A Perfect Storm (aka Yet ANOTHER Vent about Homework - Sorry in Advance)

What do you get when you mix being out of school for 22 weeks, a new-to-you teacher, new aides, a new(ish) school (she’s in the same building but in the junior high wing instead of the elementary wing)?

Don’t forget to throw a kid like Olivia into the mix and guess what happens?

A perfect storm happens.

On the Wednesday of the first full week of school, Olivia and I sat at the kitchen table for two hours working on homework.

Oh yes, there were tears, hers and mine.

We both cried in frustration over the entire situation. See, here’s the thing: Olivia’s new-to-her teacher expects Olivia to act like a typical seventh grader in that she, Mrs. H, wants to be able to give Olivia a worksheet and then have Olivia actually complete that worksheet without someone sitting next to her keeping her on task.

Yeah. That’s probably not going to happen.

If it does? Well, awesome. I will be the first to throw a party. Seriously. I would be so, so happy. But I am not ordering the cake quite yet.

Another thing this teacher and her aides seem to think might happen is that they will give Olivia oral instructions as to what homework she has and how to complete it.

That’s it. They speak words to my child while she is at school and they expect those words to be retained by the dear, sweet girl so that when she gets home, she’s supposed to TELL me what needs to be done and how to do it.

But that doesn’t happen. She brings home worksheets with questions about ancient Greece and yet…there was no book. No instructions to look up the information on line…nothing.

I asked Liv what she was supposed to do and she shrugged. She had no idea.

She’s not being deliberately obtuse. She simply cannot retain that kind of information. I wish she could. Oh how I wish she could.

I know that her teachers probably think we baby her. Heck, her fourth grade teacher came and SAID that she thought Olivia was playing us. She used those words.

And I get it. Olivia looks so ‘normal.’ She looks perfect. I’m glad for it. I really am and yet, it’s frustrating that people, as in her teachers, expect her to act the way she looks.

She’s not doing this on purpose! If she could do the damned work, don’t you think she would? She doesn’t want to be different.

That evening that we were sitting there doing two hours of homework, one of her aides, Mrs. B, emailed me. This aide has worked with Liv for several years. She gets her. She’s very kind (that’s not to say these new teachers/aides aren’t kind, they just aren’t familiar with Olivia.) and in the email she explained that they’d tried to do the science questions in class but it just didn’t get done.

I replied that I appreciate all that she does for Olivia but I was very frustrated by the lack of written instructions on all the homework she’s been bringing home this year (we’ve had six days of school, for Pete Sakes!)

Mrs. B apologized for the lack of instructions and told me the chapter (14, why are they starting at chapter 14? For the love of Pete!) but said she didn’t have to book with her so she couldn’t tell me the page number. I thanked her for the chapter information and said we could figure it out with that information. But seriously, first of all, CHAPTER 14 at the beginning of the year is stupid. And second, how the hell was I supposed to know to look way the hell back on page freaking 570 for the information she needed to fill out that stupid worksheet?

Ahem.

Her other aide, Ms. P is new to Olivia this year. She seems fine. She goes to science with Olivia, which is great.

On Tuesday, she sent home the worksheet about Ancient Greece. I sent a note back with that blank worksheet and said that I didn’t know how to help Olivia with that work since there were no instructions provided. Ms. P replied to my note with a bunch of jargon I was probably supposed to understand. I didn’t. She went on and on about how they usually do those worksheets in class but the day of the sheet that had come home, Olivia had been taking some kind of placement test.

Okay, whatever. So sent it home but you HAVE to send home written directions so I can help my child.

I sent another reply. This time, I again thanked her for all she does for Olivia. I told her I appreciate that she works with Liv daily and blah blah blah. I then gently reminded her that Olivia is not able to retain instructions from school to home. That the only way I can help Livie with her homework is if she, the aide, and/or the teacher send written directions home with Olivia.

I want Olivia to succeed. I really do. I want her to be independent and to do her work herself. I want her to be able to sit down and do a math worksheet without me sitting next to her telling her to answer the question and then answer the next question and the next. I would love that so, so much.

But we’re not there yet and if they don’t help me help her, we’re going to continue to flounder and I’m going to lose my freaking mind.

And if my husband jovially heads out to pick fucking tomatoes the next time Olivia and I are heading into our second hour of homework, stopping at the door so I can THANK him for being so selfless as to pick those tomatoes FOR ME he’s going to wear those tomatoes. But that’s a vent for another post.

So Different

I have two younger brothers. J is four years younger than I am and M is thirteen years younger.

