After a promise that I would return to regular blogging, I abandoned my post for over a month. But I have sound reasons, my faithful readers (both of you). I was really, really busy. But yeah, I'll do better.
Today was a milestone of sorts for Team Crackerbox.
Last month, the Goddess returned to the World of Work, or rather, the World of Those Who Are Gainfully Employed, as I am beginning to believe that staying home with the Monkey and Ape constitutes something more than a full-time job. Nevertheless, we celebrate her triumphal return to the land of paid labor.
And now, all of our financial woes are over.
You believe that, right?
Well, as I mentioned, we made the decision to send the twelve-year-old to Montessori School this year. It is expensive. I mean, it's not Philips Exeter Academy, but it's expensive for us. That means saving up gig money and overtime. It means we didn't take a vacation this summer, too. I'm not complaining. I'm glad we can do it. I kind of think it's do or die time with this kid and school.
He got to go for a day last year and really loved it. It's so much different than his regular school and such a good fit for him. I'm not naive. I know it won't guarantee success. But I have so much hope for him now.
Of course, life does not stop while we figure all of this out.
The seven-year-old started 2nd grade last week, a full week before her brother had to go back.
The Monkey is being potty trained. Results have varied widely. One day, he is taking himself to the bathroom, taking a leak while holding his manhood in one hand and tipping a sippy cup of chocolate milk with the other: a pro. (This has the same effect as a guy in the men's room at the bar who guzzles beer while taking a piss.) Other days, he will happily urinate in his Spider Man underpants while standing feet from the bathroom door. But we are getting there.
Two weeks ago I managed to come down with hand-foot-and-mouth disease. I assumed I picked it up from one of the kids, although none of them had gotten the symptoms. Last week, the Ape woke up with the spots on his legs and face. The daycare worker said every child in his class had gotten it. (His cleared up in a day, while my skin is still peeling from the rash.)
I'm also getting acclimated to full-time dad duties. Luckily, I've been able to ease into it.
When the Goddess went back to work, it fell to me to get the youngest two to daycare.
Beginning last week, I also started taking the seven-year-old to the bus stop and waiting with her.
Then today, the twelve-year-old began school as well. Since it's not a public school, that means I drive him every morning.
Last week, the Goddess took him to an orientation meeting at the school. They don't have traditional grade groups, so they placed him in the "upper elementary" group, based largely on what the Goddess had told them about his academic needs. I texted her, asking her to let me know how it went.
The twelve-year-old was crying.
Dammit.
I know change is frightening, especially when you're an adolescent. But he had already visited the school. He should have known what to expect. What was going on?
He didn't want to open up to his mom, but she kept trying to pry it out of him. Finally he cracked.
He was crying because his teacher referred to his class as 6th grade. And she intimated that they might need to do some homework on weekends.
So I need to come clean here and admit that I am not the most empathetic person you will meet. The Goddess is typically all caring and loving and sensitive about the kids' feelings and I'm the guy who can honestly not give a shit if one of them is having a meltdown. I mean, other than the fact that I want some peace and quiet.
Look, the 6th grade thing, I get. It made him feel like he was being treated like a little kid. But honestly, that's not it. There are other kids his age in the group and it isn't "6th grade" -- that was just the teacher misspeaking.
But the homework thing? Pfffffttttttt.
He kinda stewed all weekend. My dad would have said he had the "studs." He was moody and grumpy and difficult with everyone.
Saturday, both of the older two kids were sullen because the Goddess insisted they go shopping with her. For, you know, stuff for the two of them. They thought it better that she do the shopping while they spent their day unencumbered with the world's cares.
Sunday morning, I was trying to sleep in. I had a gig the night before, and it was my one day off this week. I hear the twelve-year-old and the seven-year-old going at each other downstairs. Typical stuff, mostly revolving around who gave a mean look to whom first. It had devolved into a shouting match and I heard the Goddess ascending the stairs. She opened the bedroom door, where I was still trying to sleep.
"You may want to cover your ears. There's probably going to be a meltdown."
About thirty seconds later, there is a sound from downstairs akin to to what I imagine is meant when the Bible describes "wailing and gnashing of teeth": the Goddess has taken away screen time for the remainder of the day.
It was a grim day at Crackerbox Palace. A gloom descended on the people. They were left joyless and tearful, with nothing to lighten their heavy loads.
"There's nothing for me to do now!" cried the seven-year-old.
"Should we throw away all your toys then? Because if you aren't playing with them, they're taking up a lot of space." Like I said, Mr. Empathy.
At some point, the twelve-year-old goes comes upstairs, goes into his room, slams the door, begins screaming, and then slams the door again, apparently unsatisfied with the effect the first time.
I'm at my most parental at this point.
I get out of the bed and march into his room.
"What is your goddamn problem?! If I hear that door slam one more time, you won't see a fucking iPad until Christmas!"
Later that morning, we decide that it is time for a come-to-Jesus meeting with the older two kids. We sit them at the dinner table and explain -- for what seems to be the 100th time -- that they must learn to get along with each other.
At this point, the twelve-year-old launches into an ill-advised defense of his mistreatment of his sister. His primary theses are, "You didn't tell me I couldn't be mean to her," and, "My actions are the fault of everyone else, including my baby brother."
What followed this was another profanity-laced explanation on my part that we shouldn't have to tell him every single thing he isn't allowed to do; that he is twelve, not four, and needs to begin acting like it; and that we really love him, but this shit has got to stop.
Then he has another meltdown about school.
It isn't fair, he tells us, that he will have homework on weekends. Weekends are his free time and he deserves to have time off.
If a twelve-year-old was looking for a way to make me lose my shit, telling me that he deserves free time is probably the way to do it.
"Why do you deserve time off?"
"Because I work hard."
"No. No you don't. That is a damn lie. You do not work hard."
"I work hard at school."
"I love you, but that isn't true. You do not work hard at school. You miss turning in assignments, you turn in work late, and your grades are mediocre."
I want to point out that I haven't had a vacation, that I worked six days this week, and that my one day off is being interrupted by a bratty tween who can't just shut up and get along with his sister for one morning.
I do tell him that any work he does at school isn't for someone else: it's for him. That we want him to have the skills necessary to be a very independent and happy adult.
All of this is true. I worry that he'll be one of those beta-males who plays video games all day and picks girlfriends based on who will do his laundry and make food for him. I worry that he will be 30 and wondering why he doesn't seem to have a purpose in life. And I worry about him being selfish and not caring about others.
Much melodrama follows. He asks why we don't just throw him into the street. He says he guesses we would like to see him murdered. There is screaming. There is crying.
At some point, he decides to completely stop talking to us, which is a minor blessing, because at least I can finish this Netflix documentary I have been trying to watch all day.
By evening he has calmed down. He kept asking if he could have his computer and iPad back, but otherwise, he was fairly calm.
6:00 A.M. came early. Today was the first day I was responsible for getting all four kids out the door. I felt like a real grown-up.
The seven-year-old is wearing cat ears and carrying about 20 lbs of gear in her backpack, despite having no homework. I get her on the bus, dress Monkey and Ape, and then all four men head out for the day. The soundtrack is Joan Jett's "I Love Rock and Roll." (The Monkey now insists on hearing this every morning commute. "Play the rock and roll, Dad!")
I drop the younger two at daycare and then it's just me and the twelve-year-old.
"Are you excited?"
"Yeah."
"Are you nervous."
"Not really."
"Are you tired?"
"Yeah. I had trouble sleeping."
I could never sleep the night before school started.
I'm trying to figure the best route to the school (which I've never been to), and I have a bit of trouble finding it. (I have a notoriously bad sense of direction.) They've given really confusing directions for parent drop-off (Where is the car sign they said they gave us? Did we get one?), including an admonition to not text and drive (thanks, Mom).
I find the place and see three teachers standing out front, directing us. I pull up and one of them comes out to greet us.
"Good morning, Jackson. We're so happy to see you." She smiles, a genuine "good teacher" smile.
I get out of the car and introduce myself. She shakes my hand.
"Let me get a picture. You mom will kill me if I don't."
He strikes the pose and smiles dutifully, lunch bag in hand, back-pack strapped to his body, resembling the thousands of other children who've posed for Facebook posts already this school year.
The place makes me smile. It feels like a good place. I just know he is going to be happy and successful here. I can feel my eyes starting to water.
