The Half-Way House of "Things"

It's finally become winter here.  It was so warm for so long, but just in the past few days the temps are in the 30s & 40s at night & evening & sometimes when we are driving off to go to school.  It's nice.  It's not so nice when you are running late & have a child who cannot find his jacket.  A jacket that has a clearly marked & repeatedly announced home.  Perhaps it's the constant reminders that cause him to tune out--next time I'll send a "We're Moving" card & see if that does the trick.  Either way, he seems to think that his things are itinerant, gypsy-like.  I do not.  Right there is where the clash begins.  

To remedy the homework, water bottle, backpack & jacket issues, I've created homes for these things, along with a ritual.  In theory, this is how it works:  we come home from school & the water bottles, snack bags & lunch bags (if we use them that day) go to the kitchen for cleaning; the backpacks go on a hook; and the homework comes to the kitchen table to be worked on, after hand washing & snackage.  Yes, it sounds regimented but the boys & I are easily side-tracked--once I lose them they don't want to come back.  I get back on track because I don't want to be cracking the proverbial whip all evening nor herding cats.  I also don't want to be doing homework right before bedtime.  Not. At. All.  Relaxing.  I can think of a dozen "better" things to do than that, like clean toilets.  At least that would show some immediate results due to my efforts.  Running around half-crazed trying to get little boys to do homework, not so much.

This morning, is also the morning that said little boy wore short sleeves & no socks--at least he wore jeans, which is more than I can say for the other one.  At any rate, off we went to school.  I felt bad because here I am with an undershirt, a long sleeved shirt, a wool sweater, scarf, vest & boots up to my knees, walking with a little, chilly boy in short sleeves, jeans & converse with no socks.  At least they weren't the jeans that make him looked washed ashore, these reached the tops of his shoes.  The other one had a hoodie on with shorts:(  who also kvetched the whole way in that the other one always made us late...

It's still only 53 degrees out & it's nearing pick up time.  My hope is that the jacket will be found & put back in its home, not a half-way house.  I also hope that Little Man didn't suffer all day but also didn't thaw out enough to get amnesia, forgetting the whole episode ever happened.  He seems to think that everything is "home" just where he happens to drop, leave or forget them.  These half-way homes will no longer do for me, although it's sometimes difficult to blame a child who has been raised by a woman who either thinks in stacks & piles or needs an absolutely clear space, depending on the stage of her thought process & work progress.  He's hosed.  I try to be consistent & that's the best I can do.  Sometimes, my thoughts are scattered as are my tables, counter & desk.  But, in all fairness he knows that putting specific items in their real homes is essential & necessary, especially when it means getting to school on time (even more so when he can't seem to get out of bed very well now that it's dark).

I'll work on my counter, tables & desk & I hope he does the same.  I don't know how much longer I can live in a half-way house.  

B Horror Movie Star

 



I've always joked that I was the star in my own B horror film. The one where the protagonist has been telling everyone there's danger afoot or disaster's on its way but no one will listen. Can you picture it? The black & white film depicting a woman standing in the middle of the screen, screaming for help, eyes bulging, bent arms tucked in tightly at her sides while her hands move to the sides of her face, claw-like--camera pans to where her gaze is fixed, to show the horror that only she sees & understands? Yup, story of my life. I say something & I get poo-pooed about my silliness or exaggeration (I'm sure you're prone to agree after that last bit) and then, it comes true! The horror. I suppose mostly horror just for me because often others have select memories. They forget that I mentioned it in the first place. In any case, I had a different kind of B horror movie experience last Friday--in an elevator, no less! Yes--the twist was that I was the horrible monster.