Let me state right here that they’re both rednecks. I can say that because they’d both declare it loud and proud.

It makes me sad, to be honest. Not the redneckness of it, but how proud they are of it. I almost feel like being proud of their status as rednecks kind of makes it worse than if they were ignorant of their ignorance.

See what I’m saying?

No? Let me tell you a story.

Recently, J posted an opinion piece on FB. Ahh, yes, the book of faces. Sigh.

J opined that schools should show the movie Blazing Saddles as an example of how we can all make fun of ourselves and others. It’s hysterical, he’ll tell you, that the N word can be dropped by anyone and everyone and, get this, NO ONE is offended.

Of course he got all kinds of likes to this post and so many comments about how brilliant he is.

Yes.

I know.

My mom, bless her heart, finally commented, telling my brothers that as white men, they don’t get it. Not at all.

M, in a moment of redneck oblivion, posted, “It is so much cooler when races can be made fun of and make fun of themselves.”

Because it’s important to be cool, don’t you know? Why is everyone so sensitive these days? Don’t they realize that being sensitive isn’t cool?

Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself and letting my own feelings of disgust with this entire situation run wild.

I’m not usually one to comment on these sorts of things. I know that I’m not going to change anyone’s mind. But I couldn’t just let that sit there. I thought maybe, just maybe, someone out there was reading this shit being posted by MY BROTHERS and might be feeling like crap because my brothers were being asses.

So, I replied to M’s comment: “You know I adore you, right. But you need to check your white privilege. Those of us who haven’t been oppressed for thousands of years don’t get to make fun of those who have. We just don’t. Lecture over. I love you.”

And of course, he came back, stronger than ever, because that’s what rednecks do. He wrote, “If your great grandpa was oppressed and you were not then it seems like and odd grudge to have. I worked with a Mexican the other day. He made white jokes and the white people made wall/tunnel jokes etc. Everyone laughed. It isn’t my privilege to make jokes. Sounds like whites are the ones oppressed. They ain’t (sic) allowed to joke around. I love you too.”

So not being able to tell racist jokes makes him oppressed. OMG, seriously? This is not a difference of opinion at this point. It’s several lifetimes of ignorance coming together and it makes me sick.

I commented one more time because I couldn’t let it go. “I wish I could explain it better but all I can say is white people (I didn’t say WHITE MEN especially but I wanted to) are in no way oppressed. We just aren’t. Not being able to make racist jokes does not make us oppressed. But I don’t think I can convince you of that so I will stop here.”

Of course, because he’s a redneck who can’t help but dig in when he’s being told he’s a racist pig (but not in so many words because I’m not stupid) he had to reply. I won't retype his entire comment because it was long and ignorant and I just can't. Let me just say that he threw out professional athletes and Oprah Winfrey as people of color who are not oppressed. Again, I just can't anymore.

I let him have the last word. I said my piece. I got my thoughts out there for anyone who might be lurking and watching this unfold. I reacted to his comments with a sad face (rather than the ‘like’ thumbs up that he got from others.)

If we were face to face, I might have tried harder. I might have lectured him on how he’s coming across as an ass and I might still. But I’m letting the FB thing go because, like I said, I know that no matter what I said from that point he wasn’t listening. He wants so badly to be right, even though he’s so, so wrong.

It breaks my heart that people I love can make me dislike them so much.

Putting the P in Postal

I go to the post office every day for work. I pick up the incoming mail from the PO boxes (yes, boxes, there are six that I check daily) and at least once a week, I have to go in and actually interact with postal workers. They’re fine, very professional, maybe a little irritable sometimes but they deal with the general public and let me tell you, that would make me cranky too. And we’ve all figured out that you just can’t fix stupid.

On one recent trip to the post office, I had to drop off a certified mailing, get the date stamp on my receipt for the certified mailing and buy twenty rolls of stamps.

While she was waiting on me, Annie, the post office employee took a phone call. From her side of the call, I could tell that someone wanted to put their mail on hold.

Annie explained that the customer would need to come into the post office and do this in person.

After some back and forth, Annie offered the option of going online to make this request. She told the person it would cost $1.05 to do this online. Then she gave the address to the website.

We all know the postal service’s website, right? USPS.com

Annie said just that, “Go to USPS.com and click on the change my address link. No, that P as in Paul.”

The customer on the phone thought Annie had said B as in boy.

You guys…why would the United States Postal Service’s website be USBS.com? I mean, sure the B could be for BULL and the S could be for SHIT but come on!

