A Week Of Transformation

My sister (who was born on my grandmother's birthday and is currently pregnant with my second nephew!) turned 39 on Friday, May 15th. A lot has happened since my (one and only) sister's birthday: I've transitioned out of grief, marked the healthy loss of 19 pounds, been zapped by the lightning strike of finding my next, right career, joined a women's running group that benefits local trails and a village in Tanzania, put one writing project to its final rest, and launched a brand new writing project into the stratosphere. In the midst of all of that I have celebrated my daughter - the Ninja Princessa's 14th birthday, celebrated my mother's birthday, and had numerous, numerous validations that I'm on the right path for my life.

The grief has (obviously) been a long time in passing and I am not pretending like there are not going to be after pangs. However, I've been working persistently and kindly through it and feel confident about leaning forward once again. Though processing grief is not the ONLY thing I've been doing lo, these many months of not blogging. For all of 2009 (thus far), I have been doing things like training for my triathlon, staying connected with my kiddos both near and far, focusing on nutrition (and becoming a vegetarian - eeek!), writing in lots of other venues, and discerning what my next steps are going to be. All that slow, steady plodding came together in a conflagration of energy, resources, and forward progress last week. It all clicked. I am miles into my next ventures and my spirit is joyful again.

I feel myself impatient to get to my projects this morning - which is very different from not blogging because I am worried I'll just dump stress, anger, frustration, and ick onto the page. I will say before I dash off to my studio that I met Meinrad Craighead last night at the premiere of the documentary about her. It was a phenomenal, affirming and challenging experience. My fiber art and my prayer life will never be the same again. She is an artist who has been exploring and expressing the Divine Feminine for half a century. She was a cloistered Benedictine nun for 14 years and even 30 years after leaving the abbey, lives a contemplative, solitary life. She is fearless and gritty - many of her images disturbing, entrancingly dark, and rending. She is also peaceful and present and genuinely humble. She offers you the feral wisdom of her connection to the Great Mother - in a way that gives you an access of your very own. In closing the presentation Meinrad told a story of the Pueblo people. (Sidenote - she lives in Albuquerque, NM and to travel to NC for this was a BIG deal for her.) She told the story of the Salt Mother - who nourished and protected her people (maybe with the Corn Father??) As peoples are wont to do with their dieties, the Salt Mother's children began to fall away from her, forgetting to honor her, turning away from her. As a result, She fell away from them and turned away too. And the people sickened and no longer thrived as a people. The people realized their error and began pleading, asking the Salt Mother what they had to do to return to her. She told them to start every morning by placing a small amount of salt in their mouths, taking it in to honor her and to align themselves with her restorative, healing, preservative power. She told them to absorb some of her very godstuff intentionally, each and every day in order to live as they should - in harmony and peace with the Mother. Meinrad ... I want to say charged, instructed, or commanded us to do the same - but she used no coercive or authoritative language. She merely offered the story with such powerfully resonant invitation that it strikes me as beyond foolish not to accept. Accepting, however, was not without its internal backtalk. My new nutrition plan is very, very low salt as it's all fruits and vegetables (mostly raw) and almost no processed food. My first thought was "Salt? On purpose?! I can't do that!" I shushed the sass in my head by reminding myself I do make small exceptions for training food (e.g. Gu on long runs and electrolyte replacement drinks). I decided to make another "exception" and incorporate the Salt Mother into my daily, intentional living practice.

One final Meinrad note. I was standing in the group surrounding Meinrad as the evening was winding to a close. (The friend I went with wanted a chance to speak with her as they've known each other in the past.) We were in a cluster and the woman in front of me was telling Meinrad how much she needed Meinrad's example and inspiration. The woman said several somethings about how she wanted to be as brave and courageous as Meinrad in her own artwork. Meinrad tried to deflect some of this saying she'd only done what she was called to, she affirmed the fearful artist's own ability to do the same, and finally when the woman wasn't hearing her, Meinrad said forcefully, "No. It is for you. Take this! I give you permission to [and here she bared her teeth and growled] be FIERCE in your pursuit. Go." Her energy and her growl encompassed us all. She took the woman's hands in hers and while pulling them together, pushed her gently away. Then Meinrad looked directly at me. It's possible she swept the whole circle with that gaze but I wouldn't know because I was RINGING with the force of those words and her attention. Words said to another, but meant for me too, all the same. She and the Divine Mother gave me permission - a directive - to be FIERCE in my pursuit. Fierce has always meant scary to me - but fear can't get a hold of this inside me. It's too big, too right, too deep for fear. Meinrad Craighead's example gives me an incredible reassurance that my fierceness in this world will be entirely reflective of my own, personal and unique connection with godstuff. I am so grateful to have had the chance to meet Wisdom in this way.

And now, my studio beckons! Peace.

Someday I'll Blog Again

Someday when I can write past the grief, I will return to actual blogging. You know - blogging like I used to where I rambled on and on about what my wacky kids were doing, what antics the dogs have been up to, and what I think about the world, art, and random shit? But until then it looks like my filler mechanism is stuck on slapping up images that amuse me. And not so surprisingly the following pictures crack me the hell up.

In Which Translation Occurs (Sort Of)

Lilymania needs an update. Bad. I thought I'd go out and find a cool new template to celebrate three years here in the blogosphere. (Three years!) Of course I managed to find the perfect template - on a technical blogging page that's all in SPANISH. (I have always wanted to learn Spanish, but so far all I've managed to get is a little Russian, some French, and a smattering of Italian and Latin. The last two help a teeny bit with the Spanish but not nearly enough to translate a page about widgets and templates!) Then I noticed a handy dandy translator button off in the margin. (You see where this is going, right?) Who is in charge of this stuff?!! Here is a sample of what I got:

I think ofreceros free, as always, several designs of pagination so that you prune to unload them and to install them without problems… You have a little patience.

