Spirit Week

Once again, they’ve moved everything forward in the year in hopes of cramming everything fun in before school is shut down for good for the year. Not that we’re being pessimistic or anything, it’s just…you know, Covid time.

So the third week of school, the second full week, was Spirit Week, aka Homecoming week. This is usually later in the football season, alas, I’m sure they moved it to the second home game (which, coincidentally, was the second game of the season) just so they could say they had it.

Huh. Anyway, whoever came up with the ‘Spirit’ days for this year was, well, less than creative.

They tried to be punny with it by titling the whole thing with something like “Bombers: Turn “UP” the Spirit. Each day, in turn, had some sort of UP in it.

Monday: Mix “UP” Day – wear your clothes backwards – Olivia declared she was NOT going to wear her clothes backwards because that would just annoy her all day. She did let me braid her hair from the bottom up (I almost capitalized the up back there but just couldn’t do it.) That was it for her spirit for Monday.

Tuesday: Grown “UP” day – dress like a grown-up – she decided to wear a leopard print cardigan and some matching shoes because then she’d look like a grown up lady aka an Edon mom. Hahahaha. That’s my girl.

Wednesday: Squad “UP” Day – class colors – Olivia’s class color is black. And guess what else this day was? Picture day, because why wouldn’t it be picture day? I suppose class color day is better than backwards day. Her teacher told Olivia she could bring a ‘picture day’ outfit to change in to but we all know how that would work out. So thanks but no, I’m fine with her seventh grade picture being of her in a black shirt. Maybe we can say it was the start of her twenty-four hour goth phase.

Thursday: Dress “UP” Day – dress your best – she wore pink because that’s how she dresses up. So much for the goth stage.

Friday: Bomber “UP” – wear your blue and gray – this one is self-explanatory.

I think that if they hadn’t tried to put the stupid UP in each day, they might have been able to be a bit more creative. Alas, they didn’t ask for my opinion and if they had I’d have been all…meh.

So since someone else was willing to do the mental work of coming up with this stupid list of spirit days, I should just shut my face.

From Wolves to Spoons

All that bitching about how much homework Olivia had in the first full week of school and how little direction we were given for helping her do said homework made an impact.

After several frustrated emails to her teacher and both of her aides, we are now being spoon fed O’s homework.

Instead of a worksheet with literally no instructions whatsoever, now I get a paragraph of directions along with page numbers for the book we’ll be using to look up answers and the page actually marked with ¼ piece of cardstock, just in case I’ve forgotten how to count and am unable to open up a book to the right page.

While this extreme opposite approach to her homework is slightly insulting, it’s more than a little amusing. If

I did ask her team to help me help her and that’s what they’re doing.

And I’ll take it. I’d much rather they act like I’m a complete moron when it comes to O’s homework than have them send work home with the assumption that I can read minds or that I was actually there all day with Liv, knowing exactly what she’s doing in each class and how to help her figure it all out by the time she gets home.

So, hey, look at that, this is not a rant about homework. What do you know.

A Very Brady Rant

I had to get blood drawn for labs. I went to the hospital at 9:30 one weekday morning. My thought was that it shouldn’t be all that busy at that time. I mean, people work, right?

Apparently not around here, they don’t because that hospital was crawling with people. Okay, so the people weren’t actually crawling but they were everywhere.

One dude in particular was especially antsy about the wait.

After I’d checked in with the receptionists and got my pager for registration, I sat down to wait.

This dude was sitting in a chair about ten feet from my little couch. His chair faced the registration doors. My couch faced him and the television that was mounted above and to his left.

The television was tuned to HGTV and they were showing episodes of A Very Brady Renovation. Yay! Except freaking Marcia Brady kept crying every time a new room was revealed. Chill the fuck out, Marcia!

This dude, though, damn he was irritating. He sat slumped in his chair for a few minutes, then he’d sit up straight and look at his beeper. Then he’d stand up and stretch, which always let to him clutching his right shoulder.

I was about to ask him if maybe he should be in line in the emergency room when he’d sit back down again, glance around to see if anyone was looking at him and then grumble under his breath.

I wanted to tell him to relax, watch a bit of A Very Brady Renovation and stop fidgeting. Obviously all the fidgeting was bothering his stupid right shoulder.

What was most irritating for me was that I had to look past him to watch A Very Brady Renovation, which meant that every time he looked my way, I knew it. I was never actually looking at him, because, duh, A Very Brady Renovation was on, why would I look anywhere else? But I knew he was looking and it was creepy as hell.

Thank Pete, (not Pete Brady, who used to be my favorite Brady brother until I watched Christopher Knight on his stupid reality TV show where he married America’s Next Top Model season cycle 1 winner Adrienne Curry. I think the show was called My Fair Brady, which, can we all agree is a REALLY stupid title for a REALLY stupid show? I only watched a partial episode on the Youtubes once but during that episode Chris was a raging dick to Adrienne and that made me detest him. And now, damn it, I guess I have to pick stupid Greg as my favorite Brady brother even though I can barely stand him because Bobby aka Mike Lookinland is just gross. That dude has NOT aged well at all. Oh, and by the way, Cindy Brady? The eighties called and they want their hair back.)

Ahem, where was I?

Oh yes, thank Pete that fidgety, creepy dude was called before I was and he left my line of vision. I was able to watch Marcia cry a few more times before my beeper went off and I got to go back and have a needle stuck in my arm. Good times; takes me back to my chemo days when I got stuck weekly. Ahh, memories. But wait, this time was actually different. This was the first time in all the times someone has stuck a needle in my arm that the person doing the sticking told me I have tiny veins. What? I have given blood my entire adult life, well, until I was diagnosed with cancer and had to be pumped full of chemotherapy, thank you so much. Now they don’t want my precious AB+ blood. So have my veins shrunk in the last two years? Is that even a thing?

