quick story

Snarl

I had to chain myself to my cage. I'm in danger of tearing into someone. Unleash me and I will do some serious harm. Rivers of blood will flow down my street. Step away from the cage. 

You are a first degree moron. A loud-mouthed vulgar infantile hillbilly who lacks self control common sense common decency and a simple knowledge of right and wrong. 

Never again, under any circumstances, show my 11-year-old daughter the centerfold in your Hustler magazine.

Never again, UNDER. ANY. CIRCUMSTANCES. explain blow jobs to my 11-year-old daughter.

Don't you DARE try to tell me that you were simply "bein' honest and answerin' her questions" when my 11-year-old daughter asked her silly 11-year-old-girl questions about sex while you got on your Friday night drunk. She's 11, but she knows a drunken senseless imbecile when she sees one.

And you foul motherfucking 42-year-old scumbag piece of shit, don't you EVER try to insinuate that my 11-year-old daughter was trying to seduce you with her provocative talk.   

What in the world is the matter with you?? Get THE FUCK away from me before I tear you limb from limb. You stupid sick fuck.  

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." 

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

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.  :-) 

2 things—Joey the scientist

Joey is still a little guy, but he learns something new every day.

1. It is possible to empty a good-sized tub of its water without pulling the plug. Simply introduce 2 brand-new boxes of tampons. Ancillary lesson: 80 fully-activated tampons make extremely heavy bags for mom to carry out to the trash cans.

2. It is possible to eat candy canes without unwrapping them. Simply chew them up as is. Ancillary lesson: clear plastic wrappers from 2 candy canes are extremely tricky for mom to pick out from amongst and between my teeth.

Upcoming lessons--Pooing without toilet paper, and shopping without money.

Joey vs The Catholic Religion

Now that Joey is Assistant Principal over at his new school, he believes that he is entitled to take a meeting with the Principal, Mrs. R, on an as-needed basis.

As I think I told you guys, he just started kindergarten at a local Catholic school, and as a regular part of the curriculum, they are taught the strange ways of Catholicism. Last week in church, the nun was leading them in saying a decade of the Rosary (don’t ask me what it is, cuz I don’t know). After the chanting or whatever it is was finished, Joey took himself over to Mrs. R and told her, “I don’t want to say the Rosary anymore.” She’s a very kind woman, probably used to all sorts of shenanigans, and she asked, “But why Joseph?” “Because the lady in black keeps talking about me and Mary, and I don’t like that. My Mom told me it's not nice to talk about people.”

Yup, flummoxed her. That's my boy! :-)

I am very disappointed

I try very hard to be an activist parent, to stay on top of my children's issues in school and elsewhere. This morning was my first parent-teacher conference with Joey's new Kindergarten teacher, Miss D. His progress report came home on Monday, to give us something to talk about. In the boy's defense, this is his first year at the local Catholic Institution, and he doesn't have much experience in the strange ways of the Catholic School System. So yeah, he got an 'F' in "Demonstrates Good Christian Values." Not that he's mean or cruel--he's a sweet sweet fella. But he did tell his teacher during prayer that "God is old and stupid." (Where did he get that attitude from??! ;-DD)

So this morning I sat across the desk from Miss D and explained that Joey really has no idea what he's saying when he says such things and that I've Given Him a Good Talking To. She smiled and said she understood, and then we chatted for another 15 minutes about his academic progress, which is strong and steady. At the conclusion of our meeting, she said, "Thank you very much Mrs. Micksee--I appreciate you taking the time to come in and meet with me." And that was that.

Not a word about the fact that I had the face of a rabid schizophrenic and blood dripping from my mouth, my hair was all crazy and up in sponge curlers, and I was wearing a bathrobe. Maybe I should have smacked her with the bloodied wooden spoon to get her attention. Psycho Mom was very disappointed.

Monday miscellany

1. Joey is finally going into his Kindergarten classroom—YAY! The first 4 days were a trauma—a lot of crying and pleading and yelling from both of us. It was also a bit of a trauma for the principal as it turns out, as Joey kept her company in her office all day, alerting her to the ringing phone and otherwise assisting her with important school business.

2. That boy says the funniest things—as we drove to school this morning, we passed an old rundown carnival that was set up in Columbus Park. It was closed, since it was 8 a.m., and I must admit it looked forlorn. Joey: “Man, that carnival really let itself go.”

3. I have another job interview today at a small med ed company. I’d be doing what I used to do—sponsored projects. This would be cool (as long as the money is there), but it would mean I’d have to actually work again. Boo.