I kind of love that Annie said, “P, as in Paul.” She’s way kinder than I am I would have said, my voice dripping in sarcasm, “P…as in POSTAL.” The ‘duh’ at the end of that sentence would have been unvoiced but VERY implied.

After she hung up the phone and rang up my $1100.00 worth of stamps, Annie gave me a smile and as a way of explaining that exchange said, “She was young.”

Just being a customer in that place for ten minutes makes me understand the whole phrase ‘going postal.’

Like I said, you can’t fix stupid but the young do (usually) grow up.

Taking No for an Answer

I don’t think I would handle rejection well, which is why I avoid the possibility of rejection whenever possible. I haven’t actually had to deal with rejection often in my many years in this world. I’m lucky, I know.

But I am also able to read a ‘soft’ no and accept it without pushing.

Example 1:

At work we have an overstock of no-touch thermometers. I asked the engineering manager if I could buy one. He asked how many we had in stock. I told him there were 25 in the area I could see.

That was the end of our communication, all of which took place over email. There was no face-to-face conversation here.

When he didn’t get back to me after I’d told him how many we had, I let it go. I took his non-response as a no, we are not selling the ‘extras’. No need to follow up. No need to make him come out and say no. I don’t need a reason, I don’t need a clearer answer. I get it and I accept it. What else can I do?

Example 2:

My aunt had a pool. We’ve taken Olivia to swim there a few times this summer. It got her out of the house and into the sunshine. My aunt and her husband both said, “Come over anytime!”

Okay. That’s great and all but…no. I’m not going to just arrive at their house and swim in their pool without prior authorization. I just can’t.

So one Friday in late July, I texted my aunt and asked her if I could take Olivia to her house the following Sunday to swim.

My aunt responded with an attachment that I couldn’t open. I replied that I couldn’t open the attachment.

She said, “Oh, it was a good message.”

…

And that was it. That’s all she said.

Do I need to say that we did not go swimming that weekend? I was NOT going to ask again. I wasn’t going to say something like, “So…is that as yes or no to swimming?”

Why? Because her non-answer was a no to me. I didn’t want to put her on the spot. I didn’t want to force her to say no if she didn’t want to come out and say it.

I can take no for an answer, even if the no is never actually verbalized.

Obviously, I would be a terrible sales person. “Oh, you don’t want this vacuum? Okay then, bye.”

I probably wouldn’t have been a very good cis-dude either, what with their inability to take even a clear and firm NO for an answer.

And how about that that, I managed to turn this into a male-bashing post after all.

First Last

On the morning of the first day of school, I was taking pictures of the girls, as one does.

I took pictures of them alone and together as we’ve done since the beginning of this schooling journey.

As I took one of Alyssa, I lamented in a tone of exaggerated despair, “This is your last first day of school.”

She rolled her eyes at me.

I laughed and said, “Just kidding. I’m not (mom who’d two kids graduated last year and the year before and who now posts all kinds of ‘empty nest’ posts on FB. She wails that her kids have left and she doesn’t know what to do with herself. Her kids went to the local university. They’re all of a half hour away from her house so…yeah.)”

Alyssa gave me a look of relief that I took as gratitude that I’m not going to embarrass her…yet.

See, it is a little bit sad. I mean, it’s gone so fast. It feels like last year she was the one in 7th grade. I remember thinking during her freshman year that it was all going to fly by and I was right. Sure, the last twenty two weeks of 2020 have crawled by but I can feel the momentum speeding up. I can feel her slipping away. I know this is what we want for her.

When one becomes a parent, the best thing you can hope for is that your child grows up and becomes an independent, well-adjusted adult doing things that make them happy while not being a menace to society.

I think we’ve managed that with Lyss. I mean, we still have a year to really mess her up if we want to but for the most part, she’s pretty much already molded into the model of responsibility and decorum. We’ve done our best and she’s pretty amazing.

But each of these ‘last firsts’ will be bittersweet. Already, because of Covid-19 she missed her last parade, the Kickoff Dance (which I don’t even think she attended last year) has been canceled for this year. She missed her entire junior year track season. So…we’ll cherish each ‘last first’ we get this year as they come and we won’t count on any of them until they happen.

I know I’m echoing what every parent before me has endured as they watched their chickens fly the coop. How lucky are we all that our kids are so amazing that they want to fly and they get to fly and that, if we’re lucky, they’ll come home sometimes and hang out with us, sharing their glories, their failures, their tears and their laughter. We’ve done what we can and now it’s up to them. But it’s nice to know that we can be a safe place to land if things ever get tough and they need to come home.

