week driving kids to this game and that meeting the other practice.

Why don't we give ourselves a break? It's unreasonable to expect perfection. It's silly to believe that we can do it all and do it perfectly.

So here's what I think we ought to do.

Not go on strike, exactly, but rather go on...break. Let's all take a day or two or a whole week and just not give a shit if the Avon lady drops by and you haven't washed the windows. Let's sit on the couch this afternoon and finish that book that we started reading in July but haven't finished because the floor needs mopping instead of believing that we're bad mothers and terrible wives because you can't eat off the kitchen floor.

Wouldn't you be happier if you could look at the cobwebs in the corner of the garage and then shrug?

I would be.

I will be.

If y'all need me, I'll be over there googling maid services.

Inmate Mrs. Robinson

Among the more annoying things that my husband does (and believe me, if I told you everything he did to piss me off you'd never come back here because it would be All Complaining All The Time up in this website) is volunteer me to do things for other people with out asking me. Need to borrow a car? Take Thystle's! Need your taxes done? Thystle will do them! Need help moving? No problem, we'll be right over! This week alone, he's volunteered me to pick up D from work, let D borrow my car for the weekend and told ThePerv I'd watch his kids last night because it was their man-date night and ThePerv's wife, despite knowing this had made other plans that apparently were more important than mine.

I told J that I had to pick up M and drive her somewhere at 6, so if I was watching TheDemons they'd need to be ready to go with me.

When I pulled up in front of ThePervs house, he opened the garage door and came out. I'd stayed in my car, but got out so that I could load up the car seats.

"You can park in the driveway" he says

"No, I've got to go, are the kids ready?"

"Uh, ready to go where? BabyGirl is sleeping"

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!

Apparently J hadn't bothered to tell him that I had plans.

"I have to take M somewhere, she has to be there at 6 (it was 5:45)"

"Oh. I don't have car seats"

SERIOUSLY.

Rather than lose my shit, I tell him that I'll deal with it, shut off my car, slam the door shut and go in the house. I call M who, surprisingly doesn't whine. Probably because she was already on my list after I found fucking dirty dishes in the mother fucking bathroom. Who does that? Who? Anyway. I digress.

ThePerv tells me the kids haven't eaten and tells me and TheBoy that BabyGirl has a lunchable for her dinner and TheBoy can either have a hot dog or I can make the pizza on the top shelf. Now as you read the rest of this, bear in mind TheBoy is almost 8.

The very minute the door to the garage shuts, TheBoy whips open the fridge and takes out a lunchables box.

"What are you doing?" I ask him

"This is my dinner" he tells me

"No, it's not. You can have hot dogs, that's for BabyGirl"

"No, it's MINE"

Oh HELL NO. No child, especially a child that doesn't belong to me, speaks to me like that. I bend over so my face is right next to his and hiss out in the voice I reserve for door to door Jesus peddlers, you know, the one that makes me sound like Satan;

"You do not speak to adults like that. Put it back."

He shoots me an evil glare, but does it.

Next thing I know, he's standing on the coffee table using his toes to remove the glass insert. I scold him again. Then he scampers off, presumably to his room. Only, he went to his parents room and comes out wearing a slip and his mothers shoes. Then he proceeds to take off his shirt and twirl it around his head, stripper like.

I KNOW.

We manage a few minutes where I don't want to beat his skinny little ass and I figure we've gotten over the transition from Dad to Babysitter, so I step into the ladies.

When I come back out, I hear a weird popping noise.

"What's that?" I ask him

"I'm making chili" he tells me

"That doesn't sound right," I say and dash into the kitchen

Where i find a mother fucking CAN of chili in the microwave. A can. In the microwave. I snatch open the door and yank out the sparking can and toss it into the sink. I whip around ready to scold him and you know what that little fucker says to me?

"you were stupid to do that"

WHAT?

"Excuse me?" I say, giving him a chance to back peddle and avoid an ass whipping

"You. Were. Stupid" he repeats.

OH FUCK NO.