4. Oldest child Sam has been especially nasty and surly lately. I can’t get her to do a damn thing anymore. She’ll just flat-out refuse to vacuum the rug, in a snarl of curses. And this makes hot dark-red blood spurt from my ears and eyes. It’s a mess, let me tell you. I’m at my wits end. She has me in a near-constant state of emotional turmoil, so that on the rare moments that she has something non-surly to say, I’m unable to react appropriately. I hate it that I’m always mad at her.

2 things (rescuing Joey)

1. Had a strange dream Sunday night about Joey. In the dream, I was outside on the sidewalk in front of my house chatting with my brother, .rz, and I looked up, and there was Joey climbing out of the window and onto the 3rd-floor ledge of our house. Before I could get the words “JOEY GET BACK IN THAT WINDOW” out of my mouth, he fell off the ledge and landed on the porch roof just above my head. Dazed, he rolled to the edge of that roof, and before I could get the words “JOEY ROLL AWAY FROM THE EDGE” out of my mouth, he fell off that roof too. But get this—I caught him. he was heavy as hell and I fell down from the weight of him, but I caught that boy and saved him. The dream ended with me looking over at .rz and saying “did you just see that?” and him looking back, ashen, only able to nod uh huh. I call that a pretty good dream—tragedy averted through quick action. My dreams aren’t usually success-stories. Most boil down to a single emotion-cluster: frustration/failure. It’s a recurring dream—I’m on the soccer field and although I try my hardest, I can’t get off the shot on goal even though I’m right in the GD mouth of the goal--I’m wrong-footed or caught sitting back on my heels or just completely whiff the damn thing—it’s always the same outcome. So anyway, this dream was unusual.

2. Took Joey to his first day of Kindergarten at a new school today. He looked so handsome in his uniform—khaki pants, navy polo, and black dress shoes—all grown up! I got him as far as the corridor outside his class—“we’ll just check it out.” But that was it. He would go no farther. “Nope, not gonna happen.” I reasoned, cajoled, begged, bribed, and threatened. He was not going in that room. At one point I tried to walk him in while holding firmly to his upper arm (ok, drag him into the room) but he got his hands on both sides of the doorway, and I wasn’t going to get him through it without breaking an arm. So I retreated. Another teacher and the principal arrived and I was shooed away—“he’ll calm down as soon as you’re gone—this is mostly a show for Mom.” I slowly sidled away, back-tracked through the corridors and went out the back door. And as I walked across the parking lot to my car, I could hear that boy, from somewhere deep within that big building, “I WANNA GO HOME! I’M NOT STAYING IN THIS PLACE!!” Checked in with the principal at mid-day—he still hadn’t set foot in his classroom. So anyway, I think I need to catch him again, but I’m not sure how.

You’re blogging with an idiot

Joey slept like a log, 12 solid hours last night. He even let me stand him up from his spot on the pillows in front of the upstairs TV and while still sleeping, steer him down the hall and into my bed to spend the rest of the night. He doesn’t normally fall out like that, but he had had a busy Sunday, running running running in the HHH weather, sweating sweating sweating all day. The kid was tired, maybe a bit dehydrated.

I noticed it was gone this morning, and in a fraction of a nanosecond that long night’s slumber by a tired out 5-year-old suddenly seemed horribly frightening. A long-acting tranquilizer. Left on my dresser-top. Now gone.

Poor stressed out, harassed, out-manned, and over-worked em. Every once in a while this friend or that friend with a scrip will share. A friend at work gave me one of the long-acting variety last week, and I never got around to taking it. It was in that little peppermints tin that I used to carry it home from work. But no it wasn’t. The top of the tin was off. Interior empty. Dresser top? Clear. Floor? Clear.

Joey was up and around, seemingly fine. I ran down the hall and looked him in the eye and asked him, rapid-fire-like “how you feeling? You doin’ alright? Any complaints Joe?” And, like any healthy kid in their right mind, he took the lead and tried to convince me that he was too sick to go to school--“Tell my teacher I can’t come to school today because my leg is broke.” OK, Child #1 is fine.

“SAM! Come in here!” Sam trudged into my bedroom and looked sullen. “Sam, I had this candy container and ...”

“I’m sorry, I thought it was the last peppermint and I put it in my mouth. It tasted bad so I spit it out.”

GUSTS of relief. “Where’d you spit it out honey?”

“In the trash over there.”

And with a small amount of digging around in the trash, I found the crumbly remnants of it.

Stupid boneheaded idiot. Numbskull. Asshole! How fucking irresponsible can one person be?