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!

Retirement and the Dude

Once upon a time, we lived in an older home (wait, we still do...) that had older (actually, darn near archaic) equipment.  We had an air conditioning unit that was so old, the younger repairmen (yes, they were all men) did not know what to do when they saw it.  Essentially, the scenario went a little like this:

I show them the closet where the unit resided.  They look at it and don't say anything or do anything.  Well?  I think to myself as I look askance at them.  I repeat the story and they always responds with, "I need to call my boss/office/supervisor."  A sigh inevitably escapes my lips as I walk away so he can "talk."  More like describe the dinosaur he's looking at and beg for help.  The story always ends with, "My boss/the owner/my supervisor needs to come out and look at your unit.  Can he come tomorrow?" No fail.  No kidding.  Actually, once the owner was tooling around town and was able to swing by a few hours later the same afternoon.  No, never mind, I just didn't want Dude in my whatever closet if you get my drift.

I was in my early 20s and I wanted the man who was over 40 looking at whatever needed fixing in that house.  Seriously, he's seen it; worked on it; and/or is familiar with it.  He was schooled at a time when things were hands-on and computers didn't do the thinking for you.  It doesn't shock him like it shocks Dude, as if I had something illicit tucked away and he just happened upon it.  The older man looks at it and gets cracking.  Dude makes a lot of phone calls and a series of excuses.  Plus, I was forced to spend a lot of unproductive time with Dude.  No matter how nice Dude was I just wanted my archaic  home equipment repaired and to be left in peace.  I know I sound less than charitable but when a repair situation turns into something from a sitcom I really no longer want to be a part of it.  Especially when that event was consistent.

As I was pulling out of my drive some 20 years later, the drive of a different house but nearly as old, I realized that all of the repairmen I generally want in my home (a.k.a. "the older guy") are probably heading for retirement and that Dude is now just as middle aged as I am.  At least our "new" home has newer equipment and I have age as a leverage.  Imagine trying to tell Dude about how the ancient equipment works and what's going on with it when he's a) male and b) roughly the same age or barely older than you, a mere woman and a young one at that.

Once, Twice, Thrice--It still did not suffice

One of the paradoxes of motherhood (parenthood in general) is that I feel like a broken record but I can't let some things go--lessons to be learned!  morals to impart!  I have to reduce my rules down to threes so the people will remember (and hopefully) follow them.  What brought this to mind was the kitchen garbage.

"STOP!"  I say, rather loudly.  "Before you dump your plates into the garbage, I want you to make sure you get it in the center of the garbage can--not the side, not the lid, not the floor--dump it in the center of the can." 

For my younger son, I add, "Just like the toilet--not on the seat, not on the side, not on the floor--the center!"  They all get a big kick out of this little chant I've created for them--not the side, lid or floor, but the center!"

They also like the juxtaposition of garbage and toilet--the stuff of little boy giggles.  Thing is, I'm not kidding.  I often say things in all earnestness, emphasizing my seriousness, perhaps insisting there's gravity involved--all for naught.  I take that back, they do remember but they don't always do.  Sometimes, they remember after the fact.  In their minds, I'm sure, they're thinking that has to count for something.  In some ways, it does.  I have to take a deep breath and let it out, knowing that losing my cool & my mind will do no good--except perhaps cause more laughter.  Apparently, I'm an outright comedienne when I'm angry and my analogies and adjectives cause side-splitting laughter.

Glad I could be of service.  Just don't expect me to clean your mess.

Little Box

There's a little box--I suppose it to be like a tiny trinket or treasure box--that's deep inside me.  I file things away there.  I don't think I really realized I did this until I was forced to explain how I was feeling one day during yoga teacher training.

Everyone has their own meltdowns and breakthroughs during this process and usually these come somewhere during the middle of training.  I was past the halfway mark when mine arrived.  It came like an Arizona storm and left just as quickly.  It didn't bring enough water to help grow anything but it brought enough wind to make things messy.  If you've ever experienced a southwestern desert storm you'll know what I'm talking about.  The wind picks up and blows dust over everything and there may or may not be rain.  At least that's the way it's been for the past several years.  We don't have good monsoons (which I love) like we used to.  Monsoons that clear away the dust and bring blooms, humidity and skies that are somehow bluer and more interesting than the plain, hot, dry and intense summer skies.  After a good monsoon everything seemed different to me--I seemed to see with different eyes.  The summer weather we've been having now leaves me feeling stagnant and stuck.  I go through the motions of the day but that's about it.  At any rate, this meltdown did not provide any real clarity for me.  I just knew there was something ("IT") that I needed to find and deal with.  That's when I realized that I had a kind of kangaroo affect going on with my box.  I just took things (emotions, situations, stagnation, you name it) and filed it away for "later."  Some things are really jammed in there, perhaps that's why I can't quite get in there and clean house like I would like.

Before you think I've lost it like a mad dog or Englishman in the midday sun, you have to know that I'm the oldest child of old world-like parents.  They don't see life the same way as my contemporaries' parents do, which presents its own challenges.  Also, I was always the peace-maker and people-pleaser of the family.  Head "feather-smoother" should be one of my titles.  I also realized, today as a matter of fact, that the box of tools that are in my hand currently don't work for me.  Why?  Because I wasn't allowed (and didn't allow myself) my own set of tools, I was too busy fixing/helping/adjusting/you-name-it to tend to my own garden and find my own tools.  When I expressed myself it was either "inappropriate"or just plain not ok.  Growing up I laughed too loud, felt too deeply and talked too much.  I still do that, but it's not always as open.  I often skirt around the real issue, mostly because it's too much for others, in turn, becoming too much for me.  Years of not being fully true to oneself can really take its toll.  It's not that the "me" my friends and family know is false, it's just not the fullest expression of myself.  I know there's a whole lot more joy and creativity in there, waiting.  There's a whole different element of me waiting to spring out of my personal Pandora's box, if I would just let it.  I resist opening that box, even when the lid is clanking and rattling and beckoning me.  Too much will fly out and it'll be too messy.  I have to face my fears and stand up for myself.  I know that I have to deal with it and I've been trying a little bit at a time.  Mostly because I know that what I'm working with now isn't really working--it's very intermittent.  Life's a process and I finally have the resolve to accept that (versus just knowing it to be intellectually true).

Flanders

Here's Flanders.  He's the newest member of our family & a rockin' cool dude.  He seems to be adjusting really well.  I've finally got the computer and my cell talking again, so I can add pics to ye ole blog.  We're keeping the name he came with, although Little Man wanted to add "Bob" to it (Flanders Bob).  I told him it sounded a little piratey for me, but then Chief's been calling him, "Flanderson," and I've been calling him "Flanderooney" and "Hidey Ho!" (the latter came from his online profile that the AZ Animal Welfare League created for him--"Hidey Ho, neighbors!" was his tagline with his info following it). 

Here's from our ride home:

He really wants out of the back seat and into ours!  He finally got the picture and stayed safely in the back.