One forgot to me. . . You can see a sample working in the main page of my blog, right under the entrances or posts, you puncture Here.

Errr, yeah. That was helpful. (Not.) I particularly like the pruning to unload and the instruction to "puncture here". You have a little patience indeed! Well, I'm out of patience, friends. For the nonce, Lilymania remains the same. Oh - and Bet and I are off to Philly tomorrow to see Madonna in concert. Chances are I won't be blogging until we get back. (Shall I say "so much for NaBlo" once more? :P ) Peace.

One Grateful Mom

It is hard for me to come up with words intense enough to express my gratitude for my family. I treasure my own mother and I adore my five children. Even on the toughest days, I don't lose sight of how blessed I am to have them all. (If I ever do sound like I've forgotten to count my blessings - feel free to kick me in the shins. Hard.)

This week I have inadvertently stumbled upon the blogs of two separate families whose stories, while wrenching and tragic, are being told with honesty and grace. I cannot imagine the trust it takes in the world to open yourself so wide in grief. I am humbled by their willingness to stay connected. This weekend (and pretty much from now on) my heartfelt prayers will go out to the families of Susan and Liz. Peace.

Heartless

Bush and Putin have a heart-to-heart? How? 0+0=0. Just saying.

Petraeus - The Non Voter

I heard General Petraeus say yesterday that he hasn't voted since becoming a senior military official because he thinks at his level, leaders should strive to be apolitical. My response was, "What the FUCK?!" Which is so charming and ladylike. But I don't have elegant words for my dismay. Maybe because he's an old, white guy (i.e. a member of the group that's always had the ability to vote) that he can just walk away from such a basic American right/responsibility? I don't know. I can understand his reasoning about being apolitical to a point. I certainly don't think he should use his active military leadership status and influence as a platform to advance a political or partisan cause, but I think it's insane that this man doesn't vote.

It seems to me that he could exercise his franchise without unduly swaying anyone else. In fact, by publicly NOT voting - he's still swaying folks. He's promoting that same behavior among those wanting to emulate him. Don't you think there's a middle ground between being irresponsibly political in a position of authority and absenting oneself from the entire political process? Couldn't he vote without registering for one party or another? Couldn't he refuse to comment on his choices in the voting booth? Couldn't he cast his vote (and encourage others to cast theirs) while modeling the professional military ethic that no matter whom he votes for, he serves the duly elected authority? Does he not trust the privacy of voting booths? He made an issue of the fact that he hasn't voted since achieving a certain rank (major general? I can't remember) - but it made me wonder why that rank? Why not lower or higher - or hell - why don't we just encourage military folks not to vote at all? SHUDDER.

There is something about him NOT voting - as if he's above it all - above participating in the democracy that he's sworn to serve and protect that makes me feel sick to my stomach. I have to own that it's his choice to participate or not and I acknowledge that he'd likely vote for folks I'd rather not have in office, but still... I am bothered. Are you? Peace.

A Phone Call From The 'Rents

My father called me yesterday to say he'd seen the interview and that he thought I did a fine job. He used adjectives that coded in my head as positive even though I can't for the life of me remember them. Calm? Composed? I know he said I looked "great" and I have it in my mind that he may have said I sounded "articulate". I know for a fact that he said I did NOT sound nervous or inexperienced. He said I didn't ramble. He said I made clear points and came across as sincere. Ha! If he'd only seen the un-edited version he would not have said that.

My father was both genuine and sweet. The fact that he called to tell me what he thought - and the fact that what he thought was positive - all of that tripped me out. You see, I had all kinds of classic cross-parent/child issues with him when I was younger. Every bit of what you'd expect from a daddy's girl who was abandoned due to the divorce process when she was 14, in the mid-80's by her Dartmouth-educated, dashingly handsome & charming father. Did I mention I'm an oldest child? I have always - all my life - been desperate for his approval and attention. To a degree that shocked his socks off when we finally talked about it all - a decade or so ago. I think he had NO idea how much his say so meant to me. He spent his life trying (and feeling like he was failing) to be "good enough" for HIS father. It was a complete surprise to him to have passed that down without meaning to. To be perfectly fair, he is so different from his father that I can understand why it didn't occur to him that I would feel the same way about him as he felt about Grandaddy.

My dad and I have a great relationship (now) - and I genuinely love to be around him. I feel so much more comfortable with him than I used to. I don't analyze everything he says looking for the barb, the criticism while simultaneously trying to contort his words into praise. I'm a lot better at being myself and letting him be himself. It helped A LOT to learn more about anxiety patterns and how they manifest themselves in families. (You know that time I invited my father over for supper - when I scrubbed my house, spent a week planning the menu and the entire day cooking it, making sure to find interesting recipes for some of his favorite foods - only to have him show up and say he couldn't eat a bite because the ladies at work had brought in potluck and made him try everything and he was too full? Yeah - that wasn't about me - and it wasn't just that my dad was being a big fat jerk!! It wasn't a failure in communication. I didn't do anything wrong. It was anxiety - and now I know. I know what to look and listen for - how to diffuse and interpret it. And sometimes I know how to avoid it - and sometimes I'm good at acknowledging it and poking fun at it in just the right ways. As I said - things are sooooo much better between us.)