I want to hug him and tell him I love him, but we aren't quite there yet, at least not in public. Instead I tell him I hope he has a great day and give him a really awkward "coach pat" on the shoulder.
I want to keep this feeling, too, this assurance that yes, for once, I know we are doing the right thing for this child.
I think it's going to be a great year.
Adventures in dadding and step-dadding.
Showing posts with label adolescence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adolescence. Show all posts
Monday, August 15, 2016
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
The Art of Manliness, or, How I Learned About Sexuality from David Bowie
First, I want to apologize to all five of my faithful readers for my absence. Three weeks ago, one of my best friends committed suicide. This may be something I blog about at some point in the future, but I'm not ready to do that yet.
Instead, I wanted to talk about something else that has been on my mind.
Today, I was engaged in a conversation (okay, it was actually a Facebook discussion) about how many of us learned basic skills: cooking, sewing a button, changing a tire, etc. It sent me on a bit of an Internet goose chase looking for how-to videos. One such search sent me to the YouTube channel for The Art of Manliness.
I was already familiar with the website for The Art of Manliness and I've visited it a bunch. They have a wide range of articles there, everything from "100 Must Read Books for Men" to "7 Knots Every Man Should Know" to "How to Drink Whiskey." I will admit, it's pretty cool. I mean, I wanna know "How to Treat a Jellyfish Sting" and "How to Fight Multiple Assailants." They even have a podcast.
And I think I'm pretty "traditionally" male in lots of ways. I mean, I've got a beard and I use Brylcream and Old Spice. Bourbon is my favorite drink. I've got a bunch of old American style tattoos. I'm not especially athletic, but I'm not a total wimp either. The biggest gap in my "manliness" is probably that I'm not especially handy. My toilet goes out and I'm calling my friend Tom, a plumber. (Tom is the walking definition of a traditional manliness, btw.)
I see worth in those values associated with manliness: grit, strength of character, bravery, etc. And I see men in old photographs with handlebar mustaches lifting barbells and I think, "That's pretty cool."
Yet there is something wrong with asserting that certain character qualities are exclusively masculine. I mean, don't I want my seven-year-old daughter to be brave, strong, and determined? For that matter, I see value in those qualities traditionally associated with "femininity" -- compassion, tenderness, intuition -- and I want my sons to have those as well.
When I was growing up, my ideas about gender and sexuality were probably more influenced by rock stars than anyone else. I was daily surrounded by men in camouflage making fun of "faggots" and going huntin' and fishin'. I didn't especially identify with that. I wanted to be Ziggy Stardust. I wanted to be Prince. Rock stars inspired different ideas about sexuality and showed that straight men (or at least primarily straight) could be androgynous or ambiguous in the ways they expressed their sexuality.
I paid attention to grooming and to fashion when I was a teenager. I never bagged a ten-point buck. I played music. I skipped sports. For all of this, I was often ridiculed or bullied. In retrospect, I'm glad for the bullying, though I wouldn't wish it on any other child. I learned to stand up to bullies and to not be afraid to say what was on my mind.
Our culture is increasingly accepting of fluid ideas regarding sexuality. A larger number of people are rejecting the binary concept of gender and view sexuality on a continuum. In my mind, this has to be a positive. Gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered and other individuals are regarded with increasing acceptance. How can that not be a good thing?
I like to feel I strike a balance with myself. I jokingly tell people I'm 80-85% straight, but honestly, I'm comfortable with whoever I am. I went with my cousin and his wife last Saturday to a gay bar here in town and felt no discomfort when men there hit on me -- or when a drag queen called me onstage to ask if I wanted to feel her breasts.
But I also feel drawn to those images and tokens associated with traditional masculinity. I like wearing a suit and tying a Windsor knot. I enjoy being "chivalrous" -- opening doors for women and all that. I admire Teddy Roosevelt, even if I'm not ready to live his "rough life."
So I wonder as a father how to teach my values to my children. How do I help my sons "become men" without turning them into misogynist douchebags? How do I help my daughter become a woman, without her believing that this is somehow "less" than being a man? How can I share with them the joys of certain aspects of "traditional" gender without turning it into a trap? Or is that asking the impossible?
Maybe I'm overthinking this and I'm sure that certain of my childless friends will have the correct answer for me.
What do you parents think?
How do you teach your son to "be a man"? How do you teach your daughter to "be a woman"? Or is this something you even worry about?
Instead, I wanted to talk about something else that has been on my mind.
Today, I was engaged in a conversation (okay, it was actually a Facebook discussion) about how many of us learned basic skills: cooking, sewing a button, changing a tire, etc. It sent me on a bit of an Internet goose chase looking for how-to videos. One such search sent me to the YouTube channel for The Art of Manliness.
I was already familiar with the website for The Art of Manliness and I've visited it a bunch. They have a wide range of articles there, everything from "100 Must Read Books for Men" to "7 Knots Every Man Should Know" to "How to Drink Whiskey." I will admit, it's pretty cool. I mean, I wanna know "How to Treat a Jellyfish Sting" and "How to Fight Multiple Assailants." They even have a podcast.
And I think I'm pretty "traditionally" male in lots of ways. I mean, I've got a beard and I use Brylcream and Old Spice. Bourbon is my favorite drink. I've got a bunch of old American style tattoos. I'm not especially athletic, but I'm not a total wimp either. The biggest gap in my "manliness" is probably that I'm not especially handy. My toilet goes out and I'm calling my friend Tom, a plumber. (Tom is the walking definition of a traditional manliness, btw.)
I see worth in those values associated with manliness: grit, strength of character, bravery, etc. And I see men in old photographs with handlebar mustaches lifting barbells and I think, "That's pretty cool."
Yet there is something wrong with asserting that certain character qualities are exclusively masculine. I mean, don't I want my seven-year-old daughter to be brave, strong, and determined? For that matter, I see value in those qualities traditionally associated with "femininity" -- compassion, tenderness, intuition -- and I want my sons to have those as well.
When I was growing up, my ideas about gender and sexuality were probably more influenced by rock stars than anyone else. I was daily surrounded by men in camouflage making fun of "faggots" and going huntin' and fishin'. I didn't especially identify with that. I wanted to be Ziggy Stardust. I wanted to be Prince. Rock stars inspired different ideas about sexuality and showed that straight men (or at least primarily straight) could be androgynous or ambiguous in the ways they expressed their sexuality.
I paid attention to grooming and to fashion when I was a teenager. I never bagged a ten-point buck. I played music. I skipped sports. For all of this, I was often ridiculed or bullied. In retrospect, I'm glad for the bullying, though I wouldn't wish it on any other child. I learned to stand up to bullies and to not be afraid to say what was on my mind.
Our culture is increasingly accepting of fluid ideas regarding sexuality. A larger number of people are rejecting the binary concept of gender and view sexuality on a continuum. In my mind, this has to be a positive. Gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered and other individuals are regarded with increasing acceptance. How can that not be a good thing?
I like to feel I strike a balance with myself. I jokingly tell people I'm 80-85% straight, but honestly, I'm comfortable with whoever I am. I went with my cousin and his wife last Saturday to a gay bar here in town and felt no discomfort when men there hit on me -- or when a drag queen called me onstage to ask if I wanted to feel her breasts.
But I also feel drawn to those images and tokens associated with traditional masculinity. I like wearing a suit and tying a Windsor knot. I enjoy being "chivalrous" -- opening doors for women and all that. I admire Teddy Roosevelt, even if I'm not ready to live his "rough life."
So I wonder as a father how to teach my values to my children. How do I help my sons "become men" without turning them into misogynist douchebags? How do I help my daughter become a woman, without her believing that this is somehow "less" than being a man? How can I share with them the joys of certain aspects of "traditional" gender without turning it into a trap? Or is that asking the impossible?
Maybe I'm overthinking this and I'm sure that certain of my childless friends will have the correct answer for me.
What do you parents think?
How do you teach your son to "be a man"? How do you teach your daughter to "be a woman"? Or is this something you even worry about?
Friday, May 27, 2016
The Fighter
I used to be religious. I'm not anymore, but it's something that's hard to shake. Religious imagery, paradigms, language, and stories creep into my thinking. Especially stories.