I’m just going to say it. Home is where your mom is.

Welcome to Junior High

New year, new teacher, new masks, new everything.

We finally said goodbye to spring break after twenty two weeks.

Obviously, spring break morphed into summer break and here we are in August, masking up and starting a new year.

This year kicks off Olivia’s first in junior high and Alyssa’s last in high school.

Since Liv transitioned from elementary to junior high, she’d got an all new teacher. She worked with Dr. C for three years and was very comfortable with her. Now she’d in Mrs. H’s intervention class.

It’s going to be fine.

Olivia was a little nervous the week or so before school started. She was picking at her fingers, not sleeping well, and flapping her left hand more than ever.

The school had canceled the open house, which usually takes place a day or two before school starts in an effort to keep the number of people entering the building to a minimum.

But! They did have a 7th grade orientation two days before the first day of school. That was nice. It explained how junior high will be different from elementary school. It described the day and how the students were responsible for their own behavior, etc.

Okay. Sure. Fine.

Olivia and I got to meet her teacher, which was great. The original plan, way back in February of 6th grade, was to have Mrs. H come to Dr. C’s class and meet Olivia in a safe, familiar setting. Then, in the last few weeks of school (which were, obviously, spent at home with me as the teacher’s aide) Dr. C was going to take O down to Mrs. H’s classroom and let O get used to it little by little.

Well, none of that happened. 2020 went to hell in mid-March and we’re all still on the broken escalator trying to climb back out. Sadly, the people in front of us haven’t figured out that a broken escalator just becomes STAIRS and we all need to just start climbing.

Instead, Olivia came home from spring break and never left the house again until August 17, which is when we attended 7th grade orientation and met her teacher.

Obviously, that’s an exaggeration. But still…kind of accurate.

And yet, it’s going to be fine. We’re all in the same boat. All the kids went home on the afternoon of March 13th and didn’t step foot in the school again for twenty two weeks.

I’m rambling. I’m nervous for her. I know she’ll be fine but I want to fast forward about four weeks and REALLY KNOW she’s fine.

Just wait until next year at this time when Alyssa’s off to college. That’s going to be a fun ramble, isn’t it?

One Foot Out the Door

It’s the first week of Alyssa’s senior year but I swear she’s had one foot out the door on her way to college since the first week of June.

Recently, she told me that she and N and Tessa were talking about next year, A’s and T’s freshman year of college. They all three want to live together at Toledo University.

But, guess what? Toledo’s rule is that incoming students must live on campus for their first four semesters. Of course, there are loopholes. If your family lives within twenty five miles of campus and you’re going to live at home, then fine, you can do that.

If you don’t qualify for that one, then if you can prove financial hardship which would prohibit you from paying for on-campus housing, then sure, find more affordable housing so the university can still get tuition from you.

So, here’s the thing. We do not live within twenty five miles of the Toledo campus. N’s sister, though, does; which is how N has been able to avoid on-campus housing during her time at Toledo University.

Tessa, whose father died when she was seven years old, will probably be able to claim financial hardship.

So…that leaves dear, sweet Alyssa. Poor child, her parents are both still alive and even still married to each other. Sigh.

Wanna guess what her next giant leap was in this little conundrum?

Yeah, she jumped right into: Well, I guess N and I will just go to the courthouse and get married.

That seems a bit extreme, don’t you think? I mean, there are other ways around the ‘must live on campus rule’ besides the VERY BIG STEP of getting married.

There are so many other smaller steps to be taken before leaping into marriage.

I think she was kidding, but I also think she was only sort of kidding.

Everyone who knows me know that if/when Alyssa and N get married, I will throw them the biggest, most beautiful (or smallest, most beautiful, whatever they want) wedding ever. But I want them both to truly be ready for such a step.

But anyway, I think she’s just putting the cart before the horse. She’d just chomping at the bit for independence. She wants so badly to make her own decisions, to learn from her own mistakes, to be trusted to know what’s best for herself.

I do trust her. I know she’s amazing and smart and responsible.

I also know she’s young and so is N. The young are impetuous; even the most responsible young. It’s just the nature of the young. They can’t help it. Their brains are still maturing.

So for the next ten-ish months, she’s going to have to deal with me and her dad making decisions in her best interest. We can’t help it, it’s in our nature to want the best for her. So…there might be some pushing and pulling around here and that’s okay. She needs to push the boundaries and we’ll need to reinforce them.

It’s been a fun ride but it isn’t over yet.