quick story

Driver em

Katie rides the bus to school now. The *long* bus people. sheesh. In fact, it’s probably at least 50 yards long.  I, unfortunately, have to drive her to the bus stop--at the first hint of dawn--because she now attends public school in the school district where her father lives, and they ain’t sending a bus out Trenton-way. In fact, the district has an armed force of District Eligibility Officers who are tasked with keeping us po' folks out of their crapass schools. These guys lurk around school bus stops looking to snag Trenton parents trying to sneak their kids into the "good schools" out in the ‘burbs by pretending to live out that way. And there are penalties for this--expensive penalties: they bill you at the student per diem rate. Ouch.

According to district rules, however, Katie and Joe are eligible to attend school in the suburbs-they need only wake up in the district (at their father’s house) 3 mornings a week. But on the other 2 mornings, it’s a mad dash to the bus stop. On more than one occasion, we’ve hit the bus stop at 50 mph with doors flying, just as the bus driver collected the last kid at the stop onto the bus.And only once have we ended up out of position behind the bus and had to chase her to her next appointed stop. That bus driver knows how to giddyup those 50 yards of sleak yellow school bus on down the autobahn! The careening vehicle in her rearview was no distraction whatsoever. But now she's beginning to recognize my car as the lunatic white sedan that launches itself sideways under her front wheels, and she waits for Katie to tumble out and slink over to the bus with not the slightest hint of mortification.

Problem is that Katie's father has had his fill of Katie's fledgling puberty-fired ways, and he has delivered her back to me along with all of Katie's belongings, boxed, onto the floor of my house with a thump and a snarl. "Her behavior is UNACCEPTABLE!! She can't come back!!"

Whatever dude. Good thing I've got this whole Flying Under the Radar thing going, so if those District Commandos ever stake out her bus stop, they'll never notice us.    

Ivy League

I did it. I withdrew all 3 kids from that Catholic Institution that wanted to hoover up all my money and bend the malleable minds of my children to its strange ways. But mostly it wanted all my money. Three children, one school, and no financial aid? B'bye.

Kate and Joe will attend school in the suburb just north of Trenton. I finally was able to get a live human being on the phone there and determined in 2 minutes flat that my kids are eligible to attend school in the district because they spend half the school week there at their father's apartment. The grammar and middle schools are ok, no more. But I think Kate and Joe will do fine. Kate will insinuate herself into the cool-chick clique and join clubs and extracurricular activities and get good grades, and Joe will rumble through his world, oblivious to everything that isn't animated.

The high school, the other hand, is on par with the zoo that is Trenton Central High, ie, sex and drugs and rock n roll, and overt academic apathy, teasing, bullying, shunning, and gang violence. Sam will not attend this school. She is smart, smart, and creative. She's unusual in ways that don't add up to that Hollywood high school "outsider hence cool kid" package. My Sam is unique. She has her own style of dress and sense of humor, and it is not mainstream American teen culture. She has numerous friends and they gab all day and late into the night, but they're far-flung across cyberspace. Other than this sort of socializing, she hasn't actually lived much life. She's not used to the hectic, heated, hustling, harsh ways of the world. They would eat her alive at Suburban NJ High School and spit her out, a husk of her sweet funny exuberant charming unique creative self. 

What to do then? You might find my solution to be counter-intuitive. I have enrolled her in Trenton's Daylight Twilight Program. Believed by many Trenton residents to be the dumping ground for the little girls with babies at home, drug dealers, drop-outs, and miscellaneous disciplinary nightmares, the program is indeed "alternative." But it is buttoned down. The school year might begin with classrooms full of little girls with babies at home, drug dealers, drop-outs, and miscellaneous disciplinary nightmares, but by Sept 15, only the girls with babies at home and soem other kids who want to learn remain. This group of kids are subject to varied educational opportunities, including classes at the highly esteemed Princeton University. And better still, Princeton University will award college scholarships to a few able kids every year. How fucking cool would that be?

Ick girl

It's a stark parenting moment when you realize that the compassionate, nurturing words of advice to a sick child were wrong. Dead wrong. (Oh calm down, I didn't kill her.)   

It started as a headache--*dramatic sickly voice* "Mom, I think I've got a migraine."
Mom: "Did you take some aspirin?"
Katie: "Noo-o."
Mom: "Well do it."