Umm…I have no idea where I was going with any of this. Maybe there was no actual story here, except that the hospital was crazy busy and it wasn’t even because of Covid because if you suspected you had Covid-19, you weren’t even supposed to go into the hospital. There were signs all over the freaking place declaring that.

Alas, perhaps these days there is no ‘good’ time to go have blood drawn, unless you figure that anytime HGTV is airing A Very Brady Renovation is a good time to go so you have something to watch while you wait eleven hours from registration to blood draw is a good time to go. Then, well, check your local listing.

I don’t even know.

Senior Night

Senior athlete night is usually the last home game of the season.

Alas, with things as messed up as they are right now, we aren’t sure which home game will be the last of the season.

And so, Alyssa’s school decided to hold senior night senior night on the first home game of the season.

I mean, for all we know, the first home game might be the last, right? I mean, seriously, though.

So we got an email the Monday before the Friday of that game, letting us know that all seniors who were participating in fall sports would be honored at the home game that Friday.

Alyssa, for those not in the know, is in marching band, which is considered a fall sport. I know.

But those kids work REALLY hard. They go to band camp for weeks during the summer, they work hard to learn the music and the choreography for the half-time show.

I’ll be honest. I was in the marching band in high school and even I didn’t think of it as a sport back then but whatever. If the school wants to recognize them as fall athletes, who am I to complain? I’m glad my girl gets the accolades she deserves.

The way the senior athletes are recognized is that they’re given a card to fill out detailing their interests, the things they participate in, their parents’ names, you know, the usual.

Then, at the start of the game, the student and their parents are introduced to the spectators and the card is read describing the student.

When we found out about Senior Night early that week, Alyssa informed Tom, “Dad, you’re going to that football game.”

He gave a look that said he didn’t think he was going to the game.

She told him, “You’re going. You have to walk on the field with me and Mom.”

I assured him that there would be fewer spectators there this year because Governor DeWine has made it so that only parents and immediate family members can attend sporting events for the foreseeable future. Football at Edon is a pretty big thing. The entire community usually comes out for the home games.

Not this year! Nope. Each student athlete was given four vouchers to be given out for people to come to the games. This will ensure crowd control.

Somewhat mollified, Tom agreed to attend the ceremony honoring the athletes. “But,” he amended, “I’m NOT staying for the game.”

Duh.

No one expected him to stay for the game. He and Olivia can scamper away as soon as the ceremony is over.

I will stay, though, because hello, I have to watch the half-time show. That’s the whole reason I go to the games anyway. I always say that I’m only there for the band. I have to watch my girl’s last half-time show. This might be the only performance they give this year and I’ll be there for it.

We’re going to wring every single moment out of this senior year that we can. We realize that it might be even more abbreviated than last year’s senior year. So…here we go.

Balance

Once upon a time, the balance of work in our house was pretty even. I help with homework and Tom packs lunches and often heats up dinner.

Lately, though, since the girls were home for 22 weeks, I’d taken over a lot of the evening work because he’d been home with them (read: Olivia) all day every day. I get that mental taxation of that.

However, now the girls are back to school.

Which means he’s home all day, every day, alone. He can get started on his eBay listings/packing/whatever he wants to do without having to deal with breakfast, lunch, snacks and whatever else Olivia might need throughout the day.

So yeah, his life is pretty freaking great right now.

The other night, after we did homework for a half hour, then went to Gram’s house and then got home at 7:00, I asked if lunches were packed.

Alyssa had packed hers but…O’s was not packed.

I packed her lunch, I packed my lunch. I gave her her 8pm meds, I got her a snack before bed. I brushed her teeth, I bandaged her fingers, which are bloodied on a daily basis because…Olivia.

The next day, before I even got home, Tom had packed O’s lunch, which was…nice.

The day after that was the 2 hour homework session.

He suggested I go rest before we tackled homework.

No. Not a good idea. Must get started because the sooner we start, the sooner we can be done. It’s a good thig I made that call because if I’d ‘rested’ before homework that night, we’d have been finishing at 8, she’d have been having dinner at 8:15 and no shower would have happened and guys, Olivia is 13, she needs her showers.

As we were doing homework, he was toodling around, taking pictures, cleaning crap to list, just going about his day.

He did announce in the middle of all this that he’d packed her lunch.

“Thank you,” I said because heaven forbid I don’t sing his praises whenever he ‘helps’ me around the house.

Damn, I’m such a bitch.

Alas, homework continues to frustrate.

Tom left to go to my mom’s. He came back and continued about his business. It was at least 6:45 by this point. It never once occurred to him to offer to warm some food for Olivia so she could eat as soon as she was finished with homework.

We finished homework at 7:10 that evening. As she completed the last few multiplication problems, I heated some chicken and noodles and mashed potatoes.

At one point in all this, Tom declared that he was going to go out to the garden and pick some tomatoes. He stopped at the backdoor to make eye contact with me and declare he was picking these for ‘my lunch.’ Then he waited, because I was obviously supposed to thank him for going out to pick tomatoes because he was doing it for me.

OMG.

Are you kidding me?

I was in homework hell and I still had to make sure Liv ate dinner AND took a shower and he wanted gratitude from me because he was going to pick tomatoes FOR MY LUNCH.

I might have lost my mind for minute.

I think if I’d murdered him then and there, I could have claimed temporary insanity.

Yes, he still lives and breathes. But, because I’m a petty bitch, I did NOT take any of those freaking tomatoes in my lunch the next day. I was so pissed about the whole thing that I didn’t bother to pack anything for my lunch the next day.

That’ll show him.

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.