I stick my face right into his, grab his chin in my hand so that he has no choice but to look right in my eyes and tell him

"You will not EVER speak to me, or any other adult like that in my hearing. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"But you were stupid!" he insists.

"Tell you what, since you can't be respectful, we're going call your dad and get him to come home, because I will not be spoken to like that."

Then the water works and the no no please no.

By this time BabyGirl is awake (she's 3) and wants to cuddle on the chair with me. She slides in beside me and tucks herself up under my arm. I hear a door close and there's TheBoy only now he's wearing a healthy helping of his mothers jewelry and another pair of heels. I tell him to return them immediately and he glares at me and stomps off, but comes back and climbs into the chair on my other side, apparently having decided that I wasn't going to give an inch to bad behavior.

We sit peacefully for a few minutes and I tell them we should move to the couch so that everyone has a little more room.

Next thing I know he's humping my leg.

NOT EVEN KIDDING. He was HUMPING MY LEG. Like a dog.

I remove him and tell him that's not acceptable behavior. So he climbs up on the the couch and starts trying to STICK HIS HAND DOWN MY SHIRT.

I tell him to stop, but he does it again, insisting that I "have to let him, because (I'm) his girlfriend".

OH FUCK NO.

Again with the demon voice and he stops.

Since it's about 7:45 I ask BabyGirl if she wants to put her jammies on and she scampers off to find some princess jammies. When she comes back, I ask her what time she goes to bed and she tells me 8:30. Seems a bit late for a 3 year old, but not unreasonable. I turn to the boy and ask him. 10:30 he says. No, I tell him, I doubt that. Try again. Fine, he huffs, 10. Nope, I say. After a few more attempts we get to 9, which I find more believable and so I ask it they're allowed to have dessert on a school night. Oh, OF COURSE he tells me *I* can eat anything in the freezer, but BabyGirl can't.

More screaming and some hitting ensues as BabyGirl insists that they each get ONE cookie and that's it.

Thank god their mom came home right then. I thought. Until she and TheBoy start yelling at one another about dessert. Then he storms out of the kitchen throws himself on the floor and starts wailing in his best Whatever Happened To Baby Jane fashion.

I give BabyGirl a hug goodbye and he leaps up to get his and STICKS HIS FACE IN MY MOTHER FUCKING TITS. I shove his little head back and make my escape.

When J gets home he asks M how her thing went and I tell him that she didn't get to go, because ThePerv wasn't prepared for the kids to leave the house. That apparently he had no idea they were supposed to.

"Didn't you call him?" J asks

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT?

"No," I say calmly (thankyoubabyjesusforxanax) "I asked you to"

"Why would I call him?"

(I begin to stab him in my mind)

Finally we get resolved that he had told ThePerv that they needed to be able to go with me, only hadn't given him a time frame and apparently ThePerv had forgotten. I tell him about the can in the microwave and the tittie touching and announce that I will not. ever. watch. that. kid. again.

"Oh, I already told him you'd watch them on Tuesday" he replies.

And that, my lovely little kittens, is why I am in jail.

Meow

Because M doesn't have any siblings, I worry that she'll grow up weird. Lots of only children do, you know. Siblings keep you grounded. Literally and figuratively in most cases. Mind you I don't worry enough about it to have another kid though, IN CASE MY MOTHER IS READING.

To ensure that she arrives in adulthood with the normal quotient of odd ticks and personal issues, I endeavor to recreate the sibling experience by torturing her in much the same way a sister would. For example, by making fun of her hair and her taste in boy bands. Or saying "IS THAT YOUR BOYFRIEND" every time she mentions a boys name. Also, I like to point to random ugly boys and announce that he is her new boyfriend. I steal her stuff with out asking and then whine when she takes mine. Which she does A LOT. One of my other favorite pranks are whipping open the bathroom door and doing my best impression of a slasher film victims dying scream while she's taking a dump. That one is ALWAYS hilarious. It's amazing the kid can even poop at all, really. Then of course there's the classic "I'm not TOUCHING you" sing-song as you wiggle your finger an inch from someones face. She bites though, so I've pretty much given that one up.