A couple of days went by and she still complained of the headache, and I still prescribed aspirin. On day 4, with the headache now entrenched and encompassing her eyes, jaw, and ears, I determined that she was suffering from a sinus headache. Prescription: sinus headache tablets.

Day 5 brought skin lesions. Spotty, red and raised, they showed up on her forehead. Well that's no sinus headache, so off to the doctor's we went. Diagnosis: shingles. Therapy: an antiviral and a pain killer.

It continued to progress with increasingly painful headaches and eye and jaw pain. And the lesions grew to monstrous proportions. Covering the whole right side of her head, her face became inflamed and blistered. The lesions around the eye and the angry red of the eyeball freaked out our general practitioner, so off to an ophthalmologist we went. The ophthalmologist peered into her eyeball with a very bright beam of light. Diagnosis: shingles inside the eyeball. Therapy: 2 types of eye drops 3 times a day each. 

She awoke 5 days later, with greasy hair and an enlarged egg-shaped iris. Trying to seem casual after peering into that weird, bottomless eyeball, I popped into the kitchen to call the ophthalmologist again. "Oh that's ok, her iris will dilate and become misshapen." Oh. "I also told her that she won't be contagious once the lesions crust over, and once the scabs fall off wah wah wah wah." I didn't hear a word he said after that, and apparently concluded the phone call.

Immediately, "Katie, what'd you doctor tell you about once the scabs fall off?"
Katie: "I have NO idea. As soon as he said the scabs will fall off all I could think was they were gonna fall off into my mashed potatoes at dinner, or pop off when I was talking to someone, or fall down my shirt or something."

"Ick, gross. Don't get any on me." 

Gut it

OK, I can take take it. After all, I am a seasoned professional. It's all part of a collaborative editorial process.

OK, no I can't.

She asked me to "tone it down," change a few things.

Me: "Sure! but tell me more--do you mean simplify the overall writing level for the students or is there something specific you want me to change?"

Principal R: "How about taking out the part about Sam getting 'cracked across the knuckles with a ruler' and how Joey said 'God is old and stupid.' We don't want anyone to get any ideas."

Indeed. 

How do you thank someone who has taken you from crayons to perfume...?

Ed Note: Mrs. R, the principal at my kids' school, asked me to write a short piece for the final ICS newsletter.  "Ahhh, a rant over the closing of the school?" I asked. "No, no, we must be positive to the end," she replied. "Just some thoughts on your family's experiences with the school."  So here it is, not the  angry, piercing, anti-Catholic diatribe that I would have preferred, but then, I do try to follow directions. Let me know if it's too over-the-top.

A 125-year run isn’t so bad, if you ask me. An unexpectedly abrupt ending, to be sure, but there is much to be thankful for and many memories to cherish.

My 2 older daughters came to Immaculate Conception School after attending Trinity Episcopal Academy for many years. And not being Catholic and thus having no experience with the Trenton Catholic school system, I enrolled my children with a certain amount of trepidation. Are they overly strict? Do they treat the non-Catholic kids just as they do those who are Catholic? Is the curriculum varied and up-to-date? Will the instruction be engaging and multi-faceted? Will they smack Sam across the knuckles with a ruler? These and lots of other questions roiled around in my head.

It took about 2 minutes for Mrs. R to put my mind at ease. Sam, my eldest daughter and the "boundary-tester" in the gang, piped up with a question for Mrs. R during the school tour she conducted for us when we applied for admission: "Can I use bad words in the essays that I write?" Well I wanted to quietly step into the coat closet and close the door, but Mrs R's response was patient, affable, and unfazed: "No honey, save that for Dear Diary. This is a grammar school."      

Through tribulations major and minor, Mrs. R and the faculty and staff of ICS have shepherded, supported, protected, assuaged, and corrected all 3 of my children.

• When one daughter was rendered desolate as a result of some painful bullying;
• When another daughter was obsessed with applying make-up products in class every 2 to 3 minutes;
• When a certain 5-year-old son got an F in Displays Good Christian Values for saying "God is old and stupid" to the class;
• When 3 kids flailed about as they processed the divorce of their parents;

and on and on. With enormous grace, generous nourishment, and good humor the ICS family has become a part of the fabric of my family. I am so thankful that they will be an integral part of the lower school at the consolidated facility out in Hamilton. Change is hard and it's a comfort to know that Mrs. R and the faculty and staff of ICS staff will be on the other end.