As good as things are - the reality is that my internal negative critic uses my father's voice. And it probably always will. It sucks. It's probably not fair to him or me. But there you have it. I heard myself on TV, mangling basic grammar and I instantly imagined my father upon hearing it, being embarrassed to admit knowing me, much less to having sired me. And then he called to say I'd done a fine job, that he was proud of me.

I'm glad I'd already made my peace with how I'd done in the interview. I'd already writhed, talked myself through it, whined some more, and then truly decided I'd done the best I could have done - given that moment, those circumstances - and that it was fine to have it be exactly what it was. I didn't consciously know it, but I needed to have done all that on my own without the warping affect my dad's approval or lack thereof can have on me. So... how wonderful just to be able to listen and honestly thank him for caring enough to call, and to be able to allow myself to savor his words. This growing up stuff? So worth it sometimes.
Peace.

Somebody 'Splain Me

I weighed myself just before I went to bed last night. I weighed myself when I got up (right after I peed and before I got in the shower) this morning. Somehow I gained three pounds while I was sleeping. How the hell does that work??

In The Neighborhood

The other day our little corner store was swarming with police vehicles. We had the kids all piled in the car and were stopped at the light so there was time for much discussion and theorizing about what might be going on. One police car had clearly driven hurriedly up over the curb directly from the street. The other six were deployed all around the tiny market building. There was a piece of machinery in the middle of the parking lot which turned out to be a car jack. The flashing lights were on but most of the police were standing around in fairly relaxed groups talking. One knot was talking to someone who seemed agitated. Attempted robbery? Drug bust? Surely it was a bit of an overkill response for a gas and go. You want to know what it was? (Bet stopped in later and asked.) The manager said that the repo man had come for the car rims of one of his employees and that the employee had "taken exception to it". My first thought was "Holy crap - what kind of rims are expensive enough to qualify for being repossessed??" My second thought was that the guy must have caused a serious ruckus if they sent SEVEN squad cars to quell him. I don't know if I'm capable of being scary enough that someone would call in the big guns. It's pretty awesome to think about causing that much of a stir on a quiet Saturday morning. It's like zero to sixty in under 4 seconds on the crazy meter. (Not that I want to be that scary ever. I'm all about living in a drama free zone. It's just interesting to me to contemplate the alien thinking that must happen to create such a wacko situation.)

Another oddity (this time of the passive variety) in my neighborhood. There is a large metal sculpture in one of the yards around here. The yard and the house are pretty ordinary - average size, a little unkempt, close to a main road. And there is this huge, (sort of rusty in places), skeletal Rhinoceros. Life size. Placid. Completely weird. His pieces and parts look like they were scavenged from many different machines. And there he grazes rustily. Among some weeds.

At the Bolin Creek trail down by the community center there is some new graffiti. Someone has spray painted an anti-war message on the sidewalk. It's about the size of an index card, yet totally readable. It is tucked up into the corner on a sidewalk square. Very tidy. Someone else (well - I don't know that for sure - possibly it's the same person) has stenciled some scattered, red scarabs across a retaining wall. There are more painted in a wandering path on the sidewalk and there is one lone beetle decorating a road sign nearby. They are stylized and quite large. Metal mammoths, legible graffiti, stenciled bugs: it's a trifle strange, my neighborhood.

Aren't you dying to come visit and get the tour? "Here is where that guy's rims were repo'd. Look over there? See that? It's yard art. That? That's Chapel Hill's idea of graffiti. And did you know - here you can buy WINE in the grocery store? Swear! Oh, and I have us booked for Aveda at eleven."
Peace.

What A Day Dad Had

Linus story #1 -
Linus has a complicated job situation. The past year has seen flux, corporate takeover drama, RIF's, political wrangling complicated by cross cultural misunderstandings and being told by the company didn't need his services followed by "oops - we realized we can't run this technology you built without you". It is so hard for Linus because he's put his heart into this company. He believes in the product so much that he took a huge (30k!!) pay cut in order to work 60 hour weeks to help launch the company. (Do not ask me how we managed to eat that first year, I still can't believe we pulled it off.) He has tried to focus on his responsibilities in an ever-changing landscape of expectations and job titles. Linus is good at staying away from the emotions and politics of the situation as much as possible. Me? Not so much. Particularly the emotional part. I am bewildered and frustrated with his boss' waffling and ill considered policies that keep undermining Linus' work. I don't know how he can keep working in an environment with a boss who is actively trying to foul him up to protect her turf. He tells me not to get so riled up, it's business, and he'll just keep doing the best he can as long as he can.

Then he gets an email yesterday from his boss about the business trip they are taking together today. She said she had already booked herself a hotel room with a king size bed and a couch "settee" and (presumably in an effort to economize?) that they should stay in the same room. WHAT? and NO! (And even "Hell no!") What brand of crack do you think this woman is smoking? I wigged out. I know it can't be the come on it sounds like it could be. As in that's just not even a possibility. In some ways, it would make more sense and be easier to deal with if it were. I'm not some naive thing in denial about her man's wandering ways. It's just that this is so bizarre. I promise you that if he wanted to, Linus could stray and I wouldn't find out. He certainly wouldn't be dumb enough to be freaking out loudly in the other room to the point that I rush in and demand to know what's wrong. The second point being that if he were to stray, surely (heaven help us) he would have waaay better taste than to choose her. The third point being, if it is a come on, on her part, how stupid does she have to be to commit it to writing? And why hit on a guy she knows can barely tolerate her when she's 8,000 miles away? Which brings us right back to what on earth can she be thinking?