This week I am thinking about one of those. It's the parable of the Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd was out one day, taking his sheep to pasture. After returning them to the fold, he realized than one of the 100 sheep was missing. So he left the others and went to find the missing sheep, the Bible says, because he loved that sheep so much.
The Bible leaves out the part where the shepherd later makes a pie with the sheep's kidneys, but you get the point.
The last three days have been tough.
Wednesday evening was frenzied. I got home from work at about 5:30. I was looking forward to the evening. I had decided I would take Friday off from work and enjoy a long weekend. I was in a good mood. I wanted to get the kids in bed and play some music.
I helped finish the dinner the Goddess had started while she took the seven-year-old to gymnastics. The eleven-year-old was outside playing with kids in the neighborhood. The Monkey had a complete meltdown the minute the Goddess left, crying, "Mommy! Mommy!" This, of course, set the Ape into a crying fit and the two of them were inconsolable for about 30 minutes. I was wrapping up dinner when there was a knocking at the door.
I opened it and it was my neighbor Crystal. This immediately set the Monkey crying again, as he thought it was his mother.
"You better get out here," Crystal said.
She explained that the eleven-year-old had been in a near-altercation with a group of older kids. Six of them. According to Crystal, there was an initial round, but as the older boys walked away, the eleven-year-old called after them, calling one of them a name and causing another loud argument.
I called for him and he came into the house. He was crying.
"What's wrong?"
"They were picking on me!" he screamed.
"What happened?"
"I was just standing there with my friend and they started making fun of the way I was standing. One of them called me the 'n' word."
Let me interject here that my child is very white. I'm confused about this part of the story. Maybe he's lying. Maybe the other kids, who were black, were using it in a way he didn't understand. But I believe him when he says they made fun of him. I'm guessing it was his blue hair though, not the way he was standing.
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I called him a little bitch," he answered. Truthfully this time, I am sure.
"What can I do to help?"
"Go out there and shove them! Punch them in the face!" He was crying harder now, with that combination of unbridled rage and emotional pain that only adolescent boys know.
"I'm not going to punch any teenagers," I said. "I'll go talk to them. Go wait in your room."
I go out to the street. There is no sign of them. I ask a couple of adults standing around or sitting on their porches. One of them saw it. He chalked it up to boys being boys, but did note that there were six kids standing around the eleven-year-old, and that they were older.
I go to his room. I talk to him. I tell him I love him very, very much. I talk to him about controlling his actions and especially the things he says. I explain to him that personal insults don't actually hurt you, but besides that, there were six of them and one of him.
"But you wanted to fight a guy who said something to Mom," he said.
"That's true." Fucking kids. Always paying attention and making connections when you wish they wouldn't. "But I don't fight people who insult me. I don't give a shit what people who are less than me think of me, and I don't want to make our lives tougher. You can go to jail for that, then how could I take care of you guys?"
"I don't know."
"Why did you say something back to the kid?"
"Because he humiliated me!" he screamed, as if answering the most stupidly obvious question that had ever been asked.
"There were six of them and one of you. You would have gotten your ass kicked. Which is worse, getting your ass kicked or being humiliated?"
"Being humiliated," he answered, not missing a beat.
That's exactly what it is like to be an eleven-year-old boy. There is nothing, literally, that you fear more than losing face. You are so driven by your hormones and everything is so confusing. I have not forgotten what that feels like.
I talked to him some more about learning to let things go. The rest of us ate dinner while he sat in his room. He wasn't hungry. I cleaned the kitchen while the Goddess got the younger ones to bed. I stayed up late and played some music.
Thursday I was running on no sleep, but the day started well. I was on the road for work, making sales calls. Then I got a call from the Goddess. Her car wasn't starting. Seemed the battery was dead. I was an hour away.
I drove to where she was and tried to jump the car. Nothing. She called AAA and they said they would be there in about 90 minutes. I was going to have to go off the clock for all of this, though my boss didn't complain that I was using the company vehicle. I called into work.
"Just take me off the clock. I was going to take tomorrow off anyway. I'll take this afternoon as well."
The Goddess and I went to a restaurant there to wait on AAA. We talked. Mostly about the eleven-year-old. She was excited. That morning she had an appointment with a local private school. Montessori. It's just what he needs, she said. They will give him more attention, they can personalize things with him, he will have more hands-on experience. This will be a game-changer for him. And she thought we could do it, since she would be working full-time then.
The wrecker showed up. It was the battery. It was just too dead to take a charge from a jumper cable. He charged it for us. The Goddess went to get a battery. I went home.
The eleven-year-old was already home from school. I talked to him while we sat on the couch, but he was mostly engrossed in YouTube videos.
The Goddess came home, with the rest of the kids, and I asked if she minded if I took a nap. I was exhausted.
When I awoke, the Goddess had come into the bedroom. She wanted to talk about a budget. She didn't think we could afford the Montessori school. The conversation moved into the kitchen. I washed dishes while we talked about all the money we spent. It turned into an argument.
I am a very direct communicator. The Goddess is not. She thinks I lack empathy when we talk. I think she lacks clarity.
Fuck. Why are we doing this? Why do people who love each other get in these battles when they are trying to work on the same problems?
We go through a half dozen scenarios, ways we can save money, ways we can make money, alternatives to the private school, etc. We talk for about two hours.
The eleven-year-old comes to the kitchen. He's hungry. He eats a bowl of cereal and we talk to him. I talk to him about the way he speaks to his younger sister. I tell him he needs to not antagonize her. He is sullen.
I worry that we are losing him. Like the lost sheep in the story.
I want so badly for him to turn into a happy young man. I want him to enjoy his life and succeed in the things he does. But he is starting to disconnect.
It's heart-wrenching, too, because I know how we could fix it. We just can't.
If he was the only child, we could give him the attention he needs. We could sit with him every night and read just to him. We could talk about school projects and play together and devote ourselves to him.
But he's not the only child here. And when you add all the financial stress we've been having, it makes it even more difficult.
I feel like a failure.
But we're going to do this better. For starters, we are going to send him to the Montessori school next year. I'm not sure how at this point, but we're going to.
Friday (today), was his last day of school before summer break. We are having a long weekend, then he visits the Montessori school on Tuesday. The Goddess just wanted to let him miss the very last day.
I try to sleep in, which means I'm wide awake at 6:00 A.M. It's my day off. I cuddle in bed with the Monkey. The Goddess gets the older kids off to school. We talk about plans for the day and for the weekend. It's nice to relax.
The Goddess gets a call at about 10:30. It's the school. There's been a fight.
At first, I'm really angry. His last fucking day. Why couldn't he just go one more day without getting into a fight?
My anger is dissipated when I realize that I wasn't watching the babies close enough and the Monkey has managed to open a very large drawer full of office supplies (a drawer he has heretofore ignored), dumped them all out, and covered a lot them in spilt chocolate milk. He and the Ape are sitting in the midst of the destruction, playing with push pins.
Dad of the Year there, folks.
It takes about thirty minutes to clean up.
The Goddess texts me. The counselor had given the account. A boy pushed him into his locker. He pushed the boy back. The boy started choking him. He hit the boy in the head with his iPad. The boy's friend jumped in and they pushed him down the stairs. One of the eleven-year-old's friends stepped in a broke it up. She was taking him to get a milkshake now.
Then I'm angry all over again, but with a different focus. Where were the fucking teachers? This happened at a locker and there were no teachers around? He gets pushed down stairs and no one is there to even witness it?
I hate this school. It's where poor kids go and no one gives a shit how they do or what happens to them.
They get home. He's quiet, drinking his milkshake. After a few minutes, he goes to his room.
It's a hard life for an eleven-year-old boy. Sometimes it's hard because your brain stops working and your body does things you don't understand. Sometimes it's hard because it takes every bit of your power to just not fucking cry after someone humiliates you at school. And sometimes you get pushed down a flight of stairs.
He's okay now. He wasn't seriously injured.
I've never been this happy to see summer arrive.
This week I am thinking about one of those. It's the parable of the Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd was out one day, taking his sheep to pasture. After returning them to the fold, he realized than one of the 100 sheep was missing. So he left the others and went to find the missing sheep, the Bible says, because he loved that sheep so much.
The Bible leaves out the part where the shepherd later makes a pie with the sheep's kidneys, but you get the point.
The last three days have been tough.