An open letter to Principal R

Dear Mrs R,
I could hear it in your voice last night as we stood together cheering on the girls' softball team--the onset of mourning. This past winter had to be a stressful one--word came down that four schools had to close, and after much anxious waiting, the diocese tagged yours. Well, as you know I'm not Catholic, so I'll refrain from second-guessing the wisdom of closing all the private primary schools in the city of Trenton--I can understand that the Catholic Church's  finances are limited, and something had to give. And I certainly don't need to tell you that it leaves few options to parents who fear the guns, drugs, and lack of academic discipline in the city's public school system. No, I'll leave that alone too...

But I do want to express to you my heartfelt sorrow over this unhappy situation--my condolences--as this school was yours, and you did wonders for it. From my first tour with oldest child Sam I was impressed with its tradition, the age-gone-by charm of the 125-year-old facility. So unlike the sterile suburban-school hallways and sound-proofed, carpeted rooms filled with metal desks and chairs, your school has quirks--where, in the entire central New Jersey region, would you find school floors that are made up of a colorful panoply of square vinyl tiles? Each patch in the floor is a different age and a different color-scheme, and likely tells a different story, but you see that the whole crazy-quilt floor shines like a precious gem.

But your real precious "gems?" Our kids. I know you've been teacher and principal to some families a lot longer than mine, but I want to tell you that you and your staff have touched all three of my children with generous servings of kind patience, keen insight, and sure direction: Sam, who is so strong outwardly until her adolescent world hits a rough patch and she feels she can no longer contain it; Katie, who needs containing; and Joey, who from day one of kindergarten forged a special relationship with you by refusing to enter his classroom for the first three days of school, instead staying with you, in your office, alerting you to the ringing phone and otherwise assisting you with important school business. 

In closing, I've no doubt that it will be enormously hard for you and your staff over the next several months, as the school's long history comes to a close. But let me tell you that I am so thankful that you will be heading up the lower school at the consolidated facility out in Hamilton--change is hard and it's a comfort indeed to know that you and much if not all of your staff will be on the other end.

Kind regards,

em

Joey vs The Coach

Coach walked Joey across the field, hand on shoulder, stood him in his position at left halfback, and faced him upfield--toward the action.

And there he stayed, feet planted sturdily, while the game swirled and rumbled around him. Cunningly, he didn't take a single step in any direction, even with a great herd of 5 and 6-year-olds--basically, everyone on both teams--bearing down on him in a thick dust cloud of kids. During one such end-run, I flinched as the herd rumbled straight at the fence post that was Joey, but it veered off at the last second. Disappointed somehow, he looked over at me and scowled, "That was a gyp." 

At halftime, Coach reassigned Joey to a safer spot to hang out, goalie. Bored at first, he would periodically glare over at me and pound is chubby little hand into his chubby little fist and say, "I'm through with this." But then he discovered the fullbacks, Emily and Emily. Relocating to stand between these 2 tiny blond defenders, he finally stopped demanding to be taken home. Katie, apparently able to read lips, explained to me that Joey was making the Emilys laugh with his talk of farts.

And only 3 goals were scored during this defensive-squad bonding experience.   

Pet-free universe?

My resolve is wobbling. This is due to the gravitational influence of large planetary bodies within the em orbit.  The slightest elliptic variation could push me over. And let's face it, I am a push-over. 

Last Sunday--of my own initiative--I went to meet Goliath. Goliath is a Blue and Gold Macaw parrot, and he's for sale because his current Mom and Dad have to move to an aviary-unfriendly apartment. I thought he might make a nice companion for Rummy, our Myers parrot. He's cheap too, for a Macaw, but when you factor in that the cage is included, he is rock-bottom fire-sale cheap.

WHAT a good fella! He has an excellent vocabulary, although he was a bit shy with it, but he did his tricks for us--he waved hello, danced, and made kissy noises. And let me tell you, these birds are gorgeous--about 2 and a half feet long from stem to stern, a Macaw has electric colors, mostly blue but there's a lot of gold and red too. A Macaw's face has an area of pure-white flesh.