My mind ran around in circles. Is she trying to set him up for some crazy sexual harassment suit? He said that was incredibly unlikely. I am out of explanations. I realize that dealing with a non-US mindset makes some things hard to translate - but this woman is English. Not only that, but can anyone begin to believe that this is normal business practice anywhere? The words inappropriate, unprofessional, strange, and uncomfortable race through my brain. How did a woman with such horrible boundaries and an inability to follow rock bottom, basic business protocols get put in charge of anything? I mean, who needs to be told male employees should not being pressured by their female bosses to overnight in one room together to save the company money?! Linus is going to tell her that he most definitely requires separate hotel rooms. He said he will be polite but firmer this time and hope the issue ends there. This time?! I found out that - horrifyingly - it is not the first time she has made this suggestion. Linus thought he'd made it clear before - because, holy crap - who but a complete moron would have to be told not only once but TWICE how wrong this suggestion is?! When asked why he didn't tell me about the other time, he said it was only one of many stunningly odd suggestions/policies/ideas this woman brought up and not even the worst in his book. Mostly because he didn't have to go along with it they way he had to swallow his criticisms and go along with some of her other decisions. He said he'd be CRYSTAL clear in his response and consider obtaining legal advice if it happened again. I (intolerant of corporate games to begin with and waaaay past my ability to be polite/professional to a creepoid like her) would probably have written an email response back that would have gotten me fired. I guess it's a good thing Linus works for her and not me. (Although - hey, put some mojo out there for fantastic job offers to come flying in the door for him. I admire his commitment to the shareholders and to a product that saves lives, but enough is enough, don't you think?! It would not hurt my feelings for him to change jobs.)

Linus Story #2 -
Linus let his hair get a little long over the Thanksgiving holiday, when he wasn't traveling and meeting with clients. He went and got it cut yesterday, very short - very professional. (Side benefit being, he'd look great at those job interviews you're sending his way!) The kids were not so appreciative of his efforts. When he came home The Ninja Princessa yelped, "But you look so old now!" and Havoc asked (sincerely), "Why did you have them shave a circle on the back of your head?" Eeep. Poor Linus. He stuck his bottom lip out looking for sympathy. I wish I could have shown the sympathy I feel, but I was laughing too hard.

This man needs a break. He's promised to try to relax with a good book in his hotel room (alone!) tonight. I'm thinking we might bake him some chocolatey yumminess for when he gets home. Shhhh. Don't tell him.
Peace.

Worst. Parent-Teacher Conference. Ever.

I've spent over a week trying to process the experience of meeting with Havoc's third grade teacher. It has not helped. At all.

Yes, Havoc is my baby. Yes, I think Havoc is brilliant. No, I do not think he is perfect. But you know what? At this stage of the game - of having FIVE children, of having been a school volunteer, of having been a soccer coach, of having been a cubscout leader for years and years and years - I feel like I've got a pretty good handle on where along the spectrum of 8-year old boy behavior my son's falls. I happen to think he's towards the upper middle end. His teacher, apparently, thinks he falls much closer to the lowest pit of the deepest, darkest bottom end.

I had ONE note home from her about a month ago that said Havoc was having a little trouble talking during class. I wrote back and said we'd speak with him and please let me know if it continued. She wrote back to say things were much better. That's all I'd heard. Until the conference. She started right off the bat - Havoc was disruptive, "hyperactive" (I have NEVER had anyone say that about him before - ever), talked all the time, had to be separated from other students in order to get his work done, was behind in his work, didn't focus, didn't listen. The woman looked me in the eye and said, "He's just not creative. He's smart enough but ..." and I don't even remember what negative things she said there because I thought my head would explode. She had said not one positive thing about my child - well, unless you count the "he's smart enough but..." comment - which I DO NOT. She said definitively my child was not creative. NOT mind you "I'm having trouble getting him to write creatively," not "It's a challenge to pull him away from the facts and get him to talk about the story in terms of feelings and experiences," but "He is not creative." I wanted to SMACK her. (What kind of teacher talks this way? Is this the kind of thing she says TO my child?!! Oooh - it best not be!)

Now - I tried listen. (Do you know how HARD it is to listen past the verbal attacks on your kid?) Havoc can be spacey and forget what he's doing in the middle of it. He does like to talk. He likes people. He's social. His big brother Mayhem is ADD as hell, so maybe now is when it starts showing up in Havoc too. All of these bits of knowledge add up to the fact that it is entirely possible Havoc is causing this teacher SOME trouble. Well, clearly he was driving her crazy. But he seems like a totally normal third grade boy to me and she's a career third grade teacher! What floored me was how over the top she was about everything - eyebrows lowered, serious frown on her face, shaking her head side to side with every word she said. From what she was saying and the way she was saying it - you would think my kid was the worst, most disruptive and disturbing child this woman had ever seen in her entire teaching career. She spoke in absolutes and labels. It was awful. I kept thinking, "If he is THAT bad, why the heck have I not heard of this sooner?!! If it's this much of a problem, how is it not reflected in his work? How could I not know something this dire about my child?!"