Wednesday evening was frenzied. I got home from work at about 5:30. I was looking forward to the evening. I had decided I would take Friday off from work and enjoy a long weekend. I was in a good mood. I wanted to get the kids in bed and play some music.
I helped finish the dinner the Goddess had started while she took the seven-year-old to gymnastics. The eleven-year-old was outside playing with kids in the neighborhood. The Monkey had a complete meltdown the minute the Goddess left, crying, "Mommy! Mommy!" This, of course, set the Ape into a crying fit and the two of them were inconsolable for about 30 minutes. I was wrapping up dinner when there was a knocking at the door.
I opened it and it was my neighbor Crystal. This immediately set the Monkey crying again, as he thought it was his mother.
"You better get out here," Crystal said.
She explained that the eleven-year-old had been in a near-altercation with a group of older kids. Six of them. According to Crystal, there was an initial round, but as the older boys walked away, the eleven-year-old called after them, calling one of them a name and causing another loud argument.
I called for him and he came into the house. He was crying.
"What's wrong?"
"They were picking on me!" he screamed.
"What happened?"
"I was just standing there with my friend and they started making fun of the way I was standing. One of them called me the 'n' word."
Let me interject here that my child is very white. I'm confused about this part of the story. Maybe he's lying. Maybe the other kids, who were black, were using it in a way he didn't understand. But I believe him when he says they made fun of him. I'm guessing it was his blue hair though, not the way he was standing.
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I called him a little bitch," he answered. Truthfully this time, I am sure.
"What can I do to help?"
"Go out there and shove them! Punch them in the face!" He was crying harder now, with that combination of unbridled rage and emotional pain that only adolescent boys know.
"I'm not going to punch any teenagers," I said. "I'll go talk to them. Go wait in your room."
I go out to the street. There is no sign of them. I ask a couple of adults standing around or sitting on their porches. One of them saw it. He chalked it up to boys being boys, but did note that there were six kids standing around the eleven-year-old, and that they were older.
I go to his room. I talk to him. I tell him I love him very, very much. I talk to him about controlling his actions and especially the things he says. I explain to him that personal insults don't actually hurt you, but besides that, there were six of them and one of him.
"But you wanted to fight a guy who said something to Mom," he said.
"That's true." Fucking kids. Always paying attention and making connections when you wish they wouldn't. "But I don't fight people who insult me. I don't give a shit what people who are less than me think of me, and I don't want to make our lives tougher. You can go to jail for that, then how could I take care of you guys?"
"I don't know."
"Why did you say something back to the kid?"
"Because he humiliated me!" he screamed, as if answering the most stupidly obvious question that had ever been asked.
"There were six of them and one of you. You would have gotten your ass kicked. Which is worse, getting your ass kicked or being humiliated?"
"Being humiliated," he answered, not missing a beat.
That's exactly what it is like to be an eleven-year-old boy. There is nothing, literally, that you fear more than losing face. You are so driven by your hormones and everything is so confusing. I have not forgotten what that feels like.
I talked to him some more about learning to let things go. The rest of us ate dinner while he sat in his room. He wasn't hungry. I cleaned the kitchen while the Goddess got the younger ones to bed. I stayed up late and played some music.
Thursday I was running on no sleep, but the day started well. I was on the road for work, making sales calls. Then I got a call from the Goddess. Her car wasn't starting. Seemed the battery was dead. I was an hour away.
I drove to where she was and tried to jump the car. Nothing. She called AAA and they said they would be there in about 90 minutes. I was going to have to go off the clock for all of this, though my boss didn't complain that I was using the company vehicle. I called into work.
"Just take me off the clock. I was going to take tomorrow off anyway. I'll take this afternoon as well."
The Goddess and I went to a restaurant there to wait on AAA. We talked. Mostly about the eleven-year-old. She was excited. That morning she had an appointment with a local private school. Montessori. It's just what he needs, she said. They will give him more attention, they can personalize things with him, he will have more hands-on experience. This will be a game-changer for him. And she thought we could do it, since she would be working full-time then.
The wrecker showed up. It was the battery. It was just too dead to take a charge from a jumper cable. He charged it for us. The Goddess went to get a battery. I went home.
The eleven-year-old was already home from school. I talked to him while we sat on the couch, but he was mostly engrossed in YouTube videos.
The Goddess came home, with the rest of the kids, and I asked if she minded if I took a nap. I was exhausted.
When I awoke, the Goddess had come into the bedroom. She wanted to talk about a budget. She didn't think we could afford the Montessori school. The conversation moved into the kitchen. I washed dishes while we talked about all the money we spent. It turned into an argument.
I am a very direct communicator. The Goddess is not. She thinks I lack empathy when we talk. I think she lacks clarity.
Fuck. Why are we doing this? Why do people who love each other get in these battles when they are trying to work on the same problems?
We go through a half dozen scenarios, ways we can save money, ways we can make money, alternatives to the private school, etc. We talk for about two hours.
The eleven-year-old comes to the kitchen. He's hungry. He eats a bowl of cereal and we talk to him. I talk to him about the way he speaks to his younger sister. I tell him he needs to not antagonize her. He is sullen.
I worry that we are losing him. Like the lost sheep in the story.
I want so badly for him to turn into a happy young man. I want him to enjoy his life and succeed in the things he does. But he is starting to disconnect.
It's heart-wrenching, too, because I know how we could fix it. We just can't.
If he was the only child, we could give him the attention he needs. We could sit with him every night and read just to him. We could talk about school projects and play together and devote ourselves to him.
But he's not the only child here. And when you add all the financial stress we've been having, it makes it even more difficult.
I feel like a failure.
But we're going to do this better. For starters, we are going to send him to the Montessori school next year. I'm not sure how at this point, but we're going to.
Friday (today), was his last day of school before summer break. We are having a long weekend, then he visits the Montessori school on Tuesday. The Goddess just wanted to let him miss the very last day.
I try to sleep in, which means I'm wide awake at 6:00 A.M. It's my day off. I cuddle in bed with the Monkey. The Goddess gets the older kids off to school. We talk about plans for the day and for the weekend. It's nice to relax.
The Goddess gets a call at about 10:30. It's the school. There's been a fight.
At first, I'm really angry. His last fucking day. Why couldn't he just go one more day without getting into a fight?
My anger is dissipated when I realize that I wasn't watching the babies close enough and the Monkey has managed to open a very large drawer full of office supplies (a drawer he has heretofore ignored), dumped them all out, and covered a lot them in spilt chocolate milk. He and the Ape are sitting in the midst of the destruction, playing with push pins.
Dad of the Year there, folks.
It takes about thirty minutes to clean up.
The Goddess texts me. The counselor had given the account. A boy pushed him into his locker. He pushed the boy back. The boy started choking him. He hit the boy in the head with his iPad. The boy's friend jumped in and they pushed him down the stairs. One of the eleven-year-old's friends stepped in a broke it up. She was taking him to get a milkshake now.
Then I'm angry all over again, but with a different focus. Where were the fucking teachers? This happened at a locker and there were no teachers around? He gets pushed down stairs and no one is there to even witness it?
I hate this school. It's where poor kids go and no one gives a shit how they do or what happens to them.
They get home. He's quiet, drinking his milkshake. After a few minutes, he goes to his room.
It's a hard life for an eleven-year-old boy. Sometimes it's hard because your brain stops working and your body does things you don't understand. Sometimes it's hard because it takes every bit of your power to just not fucking cry after someone humiliates you at school. And sometimes you get pushed down a flight of stairs.
He's okay now. He wasn't seriously injured.
I've never been this happy to see summer arrive.
Friday, May 13, 2016
Wherein I Explain My Recent Absence and Update Readers on Goings-On
I'm a failure as a blogger.
Blogger tells me that my last published post was in early March.
I have let my faithful readership — both of you — down.
I'd like to say that it is because something terribly exciting has happened. I would really like to say that my band was signed to a record contract worth half a million and we begin touring regionally and thanks, readers, it's been fun these past few months, but I'm off to a life of liquor, groupies, and rock-and-roll.
Nope. I've just been busy. With like, life.
I've started to post something several times. I have two drafts half-begun. I'm hoping this isn't the third. This week was Mothers' Day, and while I did write a rather lengthy post about the Goddess on Facebook, I didn't manage to blog about mothers and how wonderful they are and how much I miss mine and close off the blog with some poignantly-timed reminiscence that would leave you with a catch in your throat and glistening eyes.