When I get in the elevator at work (I usually take the stairs; but, sometimes, in the morning, juggling heavy, heavy bags & coffee & the elevator always waiting--no real excuse--but, I take it) I always get asked, "3?" sometimes I get, "...4?" immediately thereafter. Admin is on 3 & another institution is on 4. That morning I chuckled and said to the woman, No, 2. For some reason I get that a lot. I'd like to think that it's because I look like a person who wouldn't take the elevator to the 2nd floor (shameful, I know--at least she was going to the 2nd floor, as well). In reality, I probably look like someone in admin. I don't look like a student. Eyeing me, she asked if I'm a student or a teacher. I said teacher. Looking at me full-on she asks, "Fashion Design?" I laugh & tell her no, English. Yes, here's where the horror comes in. The look on her face was priceless--she looked at me as if she were trapped in the elevator with some sort of flesh-eating space creature (to stick with the 50s B horror movie theme). I laughed. She mumbled something--because many kids her age seem to mumble or maybe I'm just getting old & don't hear very well anymore--and then says, "I wish you were my English teacher. I hate my English teacher." Wow. I then became the lesser of two evils--of the "I voted for him because I really didn't want the other one to win" variety. Just kidding; actually, it was simultaneously odd & sad. She sounded so dejected by the thought of her English teacher that I felt bad for her. These students really don't like their general education classes & those of us who teach them are pretty much horrors to them (or so I'm told). At any rate, her reaction to me being an English teacher still makes me chuckle & the look on her face was too much. I thought she was going to jump out of her skin. I've had people look at me in a lot of different ways, but that one was entirely new to me. As I tell my students, you learn something every day, right?

Tinker Bell, Strawberry Shortcake & Santa Aren't Real

I didn't say it, Conner's coworker did...

Conner offered to write out gifts tags from Santa for a coworker, so her daughter wouldn't recognize her handwriting.  This woman told Conner that she told her daughter that Santa isn't real.  Yes, she has a nearly 4 year old whom she told that Santa isn't real, just like Tinker Bell & Strawberry Shortcake aren't real.  Now how these three were lumped together, I don't know.  This woman's reasoning for it is that she doesn't want her daughter to be disappointed when she's 7 & figures out that Santa isn't real.  Seriously?  I think that Max figured out something was up with Santa earlier than that.  When he was 2 he noticed that Santa's block printing is just like mine.  I countered with the commonality of that kind of printing--So common!  Really?  Santa's printing looks like mine?  How nice!  The following year he noticed that Santa used the same kind of wrapping paper that we did.  I responded with, Santa likes things to match the individual homes--it looks better that way.  While I had thought about disguising these things, I thought I had a year more than I really did to do it.  How wrong was I!

So, Conner & I discussed why the Tooth Fairy doesn't live with this group.  We are supposing that since the Tooth Fairy doesn't interrupt any Christian holidays, she's off the hook.  Conner & this woman didn't even make it to the Easter Bunny, because that was my next question, as I'm sure it is yours.  I'm supposing he lives with them, too.  We had a big laugh because there are so many other things our parents lied to us about that Santa, the Tooth Fairy & the Easter Bunny were really the lesser of the so-called lies.  Yes, she felt she was lying to her daughter.  Yes, she's Christian but not in an overly proselytizing way.

My response was & is that I'm pretty sure that Max suspects, if not knows, that the Tooth Fairy isn't real but doesn't say anything.  He doesn't say anything because of his Santa Claus suspicions.  He openly & directly questioned the existence of Santa Claus when he was in Kindergarten.  We had a long talk about believing and even if we didn't think that he was a real person (he's analytical and the logistics, among so many other things, really made no sense whatsoever to him) it was about the spirit of Christmas and the love and the magic.  If he wasn't buying that, I added (for good measure) that if he didn't believe, Santa wouldn't come.  That's just how we roll around here.  A good dose of reality mixed in with fiction never really hurts, does it?  He even went so far as to ask if Stuart believed but he didn't, would Santa bring both of them presents?  No.  No he wouldn't.  Stuart would receive and Max would not.  That discussion, despite the fact that both boys both try to wait up for the Tooth Fairy, has stilled any voiced doubts about her existence.

I suppose that on some level I'm not a whole lot different in my fantasy/reality sort of dealings with these mystical figures than this woman.  It's just I won't get jumped in the daycare parking lot when everyone figures out it's her daughter who's spreading the word that Santa isn't real!