I asked her. I said that I had checked his work (almost all 100's!), I had not had a single note about late or missing assignments - so how were we to know he was "behind", and why hadn't she written more than that one time in his weekly folder if he was causing such tremendous problems? Her answer? She went and got another student's reading response journal and flipped through it page by page to show us how good it was compared to Havoc's. She did not actually answer any of my questions! Also? Havoc's handwriting is beautiful and this "model" student's was horrible. (Just saying.) Havoc's reading journal did, in fact, start out quite paltry, but you could see day by day that his entries were getting longer and longer and he was answering more of the "How did this reading relate to an experience you've had?" kinds of questions. Linus noted Havoc's improvement and this woman GRUDGINGLY admitted Havoc was getting better. Bet asked, "What can we do at home to support him in this?" The woman shook her head again and sort of threw up her hands while making a "phh" noise. She said, "I don't know." She had no ideas - no suggestions - as if Havoc were beyond hope. Bet started asking things like, "Would asking him these kinds of questions and getting him to write more at home help? Should we check his work for him? Should we have him..." Really, Bet came up with three or four ideas and all the teacher could do was agree with her by saying, "He needs all of that. He needs whatever help he can get." Did I mention I wanted to SMACK that bitch???

She lost what tiny shred of credibility she may have had left with me when we finally looked at his actual report card and talked about the End of Grade (EOG) tests. His report card was FINE! His grades were as good as they could possibly be! (They haven't had an opportunity to do above grade level work in two classes so those had to be marked "meets expectations" rather than exceeds them but everything else was top notch.) In terms of the behavior categories, she had only marked that he "sometimes" talked out of turn and "sometimes" didn't follow instructions. The other options were "Often" and "Always" which she did NOT mark. It was unbelievable what a discrepancy there was between what she was saying and what she'd written. Then we got to the EOG pre-tests. They'd sent home the scores for the math portion but not the reading. Turns out they are re-norming the reading test so there were no scores to give parents an idea of where their kid stands. Fishing for at least ONE FRICKIN' POSITIVE COMMENT about my child, I said, "But we don't need to worry about Havoc passing the reading EOG's, do we?" I should point out that Havoc is an amazing reader and has always tested well - a point which I EXPECTED his stupid ass teacher to remember about him and at the very least say, "No worries there." What did she say instead, you ask? She was silent for a minute and then said, "Well. He should probably be ok." Bet had had to leave early and I think she was gone by this point, but I know Linus whipped his head around. "Probably be ok?!" he asked. "Isn't he excelling in reading?" The woman pulled out a sheet of paper and looked up his in-class, beginning of the year assessment. She showed us numbers that said Havoc reads on a 7th and 8th grade level, is in the highest vocabulary and reading group they have, and that his global comprehension skills were in the 99th percentile. "Probably be ok" MY ASS! He's in the THIRD grade! What more does she want? Well, clearly she wants him to shut up. We can work on that.

I spoke with two other mother's who have sons in the same class. I needed to know if I had lost all perspective about my child. I asked them both to tell me honestly what they thought of my child's behavior in the classroom when I wasn't there. These women are both straight talkers. They would not sugar coat it. (If anything, I think they would have told me if he was out of line in any way. They both know about the court stuff and I think they thought I was asking because of that.) They both (separately) told me not to worry at all about his behavior. I pressed them. Yes, he talked some. ("They all do!" is what they said.) Yes, he squirmed some. ("They all do.") Both moms told me that Havoc was polite and respectful and they wanted to know what was going on. When I told the first mom what the teacher had said, she was floored. "No way! I PROMISE you he is not like that." The second mom called her husband over to hear what the teacher had said. He looked at his wife and said, "See! I told you! She should not be teaching. Either she doesn't like boys or she picks favorites or something!" Turns out they had had the exact same experience in their conference with her. They had been stunned because they had NEVER heard anything like it about their son. I know - and ADORE - their son. I will have him over any day of the week and twice on Sundays. I can say that about three of the boys Havoc has ever been friends with. Not only did hearing from those parents make me feel better, but I've heard third hand that previous parents have had the same complaints about this teacher. Some kids she decides she doesn't like - and that is that.

It would have been so different if she'd said things like, "Havoc is a great reader but we really need to work on digging deeper into the story. He gets the plot details but what I want him to get out of third grade is the ability to relate what he's reading to his feeling and experiences. Here are some ideas, some leading questions you can ask him when you read together at home. You do read together, don't you?" Or if, on the behavior parts, there'd been any escalation of communication showing that his squirmy-ness was beginning to be an issue. I thought parent-teacher communication was THE POINT of the Wednesday folder with the line for comments. I thought treating these issues immediately was why they had the system of warnings and moving cards over with increasing disciplinary measures for each move! How am I supposed to feel comfortable with an experienced teacher who cannot come up with a single, solitary positive comment about my child? How am I supposed to entrust my kid to her each and every day?

It is ridiculously frustrating to know that my kid is stuck in a classroom with a teacher who is completely biased against him. I hate knowing that he has to put up with a teacher who has such limited mental and emotional resources, that she can't cope with him. He may have some issues but they just cannot possibly be as severe as she made it sound or we would be hearing it from more than one source and we are not. I know that it is not at all helpful to the educational process that her attitude and negativity and unprofessionalism have made me unwilling to hear anything further she has to say about my kid. Sigh. I guess there's always hope for fourth grade.
Peace.