Because fuck mothers.
Just kidding.
It has been an eventful period, honestly. I've been gigging a lot recently and have a tour coming up with my band, the Terribly Fat.
Our domestic life has had its ups and downs. One interruption has been the Bernie Sanders' presidential campaign.
I've been doing a (very) little bit of volunteering with the campaign, but one of the things I told the state campaign director was that I could host a staffer in my home. He is a very pleasant young man, straight from college, energetic, and enthusiastic about his candidate. While the Goddess was welcoming, I can tell it has caused her no small amount of distress having a stranger in our home. He usually is out the door before 8:00 or 9:00 in the morning and doesn't return until sometime after midnight. If I catch him, I usually pour bourbon down his throat and force him to talk about democratic socialism until he pleads for sleep.
I did get to drive a big black SUV in the motorcade for the campaign when Bernie came to our state. I would bore you with a long story about it, but I will simply say that I looked and felt like a Secret Service agent. A Secret Service agent with dad bod.
The biggest factor in our home life for the last several months has been our financial situation and the Goddess' job search. She's applied for several dozen jobs, interviewed for about half a dozen, and even been offered a few. The catch 22 of the job hunt has been finding something whose salary covers more than just the daycare we need for her to work. (Case in point: she was offered an office job at a state agency starting at $18,000 before taxes. Daycare costs for us total about $16,000 per year.)
So, it was with great joy and exultation that the news was received last week that the Goddess had been offered a gig teaching music (the field for which she is certified). It has an actual salary with benefits like insurance and sick leave and all those things you hear about on TV. It's quite glamorous.
We've been all a-titter with talk of our plans once she starts the new job: paying our water and gas bill in the same month, state inspection stickers for the cars, and dinner at Shoney's on special occasions!
It is rather remarkable how much psychological pressure has been lifted in the home because of this. We haven't gotten the first paycheck, but it already feels like we have more money, just because we're pretty sure we can keep the utilities from being shut off.
Of course, our residents are blissfully unaware of these pressures and so they are continuing their lives much as before. Which is to say, they continue acting like total assholes.
Again, just kidding.
Only less so this time.
The Ape is the sweetest one of the bunch. He's fat and happy most of the time, except when teething or being dropped on his head. This guy and accidents . . . man. He was staying with Granny and pitched himself face-first from a high chair. Then on Mother's Day, while everyone was trying to get out the door for a family visit, the Goddess told the older kids to watch their brothers so she could go pee. They didn't, of course (see paragraph above re: assholes) and he managed to climb a step, just to fall again on his head. I'm guessing the Ivy League is out of the picture for him now, but I still think he's good for a two-year community college program or the trades. A few more drops though and the highlight of his day may be talking to the mailman.
The Monkey is in full toddler mode. The Goddess says he's like a bad boyfriend: he makes a complete wreck of your life but still expects heavy affection and wants you to make him snacks. Oh, and he shits his pants, which I'm gonna tell you is getting really old. But he also is our talker and his near-human utterances make me smile all the time. He "reads" Goodnight Moon and since it has become his favorite, insists on going out to the porch every night to say "goodnight" to the moon. (I know: that makes some of your ovaries hurt, doesn't it?) He is also obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine, which I personally despise. I have taught him, however, to say, "Thomas is bourgeois." He wishes me goodbye every day and tells me to have a good day at work, and when I leave or come home he'll say, "Gimme a kiss."
The seven-year-old is all about singing and gymnastics. Unfortunately, she is less about taking a bath without having a complete emotional breakdown. Also, she will occasionally melt down if her shoes don't "feel the same" or if her friend Alexis doesn't get to spend the whole weekend at our house. (Aside: we regularly have an additional 1-3 children in our home, sometimes overnight. Their main project seems to be destroying anything we love.) But she also loves to be read bedtime stories, which is really cool, and writes eerily prescient song lyrics for a first grader.
The eleven-year-old is all about his YouTube channel and making videos. Some of them are kind of fantastic (in my unbiased opinion), such as his Doctor Who and Spider Man fan films. He really has some groovy editing skills. But then he also does these films of him playing video games which is apparently a whole thing but also what the fuck? I tried explaining that this was really, really boring, but he isn't having it. He's the one I'm most concerned about because he has basically completely disconnected from school. There is almost nothing there that holds any interest for him and if we thought we could, we would pull him out and teach him at home. And he's hitting that middle school phase where he is less talkative, less engaged with us. Yet he is super sweet with his brothers and regularly plays with them and "teaches" them things. For example, he has worked hard to teach the Monkey to say, "What the fuck?!" which seems like a worthy project for any older brother.
All this rambling to say, here's where the fam is today and I hope to be posting more regularly.
If only life will quit interrupting.
Blogger tells me that my last published post was in early March.
I have let my faithful readership — both of you — down.
I'd like to say that it is because something terribly exciting has happened. I would really like to say that my band was signed to a record contract worth half a million and we begin touring regionally and thanks, readers, it's been fun these past few months, but I'm off to a life of liquor, groupies, and rock-and-roll.
Nope. I've just been busy. With like, life.
I've started to post something several times. I have two drafts half-begun. I'm hoping this isn't the third. This week was Mothers' Day, and while I did write a rather lengthy post about the Goddess on Facebook, I didn't manage to blog about mothers and how wonderful they are and how much I miss mine and close off the blog with some poignantly-timed reminiscence that would leave you with a catch in your throat and glistening eyes.
Because fuck mothers.
Just kidding.
It has been an eventful period, honestly. I've been gigging a lot recently and have a tour coming up with my band, the Terribly Fat.
Our domestic life has had its ups and downs. One interruption has been the Bernie Sanders' presidential campaign.
I've been doing a (very) little bit of volunteering with the campaign, but one of the things I told the state campaign director was that I could host a staffer in my home. He is a very pleasant young man, straight from college, energetic, and enthusiastic about his candidate. While the Goddess was welcoming, I can tell it has caused her no small amount of distress having a stranger in our home. He usually is out the door before 8:00 or 9:00 in the morning and doesn't return until sometime after midnight. If I catch him, I usually pour bourbon down his throat and force him to talk about democratic socialism until he pleads for sleep.
I did get to drive a big black SUV in the motorcade for the campaign when Bernie came to our state. I would bore you with a long story about it, but I will simply say that I looked and felt like a Secret Service agent. A Secret Service agent with dad bod.
The biggest factor in our home life for the last several months has been our financial situation and the Goddess' job search. She's applied for several dozen jobs, interviewed for about half a dozen, and even been offered a few. The catch 22 of the job hunt has been finding something whose salary covers more than just the daycare we need for her to work. (Case in point: she was offered an office job at a state agency starting at $18,000 before taxes. Daycare costs for us total about $16,000 per year.)
So, it was with great joy and exultation that the news was received last week that the Goddess had been offered a gig teaching music (the field for which she is certified). It has an actual salary with benefits like insurance and sick leave and all those things you hear about on TV. It's quite glamorous.
We've been all a-titter with talk of our plans once she starts the new job: paying our water and gas bill in the same month, state inspection stickers for the cars, and dinner at Shoney's on special occasions!
It is rather remarkable how much psychological pressure has been lifted in the home because of this. We haven't gotten the first paycheck, but it already feels like we have more money, just because we're pretty sure we can keep the utilities from being shut off.
Of course, our residents are blissfully unaware of these pressures and so they are continuing their lives much as before. Which is to say, they continue acting like total assholes.
Again, just kidding.
Only less so this time.
The Ape is the sweetest one of the bunch. He's fat and happy most of the time, except when teething or being dropped on his head. This guy and accidents . . . man. He was staying with Granny and pitched himself face-first from a high chair. Then on Mother's Day, while everyone was trying to get out the door for a family visit, the Goddess told the older kids to watch their brothers so she could go pee. They didn't, of course (see paragraph above re: assholes) and he managed to climb a step, just to fall again on his head. I'm guessing the Ivy League is out of the picture for him now, but I still think he's good for a two-year community college program or the trades. A few more drops though and the highlight of his day may be talking to the mailman.