Recently though I've discovered the master of all ways to annoy her. Meowing. Seriously. I meow instead of answering her questions. I text her the word meow at midnight. But the best? The best in meowing in time to the song on the radio ala the Meow Mix Cats. I'm not even kidding. She goes MENTAL. The madder she gets, the louder I meow. It's the perfect crime. What can she do about it? NOTHING.

It's awesome.

And anyway, I'd hate to think she'd run out of things to tell her therapist.

What are you trying to say?

(in the middle of cleaning out the garage I discover I must run to Wal-Mart, I run inside to get my purse)

Me: Want to go with me?

M: Where are you going?

Me: Wal-Mart

M: Are you going dressed like that?

(looks down at baggy jeans and oversized Seahawks teeshirt)

Me: Yes.

M: Then no way.

Worst. Kid. Ever.

(after noticing a particularly disheveled and unattractive woman dropping her children off at school)

Me: You're so lucky to have a pretty Mom.

M: I'm ADOPTED?

Me: I hate you.

M: I know.

Soapbox

I try not to judge the way other people parent. Unless, you know, they're really REALLY bad at it. For the most part though, I think that people are doing the best that they can with what they've got to work with. I figure that, as a general rule, you're going to the do everything in your power to make sure that your kids get what they need to succeed. If that means sitting next to a child who whines until you're ready to smother them with a grocery bag until they manage to complete those three math problems then that's what you do. If it means that you threaten to take a snow shovel to their room because OH MY GOD THE MESS, then that's what you do. Hell, if you actually take that snow shovel and start shoveling their treasures into giant Hefty bags, well, then I guess next time they'll clean their damn room, won't they?

I am a big advocate of letting your child test the limits of their world. I think that kids are probably a hell of a lot more capable than we think they are and if we just let them TRY then we're going to be pretty amazed.

I am also not a "helicopter" parent. I let M ride the city bus alone. I let her navigate connecting flights at LAX solo. I let her experiment with cooking and I'm all for her listening to and reading whatever she wants.

For the most part, she takes these freedoms and runs with them. I can honestly say, with the exception of her EXTREME laziness at school work M is ready to navigate the world. She reads at a college level, she has no fear of new things, she's excited to see the world because she's never met a stranger.

I'd like to take credit for all of this, but lets be honest, a lot of this has to do with the schools she's attended.

Which brings me to my point (and here you thought I didn't have one!). Lea, who you'll recall is ten years old is home schooled. The reason I was given is that due to her severe speech impediment her mom felt it was "safer" to keep her at home. I can see her point, kids are pretty cruel at times and talking to Lea is an exercise in translation. She's very bright but is about as comprehensible as your average two year old. Her comprehension skills are amazing though, if you show her something once, she's got it. Home school, in this instance, isn't a bad choice. Speech therapy is available through a variety of resources so there's no reason she can't excel.

I'm kind of on the fence about home schooling. On one hand, I think it's great. It gives each child the opportunity to learn what they need to learn the way they need to learn it. Something that's lost in most school scenarios. On the other hand, it's hard for me to believe that any one person is capable of excelling at teaching every subject to the same standards as a teacher who specializes in a single area would be. Home schooling is also pretty labour intensive for the care giver who provides it. You're the everything. It's up to you to make sure this kid gets everything they need. It's got to be exhausting and I'll be the first one to raise my hand and say there is NO WAY IN HELL I could do it. Knowing that, I wouldn't even try. That's called being realistic, right?

As we sat in the car waiting for D to deal with the car repair place Lea and I fished through my car for us something to entertain ourselves with. I found a book that M had left in there probably some time in 2004. The reading level is listed right on the cover as 4th grade. A little young for Lea, who should be entering fifth grade, but anything to do is better than "eye spy" for the 500th round. I hand her the book.

"What does this say?" she asks, pointing at the cover.

I'm pretty used to M being as lazy as humanly possible and I'm a chief bud-nipper.

"Dude, you can SO read that" I tell her.

"No, I can't" she replies.

I'm still convinced she's screwing around and I tease her a little more and say something like "The elephant that stalks the clowns at midnight" or something equally silly. I fully expect her to call my bluff and say in that oh my god you are such an idiot voice that children use with adults "No, it doesn't".