In Which I Am A n00b

I'm learning how to use some blog tools and I just clipped this map from the Washington Post with Clipmarks. Yay me. Tool user and all that.

clipped from www.washingtonpost.com

This whole technology plug-in, upgrade thing is a lot like washing the baseboards. You wash the baseboards and see how filthy the carpet is, so now you have to vacuum and shampoo the carpet. Then with the floor and the baseboards so clean, the walls look like ass so you have to clean and then repaint those. Then the blinds look dingy and so on and so on. Today (after my first post when I was trying to write other stuff and do housework) Linus came in and said he'd found this plug-in that I would really like because it would easily and intuitively let me clip bits (pictures, text, or video) from websites to email or blog. Mind you, he'd already tracked Libray Thing down for me this morning. Then, while installing ClipMarks there was the option of having the sources for anything you clip automatically saved in your del.icio.us bookmarks. My buddy Ray has been trying to get me hooked into this del.icio.us thing for...I don't know. How long has it been around? Probably that long and maybe even longer, because like Linus, Ray is a serious computer nerd and is always in on stuff before it even happens. Anyway - I've never quite understood what it was or what the point is. The idea of social bookmarking makes me giggle (bookmarks - so social - wouldn't want to have any of that anti-social, introverted, solitary bookmarking going on) but I like the idea of saving the source of my clips. So we went through another whole sign up thing. Then to make sure it all worked, I had to find some stuff to clip and save (like coupons - only prettier and um, more web-y.) I went to the Washington Post website to find a good article - only to have to register again there. "Re-gi-stray - shun time, c'mon! There's a party going on right here..."

Now I am all plugged-in, signed up, and ready to be social with my books and bookmarks and clips. My life is an open blog. Only now there is a notice at the top of my toolbar that informs me I am following (0) clippers. I am also told that no one is following me and I have no favorite clipper. Let's see - who is the most popular web clipper?! I should follow them! How many followers do I have? Oh no, not enough. Must. Clip. More. How do developers not laugh their heads off when they design this stuff? The virtual world is psuedo-social at best. Linus (bless his heart) keeps trying to explain the concept of a web 2.0 world to me. I'm assimilating as much as I can as fast as I can, but I do realize that there is a lot in the ether that is passing me by. I smile and nod when I hear about easy share, sharewear, bookmarking as a social activity, tag clouds (which morph into searchable, expandable tag bundles sometimes for no apparent reason), and netpubs and bl@h, bl@h, bl@h. (<--That last bit is my little leetspeak joke.)

Which brings us right to the second post I was going to write AFTER I finished all that other stuff on my list but which I will now write BEFORE getting to the stuff on my list. (See this? This is the stuff on my list not getting done. Ever. Clean socks? Highly overrated.)

The other night at supper, it was Mayhem's turn to talk. (We take turns. So civilized.) Mayhem was telling about his new Adidas and about the salesman we talked to about fantasy football the whole time we were in the store. (Sidenote: the salesman knew considerably more about fantasy football than he did about selling shoes. I'm the one who used the measure thingy to size up Mayhem's foot, I'm the one who read the tags about what the shoes were made of and how to clean them, and I'm the one who pointed out that they were on sale.) Mayhem's comment after saying this guy was leading his league by 100 points was, "That guy was poning." Uh, what? Mayhem, by way of explanation said, "He totally poned his league." I was trying to figure out what cornbread has to do with fantasy football.

Me: What are you saying? Spell that word.
Mayhem: What word?
Me: Poned.
Mayhem: P-W-N-3-D.
Me: What?
Mayhem (louder this time): P-W-N-3-D.
Linus: (sounds of pumpkin soup being snorted out of his nose)
Me: What do you mean? That's not a word. Three-d? Like three dimensional?
Linus: It's from leetspeak. There are no vowels. Hackers used numbers.
Mayhem (speaking at the same time as Linus - and thereby dashing my earlier claims of being civilized): It's total domination. You don't use vowels.

At this point in the conversation, I am utterly confused. (Please note I did not have a handy dandy little link to follow to find out what the heck leetspeak was. And not only were Linus and Mayhem trying to explain the lack of cornbread connection at the exact same time, but Chaos and Bug were cackling, making it even harder to hear.) World domination, hackers, spelling without vowels, leeches speaking? WTF?

Apparently I have become my mother. I was probably Mayhem's age when my mother said at dinner one night, "Mick? Mick who? You mean Mickey Mouse? I don't think his lips are all that big." We have never let her live it down. I did eventually understand the explanation and derivation of the pseudo word "pwn3d" and upon further research, found that I particularly like the urban dictionary entry on pwnage. Too little, too late, I fear in terms of the balance in my cool points account. I am overdrawn. I have zero credit in the video culture currency that is required to operate in my teenagers' world. I have been relegated to permanent n00b status. I'd like to think that they'll still let me visit their world and even that in a decade or two, they'd consider emigrating. For now, I think I'll just camp out here in the borderlands. With the other dinosaurs.
Peace.

Something You May Not (Want To) Know About Me

Step dancing knocks me out. I absolutely love it. I went to my first step show at the U of MD in the '80's and it totally blew me out of the water. I'd never seen anything like it. Well - I guess that's not entirely true. I'd seen black marching bands. (Something you may not (want to) know about my mother is that she got a scholarship to go back and finish college when I was in grade school. The school that offered her a scholarship was a predominantly black state school and they had a FANTASTIC band.) But in a band the steps are to showcase the music being played. In a step show the steps showcase the line, the bond of the fraternity brothers/sorority sisters, and they showcase the steps themselves. I never wanted to be part of the white greek system the way I wanted to be a part of the black greek system. Ignore (completely) for the moment that I am one of the palest and most arrhythmic white girls you've ever seen - there was something that called to me at that first step show. The percussive steps, the syncopated stomping, the precise angles of shoulders, necks, heads and hand movements - every bit of it amazed me. The exact and coordinated appearance of those on line, the explosive pride on display, and the unruly appreciation of the audience at the show all spoke to the kind of solidarity I desperately wanted to be a part of in college.