The Monkey is in full toddler mode. The Goddess says he's like a bad boyfriend: he makes a complete wreck of your life but still expects heavy affection and wants you to make him snacks. Oh, and he shits his pants, which I'm gonna tell you is getting really old. But he also is our talker and his near-human utterances make me smile all the time. He "reads" Goodnight Moon and since it has become his favorite, insists on going out to the porch every night to say "goodnight" to the moon. (I know: that makes some of your ovaries hurt, doesn't it?) He is also obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine, which I personally despise. I have taught him, however, to say, "Thomas is bourgeois." He wishes me goodbye every day and tells me to have a good day at work, and when I leave or come home he'll say, "Gimme a kiss."
The seven-year-old is all about singing and gymnastics. Unfortunately, she is less about taking a bath without having a complete emotional breakdown. Also, she will occasionally melt down if her shoes don't "feel the same" or if her friend Alexis doesn't get to spend the whole weekend at our house. (Aside: we regularly have an additional 1-3 children in our home, sometimes overnight. Their main project seems to be destroying anything we love.) But she also loves to be read bedtime stories, which is really cool, and writes eerily prescient song lyrics for a first grader.
The eleven-year-old is all about his YouTube channel and making videos. Some of them are kind of fantastic (in my unbiased opinion), such as his Doctor Who and Spider Man fan films. He really has some groovy editing skills. But then he also does these films of him playing video games which is apparently a whole thing but also what the fuck? I tried explaining that this was really, really boring, but he isn't having it. He's the one I'm most concerned about because he has basically completely disconnected from school. There is almost nothing there that holds any interest for him and if we thought we could, we would pull him out and teach him at home. And he's hitting that middle school phase where he is less talkative, less engaged with us. Yet he is super sweet with his brothers and regularly plays with them and "teaches" them things. For example, he has worked hard to teach the Monkey to say, "What the fuck?!" which seems like a worthy project for any older brother.
All this rambling to say, here's where the fam is today and I hope to be posting more regularly.
If only life will quit interrupting.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
I'm Not a Doctor, but I Play One in Middle School
October got away from me.
Last year, we did this whole "31 Days of Halloween" during October. We had activities with the kids planned every day: story-telling, going to the pumpkin patch, decorating, scary movies, you name it. Somewhere in the middle of all that, I also managed to tour for nine days with my band. It's not that we didn't do any of those things this year, but everything seemed so rushed. Halloween is almost on us and I haven't had time to enjoy it.
I'm sure that part of it is because we didn't have the Ape last year. Having a toddler and a baby seems to make every family activity exponentially more complicated. The older two can manage themselves to a degree, but the babies need constant attention.
The last few days have been notably hectic.
Friday night, the Goddess had a burlesque show. She does this cool magic and tap dance number that's a lot of fun. We dropped all four kids with Granny S and honestly, I felt a bit panicky for her when we did. She's watched all four of them before, but the Monkey is more "toddly" than ever, the Ape is teething, and the older two have been very demanding about their costumes recently.
Still, we went to the show and had a good night without them.
The next day we drove to Granny S' and went to the fall carnival/Octoberfest/Halloween party/chili night in her small town. It was a bit mad. The whole town turns out in costume and walk in a line through tent after tent where you can get free samples of chili and/or candy. Everyone votes on who has the best chili and there is a costume contest. There's live music and a bouncy house and people selling crafts and a cakewalk.
Half of us were wearing costumes made by Granny S. She herself was wearing this steampunk get-up she made, I was in my mad scientist gear, and the eleven-year-old was wearing his Foxy (from "Five Nights at Freddy's) costume. (She really out-did herself on that one. It's pretty incredible and the kid got lots of compliments and photos taken.) The seven-year-old was a "rock star," which mostly consisted of neon spandex, rhinestones, and a toy microphone. Ape and Monkey were dressed as an ape and a monkey, respectively, in costumes the Goddess found online.
It started raining and we had a long drive ahead of us, so we skipped the costume contest. Granny S was a judge in the adult category, but the eleven-year-old decided it wasn't fair for him to enter since his was on the professional level.
We were meant to have a "lazy Sunday" as the eleven-year-old calls it, but at our house, that mostly means we stay in pajamas and don't do shit other people want us to do.
The eleven-year-old and I spent a good deal of the say in the basement, he (with his mother's help) re-creating the inside of the TARDIS for a fan film he is creating and me playing with synthesizers. The seven-year-old wrote some original songs and did origami. The babies focused their efforts on destroying our home.
Yesterday was Monday, so that meant choir practice for the seven-year-old, late work for me, and a musical rehearsal for the Goddess. I got home about 6:45 and she was out the door. The kids and I ate the dinner she made but didn't get to eat herself and talked about their day.
More questions from the eleven-year-old, who was dressed again as the eleventh Doctor, complete with bow tie:
"How big is a cell compared to a hair?"
"Is there anything smaller than an atom?"
"How many atoms are in the universe?"
"How long would it take to count to a million? What about a billion?"
"How many seconds have I been alive?"
We talked about sub-atomic particles and numbers so large they were expressed exponentially and calculated how long it would take to count to a million and a billion and how many seconds he'd been alive. Approximately.
I watched "MonkeyBoo" videos on YouTube with the younger kids -- "MonkeyBoo Castrated and Canines Removed." (That sounds much more graphic than it was.) The eleven-year-old worked on his TARDIS and fan film.
Finally, it was time for baths and bed, and after wrangling the Monkey (who has been unusually grumpy), I read to the seven-year-old and then went downstairs. The eleven-year-old was watching a Doctor Who episode from the early 70s. It was an episode where the third Doctor has to be aided by the first and second Doctors.
"What are you doing?" I asked. Technically, he's grounded and although we let him watch TV with us, we haven't been letting him watch it by himself.
"I dunno," he said.
"Turn that off. Let's look at your grades online."
He got his mom's laptop and started signing in.
"I'm really looking forward to school tomorrow. You wanna know why?"
"Sure."
"Because tomorrow is dress-up day. I'm going as the Doctor." He was disappointed he didn't have a fez, but figured he could make do.
We looked at his grades. All Ds. He had one small "homework" assignment last week that he missed in Science, but the rest were in-class grades.
"I'm not doing too well right now," he said.
We talked about strategies, but honestly, I have no fucking idea what to do at this point. There is literally no information about the assignments online, no communication from the teachers, no sense of why he is struggling or how to help him.
"Let me see your video," I finally say.
He tells me he only has the opening finished and goes to get his iPad.
The screen fades in on the TARDIS spinning through space, then cuts to a shot on our street. We hear it grind to a halt and then there is a slow fade in and we see the time machine in front of our neighbor's house. The scene cuts to the inside of the TARDIS and you hear the eleven-year-old in voice-over talking about the nature of time and space. It's original, but a variation on familiar Doctor Who scripts, talking about "timey whimey, wibbly wobbly bits." Then he walks on, right of screen, dressed in his tweed jacket and bow tie, continuing the narrative. "That's where I come in," he says. Fast cut to the blue police box spinning through space and the credits over the familiar theme music. He lists himself and his little girlfriend as the actors and credits his own production company.
It's really, really, really fucking cool.
71% in English. 66% in Math. 66% in Science. 71% in Social Studies.
This kid, who is writing original scripts, asking questions about exponential numbers, wanting to learn about subatomic particles and the nature of time and space, and use a time machine to travel to new places throughout all of history cannot manage better than Ds at school.
We watched the last five minutes of the episode I had interrupted and then I sent him off to bed. The Goddess came home excited about her new play and finally able to eat some of the dinner she made for everyone else. After a bit, I went and played with synthesizers in the TARDIS before retiring for the night.
Last year, we did this whole "31 Days of Halloween" during October. We had activities with the kids planned every day: story-telling, going to the pumpkin patch, decorating, scary movies, you name it. Somewhere in the middle of all that, I also managed to tour for nine days with my band. It's not that we didn't do any of those things this year, but everything seemed so rushed. Halloween is almost on us and I haven't had time to enjoy it.
I'm sure that part of it is because we didn't have the Ape last year. Having a toddler and a baby seems to make every family activity exponentially more complicated. The older two can manage themselves to a degree, but the babies need constant attention.
The last few days have been notably hectic.
Friday night, the Goddess had a burlesque show. She does this cool magic and tap dance number that's a lot of fun. We dropped all four kids with Granny S and honestly, I felt a bit panicky for her when we did. She's watched all four of them before, but the Monkey is more "toddly" than ever, the Ape is teething, and the older two have been very demanding about their costumes recently.