And then comes the beak.

The beak is black and it is big.

Like a pair of loppers, this beak could easily snip off your thumb. Not that Goliath was at all aggressive--he was quite well-behaved, but did grab my coat sleeve and now I have 2 quarter-sized holes in my sleeve. 

I told them I'd think it over, knowing already that he felt too big and intimidating and scary. They were also trying to find a home for a toy miniature Doberman Pinscher--a mini Min-Pin. This was the the cutest little puppy! All they needed to do was skootch me one little bit in the direction of that pup, and I'd have brought him home, but I guess they figured I was there for the bird and that was that. So I left, feeling like I was dodging feathery and furry bullets.         

Today, I "worked from home" (when I wasn't off shopping or blogging or reading the newspapers), but during my conference call with clients, Sam ushered in her stray cat. So there I am, on a call with, well, basically, people who hold my continued employment in their hands, and this cat comes sauntering by on its way to Rummy's cage. And Rummy is no dummy, so she started flapping and squawking and carrying on, which caused me to silently start flapping and squawking and carrying on until the cat was peeled off the birdcage. This was tricky, as I was at the same time explaining my approach to educating patients with severe diabetes.

Sam is putting up a strong argument, but my line is "the cat is clean and fat and friendly so it's got a home!" and I'm sticking with it.      

I said I was sorry!

Had another parenting misstep this weekend, and only a little blood was spilled. The guilt card, however, remains in play and will remain so for some time to come.

On Saturday, Katie and I took in a little exercise--she was on Rollerblades and I was on sneakers. We chugged across the West Ward (well, I chugged, she glided, but despite the fact that she was on wheels, I still ended up circling and waiting for her at every little rise, but that's another story) and then through Cadwallader Park, unscathed, and swung by the bodega at the end to get some pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwiches--this small detour being the only way I can get her to come with me.

As we paid for our freshly cooked sandwiches and drinks, Papi put the sandwiches in a bag, but when he got out a separate bag for Katie's ice tea I said, "that's ok, we don't need a bag," because really, who needs a bag for one drink? That's just wasteful. Katie said, "but I need a bag for my drink."

"No you don't. Just hold it."

"But I'm skating. What if I fall?"

"Pffft, You're not going to fall." She never falls.

Of course she fell. Normally as sure on her wheels as a cat on a branch, I watched her suddenly lean back and pinwheel her arms as we headed down Lee Ave. . . and recover. But just as she was saying, "I bet you thought I was going to go d-. . ." she went down. Well, first she went up--her feet quickly exited out from under her body and she was jettisoned into the air . . . and then she landed in the middle of an arc of ice tea and broken glass.

A bit stunned and in pain from the impact, I picked her up and tried to brush off the mud and glass, and we headed home. I knew she broke her fall in part with her hands, but now they were buried in the sleeves of her jacket, and honestly, I didn't want to uncover them at that particular moment--let's just examine that later (my motto). But I guess they started to sting, so she pulled up her sleeves and . . . large amounts of dripping blood. We made our way home, tho, and she was just fine, apart from some embedded glass, small cuts, and bruises. Standard stuff.

But can I tell you just how many times I heard her tell various friends this story? Many. Funny thing is how it's developing--she went from, "Naomi! I fell with a bottle of ice tea in my hand!" to "Then Mom snatched that bag out of Papi's hand with fire in her eyes and told him 'don't you give her a bag! She can not have one!' And she knew I was going to fall!! "

Yup, another blogger on the way.  :-) 

Monday throat-clearing

My eye won't stop twitching. It's been 3 days. I'm ready to take a spoon and scoop it out of my skull. Look close and tell me if you can see it twitch... there! just then, it twitched--did you see that? Damn thing. Do I look like Inspector Dreyfus? He had a major twitch going on.  It's probably work-related, because work is plucking my last nerve right now.

Remark of the day, courtesy of Sam--"You're ugly." Directed at me. Why? Because I told her she misspelled esophagus. *eye twitches*

Question of the day, courtesy of Katie--"Esophagus? Is that what a baby hippopotamus is called?" *eye spasms*

Request of the day, courtesy of the malignancy who is my ex-husband--"Come and pick up your children--they are insufferable!!" *eye convulses*