I've seen shows that have some of those elements: percussion, showmanship, mind-bogglingly uniform athleticism. Stomp. Riverdance. Whatever those huge Japanese drums are called. I love (Love, LOVE) stuff like that - but none of it reaches into my being the way step shows do. On the flip side, I've seen things that unexpectedly repulse me. Example: Krumping. For the love of God I do not understand Krumping! Given my bizarre attraction to stepping you'd think I'd have at least some appreciation for it - but no. None. Maybe it's the clown thing? Maybe it's that it's too much like professional wrestling for me? Maybe it's that I can't think of a less euphonious word than "krumping"? I have no good explanation for my lack of krumping affinity. All I can say is that I yearn to be in a step show the way I could never, ever - for love or money - want to be a krumper.

Impossible yearning and inexplicable repulsions aside - I'm not exactly hooked into the step show circuit. I haven't gotten to see one in years. But tonight I got to watch Stomp the Yard (on DVD because I missed seeing it in the theater a few months ago by ONE day!) Ignoring the mistake I made in renting it instead of buying it (why, why, why? I KNEW I was going to want to own it!) it was perfect watching it at home. I watched the whole thing through. Then I watched the extra features. Then the step scenes again. And then again. It was not a complex plot (by any stretch) but it was extremely well acted for a dance vehicle. It was believable in all the story ways it should be and it was unexpectedly authentic in the dance-story elements. And the stepping was abso-fucking-lutely brilliant. If you have any, even the slightest, interest in stepping you must go watch this movie. Like now.
(I mean it. You must. Now.)
Peace.

The Anti-Prometheus

Apparently I am a fire hoarder. In the sorting, cleaning, and purging process I have come across a crap load of fire starting implements I had squirrelled away. (For a rainy day? For an emergency? In case we needed to start a bonfire the size of Pluto?) I'm not sure what Freud would have made of my tendencies. I have unearthed no fewer than four huge boxes of kitchen matches, three smaller boxes of "strike anywhere" matches, two boxes of camping matches (windproof! waterproof!), and nine (NINE!) lighters in various colors (blue, yellow, orange, pink, purple, and black). Oh! And one (still packaged) camping firestarter kit with a flint/sparking contraption. It's very odd. Most of what I found was tucked away in emergency backpacks, in baskets in the closet, and at the back of drawers in every room in my house.) I don't carry matches (or lighters) in my purse, so clearly I'm not that worried about being able to start a fire anywhere, anytime. Yet...I obviously have a subconscious obsession with having the capacity to start a fire in an "emergency" (provided that emergency happened in the comfort of my home.) Come to think of it though, I'm not sure I'd be a big help in a situation requiring immediate fire. I am historically unable to find implements to light birthday candles or the fireplace!

I'm not at all sure what to do with this pile o'fire potential that I've amassed. I'm not comfortable packing it up and putting it in storage with everything I own. I know Sweet Hubby would say something reasonable like, "Well, if hasn't all caught fire in the house over the years, why would it spontaneously combust the minute we put it in storage?" He may have a point. But I still can't do it. It seems like tempting fate just a leetle too much.

I woke up in the middle of the night worried about those camping matches. I'm not sure it's a good idea to make windproof and waterproof matches. What do you do if you can't blow the match out or douse it in water? I suppose it would be ok for a campfire where you can just toss the match in, but what if you tried to light a candle with that sucker?

I know the Goodwill won't take computers. What do you think their policy is on matches/lighters/flint?

Random Neuron Firings

You know you got up too early when your body says it's waaaay past lunch time and you look at the clock to discover it's 9:45 a.m..
Are you supposed to put two periods there? One for the abbreviation and one to end the sentence makes sense to me but it looks like a failed ellipsis. If I leave one off though, it looks like a naked sentence. Grammar quandary. I'd look it up in one of my 2,000 books - but did I mention I packed up all those fuckers??
Finally, I think it's weird when women have tanned armpits. I can think of no easy way to accomplish tan pits. Do they lay out in the sun with their arms over their heads specifically to make sure their pits get bronze? What happens if they fall asleep that way and get sunburned there?? Egad. That would be horrible! And? Not worth it. It looks odd to begin with.
Is it lunch time yet?
Peace.

The Z-Man Smileth

This is my godson Z-Man. I flew to Philadelphia this weekend to meet him and smother him with kisses and cuddles - and oh yeah, to promise to help raise him in the faith. I renounced all the forces of wickedness (again) and prayed while my godson was being marked up with oil and splashed with water. I loved it. Of course, I pretty much love all the liturgy in the Episcopal Church. Sometimes my witchy side cringes when certain priests get going - especially if they start to get all Baptist on me and say the words "precious Lord" too many times. I figure it balances out because my churchy side gets squicked out by some of the more froo-froo New Agey folks in Circle. I try to focus only the parts I like from both of my paths. I'm a blend, blend, blend kind of gal.

I tell you though, it's a darn good thing I renounced the forces of wickedness (and yea, verily did I renounce them) on Saturday morning. Otherwise my fellow godparent might have become headless. St. Ann is one of my dearest friends and her husband, John the Magnificent or JTM for short, is a prince of a guy. JTM's parents are kind and funny. I enjoy them very much. JTM's brother, on the other hand, is a dickhead. I'm talking, a total asshat. I guess it happens in the best of families.

On Saturday there was a lot going on. Baby ZMan was being baptized and 50 someodd folks were being confirmed or received into the church. JTM was one of those being confirmed. The plan was to all go to church and then head back to St. Ann's for a luncheon. There was even MORE going on when JTM's other son (who is 6) decided that he didn't want to wait and get baptized all by himself. Apparently he'd been talking in Sunday school about getting baptized but waited until Saturday morning to let his parents know that today was the day! The rector agreed to it, the Bishop thought it a fine idea, and luckily his Sunday school teacher was in the pew right behind the baptismal family's and whispered a smiling "Yes, I'd be delighted" when asked if she'd like to be an impromptu godmother. (She even had a present for him in her car! We had to rush to the church gift shop after the service but that woman was prepared. I can only dream of being that prepared.)