Still, we went to the show and had a good night without them.
The next day we drove to Granny S' and went to the fall carnival/Octoberfest/Halloween party/chili night in her small town. It was a bit mad. The whole town turns out in costume and walk in a line through tent after tent where you can get free samples of chili and/or candy. Everyone votes on who has the best chili and there is a costume contest. There's live music and a bouncy house and people selling crafts and a cakewalk.
Half of us were wearing costumes made by Granny S. She herself was wearing this steampunk get-up she made, I was in my mad scientist gear, and the eleven-year-old was wearing his Foxy (from "Five Nights at Freddy's) costume. (She really out-did herself on that one. It's pretty incredible and the kid got lots of compliments and photos taken.) The seven-year-old was a "rock star," which mostly consisted of neon spandex, rhinestones, and a toy microphone. Ape and Monkey were dressed as an ape and a monkey, respectively, in costumes the Goddess found online.
It started raining and we had a long drive ahead of us, so we skipped the costume contest. Granny S was a judge in the adult category, but the eleven-year-old decided it wasn't fair for him to enter since his was on the professional level.
We were meant to have a "lazy Sunday" as the eleven-year-old calls it, but at our house, that mostly means we stay in pajamas and don't do shit other people want us to do.
The eleven-year-old and I spent a good deal of the say in the basement, he (with his mother's help) re-creating the inside of the TARDIS for a fan film he is creating and me playing with synthesizers. The seven-year-old wrote some original songs and did origami. The babies focused their efforts on destroying our home.
Yesterday was Monday, so that meant choir practice for the seven-year-old, late work for me, and a musical rehearsal for the Goddess. I got home about 6:45 and she was out the door. The kids and I ate the dinner she made but didn't get to eat herself and talked about their day.
More questions from the eleven-year-old, who was dressed again as the eleventh Doctor, complete with bow tie:
"How big is a cell compared to a hair?"
"Is there anything smaller than an atom?"
"How many atoms are in the universe?"
"How long would it take to count to a million? What about a billion?"
"How many seconds have I been alive?"
We talked about sub-atomic particles and numbers so large they were expressed exponentially and calculated how long it would take to count to a million and a billion and how many seconds he'd been alive. Approximately.
I watched "MonkeyBoo" videos on YouTube with the younger kids -- "MonkeyBoo Castrated and Canines Removed." (That sounds much more graphic than it was.) The eleven-year-old worked on his TARDIS and fan film.
Finally, it was time for baths and bed, and after wrangling the Monkey (who has been unusually grumpy), I read to the seven-year-old and then went downstairs. The eleven-year-old was watching a Doctor Who episode from the early 70s. It was an episode where the third Doctor has to be aided by the first and second Doctors.
"What are you doing?" I asked. Technically, he's grounded and although we let him watch TV with us, we haven't been letting him watch it by himself.
"I dunno," he said.
"Turn that off. Let's look at your grades online."
He got his mom's laptop and started signing in.
"I'm really looking forward to school tomorrow. You wanna know why?"
"Sure."
"Because tomorrow is dress-up day. I'm going as the Doctor." He was disappointed he didn't have a fez, but figured he could make do.
We looked at his grades. All Ds. He had one small "homework" assignment last week that he missed in Science, but the rest were in-class grades.
"I'm not doing too well right now," he said.
We talked about strategies, but honestly, I have no fucking idea what to do at this point. There is literally no information about the assignments online, no communication from the teachers, no sense of why he is struggling or how to help him.
"Let me see your video," I finally say.
He tells me he only has the opening finished and goes to get his iPad.
The screen fades in on the TARDIS spinning through space, then cuts to a shot on our street. We hear it grind to a halt and then there is a slow fade in and we see the time machine in front of our neighbor's house. The scene cuts to the inside of the TARDIS and you hear the eleven-year-old in voice-over talking about the nature of time and space. It's original, but a variation on familiar Doctor Who scripts, talking about "timey whimey, wibbly wobbly bits." Then he walks on, right of screen, dressed in his tweed jacket and bow tie, continuing the narrative. "That's where I come in," he says. Fast cut to the blue police box spinning through space and the credits over the familiar theme music. He lists himself and his little girlfriend as the actors and credits his own production company.
It's really, really, really fucking cool.
71% in English. 66% in Math. 66% in Science. 71% in Social Studies.
This kid, who is writing original scripts, asking questions about exponential numbers, wanting to learn about subatomic particles and the nature of time and space, and use a time machine to travel to new places throughout all of history cannot manage better than Ds at school.
We watched the last five minutes of the episode I had interrupted and then I sent him off to bed. The Goddess came home excited about her new play and finally able to eat some of the dinner she made for everyone else. After a bit, I went and played with synthesizers in the TARDIS before retiring for the night.
Monday, October 12, 2015
Wherein I Describe My First Experience on the Receiving End of a Parent-Teacher Conference
Today I attended my first parent-teacher conference.
Well, that's not really true. I've attended dozens of parent-teacher conferences. But this was the first time I attended as a parent and not a teacher.
I wasn't planning on going. The Goddess started messaging me at work about the conference. She had a slot scheduled for 7:20 and she was nervous. She is uncomfortable in these situations. She feels like she has no power as a parent and that teachers often use the opportunity to be critical of one's parenting rather than trying to help. So I asked if she wanted me to go with her and she typed "yes" almost before I had the question finished. A few messages to get a babysitter, arrangements to leave work at 6:45, and we're all set.
The meeting was about the eleven-year-old. He's not been completing homework. He got in trouble on Friday. It just so happens that there is already a conference planned. Fortuitous timing.
We get to the school and it's nearly deserted. There is no one to greet us, no signs directing us where to go, and no one in the office to ask. So we wander the hallways for ten minutes until we find the spot.
We're ushered in to the "team meeting." I used to do these all the time, so the format is extremely familiar to me. Basically, the child's teachers all sit around a table talking to the parent or parents. I've been on the other side. It's specifically designed to disrupt the balance of power. An angry parent with a single teacher can be an uncontrollable force.
The problem is that the format is actually really intimidating to parents. Not to me -- which is why the Goddess wanted me there. I know the dynamics and understand how it works. But it seems almost designed to make the parent feel as if she knows nothing at all about their own child.
The English teacher, Mrs. T, took the lead. I expected this because the eleven-year-old is failing her class and she wrote the incident report about his behavior last Friday. Mrs. T is dressed in her very best black jogging suit, her hair in a bun. She takes a lecturing tone. I immediately can't stand her.
All of the teachers report similar issues. He's misbehaving, sometimes picking on other kids. He's not doing homework. He runs in the hallways.
I'm on their side, but here's the thing: we've gotten exactly two pieces of communication from his teachers about his behavior. The first was a call that went to his biological father instead of us, so we really heard about it second-hand, in the form of text messages telling the Goddess how she is screwing up. The second was the incident report, just three days ago. Now they are telling us this is a regular behavior from him.
I'm frustrated. The eleven-year-old knows what we expect of him. He had a couple of incidents in elementary school last year, but he didn't skip homework. He can act like a little asshole at times, but that's just another way of saying, "He's an eleven-year-old boy." I mean, I with the teachers on this. We want him to treat other children kindly. We want him to be responsible. But come on, folks. Work with us here. We can't fix problems if we don't know they exist.
As each of the teachers talks, I'm noticing other patterns, too. All of the teachers describe the eleven-year-old acting like a dick sometimes. But the other teachers say, "He jokes with other kids about who they are dating or tells them he is better at something than they are." Mrs. T says, "He is bullying," and "He harasses other students." The other teachers say, "He is really smart," and, "He is not doing as well as I know he can." Mrs. T says, "He's failing."
They also note some of his problems. He likes to draw all the time. He wants to run. He is obsessed with dating and girls.
An eleven-year-old boy who would rather draw picture of robots and run than sit in a school desk and also thinks about girls all the time? I've never heard of such a thing.
I wanted to just say, "You got to be fucking joking. I mean, you've met eleven-year-olds before, right?"
The Goddess is starting to lose it. I can tell she is tearing up. She starts talking. She apologizes for indulging him. It is her fault. She was an overprotective mother. She only fed him organic foods when he was little. She tried to give him a magical life and now he's spoiled.