But she doesn't.

"read it to me" I tell her

"I can't read!" she whines

"You can't read? Not even this right here?" I say pointing to the first sentence (it said "My name is Sam and I am a super hero, but don't tell anyone" if I recall correctly.)

"I know my letters though" she assures me.

Lea is completely illiterate.

She's ten years old and she can't read. At all.

"don't you read books for school?" I asked her, thinking maybe it was a learning disability.

"No, my mom says I don't have to" she tells me.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

But, still, I think that maybe there is something else going on. Kids exaggerate.

A few minutes later D gets back in the car.

"Can I spend the night at your house?" she asks me a few minutes later.

"Don't you have to do school tomorrow?" I reply

"(her mom) hasn't really been doing that with them. She's (meaning the mom) on the computer a lot" D tells me.

Seriously.

I am trying not to be all high horse I am SO a better mother than you about this, but how to do you let your child remain ignorant because you can't tear yourself away from the Internet? What is so important about WoW or Second Life or whatever the fuck you're doing that you can't take the time to make sure your children are getting educated? Is it really worth failing them to make that raid on the Horde? And if the internet IS that important, if you can't be bothered to teach them, why not just send them to school? Oh, right, because that means you can't stay up until four in the morning and sleep until two in the afternoon. That means that you will have to make sure they have clean clothes and lunch and aren't running around eating raw Top Ramen (I'm not even making that up) and wearing underwear that might, once, have been light pink and a bathing suit top that probably fit when they were six and is held together with a PAPERCLIP. That might mean that they would make friends who would wonder why you have the pulled out seats of a van instead of a couch in the living room because the couch is in the driveway and that might tell their own mother that there is GARBAGE IN THE BROKEN WASHING MACHINE IN YOUR KITCHEN. It might mean you had to think of someone other than yourself for five fucking minutes.

How do you look yourself in the face every day and know that you are the reason your kid is going to suffer for the rest of their life? How do you not do everything you can to ensure that they succeed to the best of their ability? How do you reconcile not even trying?

14 is the new 4

(scene: My house, 10:30pm)

I notice M's bedroom light is on and open her door. She quickly stashes something behind her back.

Me: Bedtime, dude.

M: ALREADY?

Me: Yep.

M: But I'm dooooing something.

Me: What?

M: Uh, not playing with my new school supplies if that's what you're thinking.

I close the door and wait silently in the hall way and then whip it open and scream

Me: A HA!

M: OH MY GOD. You made me color outside the lines!

They Grow Up SO Fast

M is at my parents house for the summer. And while I would normally be jealous, it's just as hot there as it is here, so HA HA.

Now that she's a little older in addition to the regular summer activities of camp and camping and walking to the community pool, she's spent a lot of time with my sisters. Going to the aquarium or kayaking on Lake Union or just hanging out with the grown ups.

Yesterday, KL & L took her to the Experience Music Project to see the Muppet exhibit. M was OVER THE MOON excited and called me about six times in the preceding days. Hell, she called me twice from the museum itself. Just to tell me she was there.

Then, I get this picture by text from my sister



You can't really see her, but that's M in the green hat. Flirting with a boy. Which of course my sister thought was hilarious. Because M? Has got no game. And also? Is a little clueless, because right after this picture was taken she got hit on by a girl but didn't realize it.

What's yours is mine

(observing that M has drug in the largest suitcase that we own in preparation for her summer away)

Me, magnanimously : "You can borrow my green plaid shirt if you want to."

M, wickedly: "Thanks, I already packed it."

Dumification

M: "Aren't Dodo's like the national bird of Canada or something?"

Me: "uh, no."

M: "Oh. That's right. Canada's flag has a leaf so they don't have a national bird"

Me: SIGH.

Another Reason California Sucks

Seriously, who makes a law like this?

"California law prohibits a woman from driving a car while dressed in a housecoat. "

Are you kidding me? How the hell else are you supposed to dress when driving that early morning carpool?

Maybe it's just me, but I'd prefer this

to this