Baptisms are lovely affairs where we get to march to the baptismal font for some splashing and we get to pray that the newly baptised be guided in all good things and be given an inquiring mind and a discerning heart. The words of the BCP are truly beautiful. Did this impress the godfather? Not so much. He leaned over halfway through the service - about a nanosecond after the baptisms and confirmations were done - and whispered loudly, "Hey, we're gonna go back to your place. You gotta spare key?" Before the service the priest had made sure to tell us that the little boys were welcome to go play on the playground after their part. They'd gotten squirmy and we'd sent them out. You'd think that the 36 year old could manage to stay for communion, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you think that the godfather would be willing to stay and meet the priest at least? Guess not. Of course this was the guy who had called to bitch and whine about having to wear a suit to this thing. Can you imagine? Making the most of it, JTM asked his brother to take the two boys with him. After the service, Nana (St. Ann's mom) took the two girls (8 and 10 years old) back to the house to start getting the luncheon things set out while we mingled and made a quick run through the gift shop. As we were leaving the gift shop, which was waaaay down in the basement of the church and sort of around a corner, the youth leader walks in with St. Ann and JTM's sons and says, "See, I told you we'd find them. They're right here." WTF??? They were supposed to have gone with Brother Can't Be Bothered 45 minutes ago!!!!!!! The boys told us that he had come out to the playground to get them but they had wanted to stay and play. So he let them. That might have been fine IF HE HAD LET US KNOW!!! What kind of grown up takes responsibility for two little guys and then just leaves them? To make it worse, when JTM asked him about it he got PISSED and said, "What? They didn't want to go. I wasn't going to make them." He completely missed the point about letting someone know. St. Ann said he is self-centered like that. She was surprised that he hadn't just helped himself to the food before everyone got back. Apparently he's done that before. He had helped himself to some beers already but that just made St. Ann and JTM laugh. The beer he snagged was left over beer from the wedding (in Sept!) that no one else would touch. He spent the rest of the afternoon saying embarassing and hurtful things about his 5th grade son. One of the guests tried to get him to change tracks by saying, "Man, you're embarassing the guy." Brother Asshat's response? "Well, maybe he'll go away and stop bothering us then." Geez! The kid was great. He was just sitting talking with the grown ups because he was the oldest kid there.

As far as I'm concerned I'm a single godparent. Oh wait - no. St. Ann's brother is a godfather too even though he couldn't be there on Saturday. He's a pretty cool dude. I think he and I need to get together and quietly vote Brother Blacksheep off the island. ZMan will thank us for it later.

The rest of the weekend was fantastic! It was relaxed and fun. ZMan is a jolly boy and a big flirt. The other four kids were sweet to me and LOVED showing off their brother. Hanging out with St. Ann and JTM was exactly what I needed. It is so nice to compare notes with good friends who understand the challenges of a big, blended family. I even had a nice trip back - once we figured out that the huge, black plume of smoke rising up from behind the airport was garbage/something being burned at an industrial facility and not a problem on the runway! On the plane home I met a sparkly, young gal who had been in Philly to see her boyfriend. She's from Alabama. She and her boyfriend have been together for three and a half years and plan to marry - but she worries about how their families will get along. She thinks all the parents will be fine but their brothers will be a different matter. Her future brother-in-law is a self-important wiseguy named Tony, who talks like he's in the Sopranos. She described her brother Tooter as "Kramer all jacked up on redneck." I wished her luck and said that it sounded like a reality tv series in the making. All families have their issues, don't they?

Currently my family's issue is that we have too much crapola! After the kids had lugged a few boxes to storage, they got on board with the idea that we should throw/give stuff away. Now. This very minute. Before it gets packed in heavy boxes that have to get moved to storage, then into a truck, then into another house. I'm a smart mom for packing all the hardback books first, aren't I?

Peace to the People!

Why Not 33?

My mother told me last night that I would like her new customer Rosemary. She said that Rosemary asked a question that she knew I would have asked.

Mom told me Rosemary works for the mayor's office in the small town next to ours. They fielded many, many calls about when and how to ring the bells to remember those lost in the Virginia Tech tragedy. I'm not sure I understand if the conversation took place in my mother's shop or in the mayor's office itself, but the way my mom told me the story, she said they were going to ring the bells 32 times and I immediately interrupted to ask, "Why not 33?" Mom hugged me and said, "That's why you'd like Rosemary. That's the question she had." Rosemary was the only one in a room full of people to ask that question.

As a matter of fact, not only was she the only one to question the number 32, but everyone else was aghast that she did. Angry. How is it that I ended up in a community that can't see the gunman as a victim? How can they not remember him? I'm not advocating that he should be "honored" for what he did - but I certainly believe he should be remembered and numbered among those who were lost. He was lost from his family. He was lost from his community. He was certainly lost from himself to do what he did. How can the uber-Christians that surround me not get that?! How can they not pray for his tormented soul? Why can't their compassion extend to his family? I cannot imagine that family's loss! How would you even start to cope with the sadness and anger of losing your son to suicide, much less the horror of knowing that your son, in his pain and anguish, murdered 32 innocent people?

I didn't think I could get sadder about the events at Virginia Tech until I heard how outraged my neighbors were to be asked, "Why not 33?"
Peace. For everyone - I wish for peace.