I squeeze her leg.
Because fuck apologizing to strangers for trying to raise your child the best way you know how. The Goddess is an amazing mother who thinks almost only of her kids all the time and any "errors" she has made have come from trying too hard. Besides, I think the kid is pretty good. I just see some problems we want to fix now rather than later.
I try a different approach.
"Mrs. T, the thing is, when I read the incident report, all I have is a description of the other student's response. You don't actually describe the behavior. It is very difficult for us to correct a behavior at home when the only account we have is from the child himself -- not from any of you. You describe the behavior as 'habitual,' but this is just the second indication we've had from you that there is a problem."
The other teachers shake their head "yes" when I say that I would like to see the behavior described. (This is a pretty fundamental idea in classroom management, by the way. The teacher erred in describing the student and the reaction, but failed to describe the action that needs to be corrected.) I can feel Mrs. T's fur rising on the back of her neck.
"Well, when I spoke to you the first time," (she addresses the Goddess instead of me), "you seemed completely unconcerned with his behavior."
Now, at this point, I want to say, "Fuck you, you self-important twat. You can't even be bothered to dress professionally to meet parents but you presume to speak condescendingly to the Goddess?" I'm trying to decide between "twat" and "bitch" when the Goddess speaks.
"Of course we're concerned, but we have to know about his behavior to correct it! You've only communicated with us twice." She goes on to explain that she actually met with the assistant principal about the child's behavior although this seems to be news to all the teachers there.
Mrs. T answers, "Well, we have 80 students a day! You need to understand that we can't be expected to stay in constant communication with parents about a child's behavior."
The thing is, I taught middle school for nine years. At one point I had 120 students a day and I had one planning period, not two, like the teachers on the "Cobalt Team" have. And you can be damn sure I called a parent every time I saw a child bullying another.
"We know exactly what to expect, Mrs. T. We both used to work in education. I taught middle school."
At this news, the other teachers noticeably relax. A couple of them smile.
"We're on your side," I say. "We just need communication from you so we can address these problems at home."
I'm probably misremembering the meeting. I probably make myself sound like way less of an asshole than I actually was. The thing is, I really am on their side. I know the kid can be a dick at times. I know he lies about homework. But work with us.
The Goddess cried all the way as walked home. She feels like she has failed. She hasn't, but those meetings can sure make you feel that way.
I met with the eleven-year-old. We talked for about an hour. I reiterated that he was grounded for a long time. We worked on an action plan. We discussed empathy and why he may feel like his "joking around" can be hurtful. I told him that we supported his teachers, that they wanted good things for him. I told him we loved him, but that middle school is where people begin deciding what kind of person they are going to be for the rest of their lives and that so far, he's made some terrible choices.
But I come away convinced that schools fail kids like our eleven-year-old. He's not a "teacher pleaser." He needs art and physical movement almost as much as he needs food and rest. He succeeds most when his instruction is hands-on. These teachers have been working with young adolescents for a long time but they still don't seem to understand some basic developmental issues. Their classrooms seem (from my single impression) pretty teacher-focused. I don't blame the teachers -- necessarily.
I also come away frustrated with my own parenting. I'm missing something in helping him learn to control his behaviors. My dad would've told me he needs an ass-whipping. That might give vent to my frustration, but it would just teach him that negative emotions are soothed by hurting others. (Yeah, I know a bunch of you will disagree there. That's okay.)
But middle school is just three years, right? How bad could it be?
Well, that's not really true. I've attended dozens of parent-teacher conferences. But this was the first time I attended as a parent and not a teacher.
I wasn't planning on going. The Goddess started messaging me at work about the conference. She had a slot scheduled for 7:20 and she was nervous. She is uncomfortable in these situations. She feels like she has no power as a parent and that teachers often use the opportunity to be critical of one's parenting rather than trying to help. So I asked if she wanted me to go with her and she typed "yes" almost before I had the question finished. A few messages to get a babysitter, arrangements to leave work at 6:45, and we're all set.
The meeting was about the eleven-year-old. He's not been completing homework. He got in trouble on Friday. It just so happens that there is already a conference planned. Fortuitous timing.
We get to the school and it's nearly deserted. There is no one to greet us, no signs directing us where to go, and no one in the office to ask. So we wander the hallways for ten minutes until we find the spot.
We're ushered in to the "team meeting." I used to do these all the time, so the format is extremely familiar to me. Basically, the child's teachers all sit around a table talking to the parent or parents. I've been on the other side. It's specifically designed to disrupt the balance of power. An angry parent with a single teacher can be an uncontrollable force.
The problem is that the format is actually really intimidating to parents. Not to me -- which is why the Goddess wanted me there. I know the dynamics and understand how it works. But it seems almost designed to make the parent feel as if she knows nothing at all about their own child.
The English teacher, Mrs. T, took the lead. I expected this because the eleven-year-old is failing her class and she wrote the incident report about his behavior last Friday. Mrs. T is dressed in her very best black jogging suit, her hair in a bun. She takes a lecturing tone. I immediately can't stand her.
All of the teachers report similar issues. He's misbehaving, sometimes picking on other kids. He's not doing homework. He runs in the hallways.
I'm on their side, but here's the thing: we've gotten exactly two pieces of communication from his teachers about his behavior. The first was a call that went to his biological father instead of us, so we really heard about it second-hand, in the form of text messages telling the Goddess how she is screwing up. The second was the incident report, just three days ago. Now they are telling us this is a regular behavior from him.
I'm frustrated. The eleven-year-old knows what we expect of him. He had a couple of incidents in elementary school last year, but he didn't skip homework. He can act like a little asshole at times, but that's just another way of saying, "He's an eleven-year-old boy." I mean, I with the teachers on this. We want him to treat other children kindly. We want him to be responsible. But come on, folks. Work with us here. We can't fix problems if we don't know they exist.
As each of the teachers talks, I'm noticing other patterns, too. All of the teachers describe the eleven-year-old acting like a dick sometimes. But the other teachers say, "He jokes with other kids about who they are dating or tells them he is better at something than they are." Mrs. T says, "He is bullying," and "He harasses other students." The other teachers say, "He is really smart," and, "He is not doing as well as I know he can." Mrs. T says, "He's failing."
They also note some of his problems. He likes to draw all the time. He wants to run. He is obsessed with dating and girls.
An eleven-year-old boy who would rather draw picture of robots and run than sit in a school desk and also thinks about girls all the time? I've never heard of such a thing.
I wanted to just say, "You got to be fucking joking. I mean, you've met eleven-year-olds before, right?"
The Goddess is starting to lose it. I can tell she is tearing up. She starts talking. She apologizes for indulging him. It is her fault. She was an overprotective mother. She only fed him organic foods when he was little. She tried to give him a magical life and now he's spoiled.
I squeeze her leg.
Because fuck apologizing to strangers for trying to raise your child the best way you know how. The Goddess is an amazing mother who thinks almost only of her kids all the time and any "errors" she has made have come from trying too hard. Besides, I think the kid is pretty good. I just see some problems we want to fix now rather than later.
I try a different approach.
"Mrs. T, the thing is, when I read the incident report, all I have is a description of the other student's response. You don't actually describe the behavior. It is very difficult for us to correct a behavior at home when the only account we have is from the child himself -- not from any of you. You describe the behavior as 'habitual,' but this is just the second indication we've had from you that there is a problem."
The other teachers shake their head "yes" when I say that I would like to see the behavior described. (This is a pretty fundamental idea in classroom management, by the way. The teacher erred in describing the student and the reaction, but failed to describe the action that needs to be corrected.) I can feel Mrs. T's fur rising on the back of her neck.
"Well, when I spoke to you the first time," (she addresses the Goddess instead of me), "you seemed completely unconcerned with his behavior."
Now, at this point, I want to say, "Fuck you, you self-important twat. You can't even be bothered to dress professionally to meet parents but you presume to speak condescendingly to the Goddess?" I'm trying to decide between "twat" and "bitch" when the Goddess speaks.
"Of course we're concerned, but we have to know about his behavior to correct it! You've only communicated with us twice." She goes on to explain that she actually met with the assistant principal about the child's behavior although this seems to be news to all the teachers there.
Mrs. T answers, "Well, we have 80 students a day! You need to understand that we can't be expected to stay in constant communication with parents about a child's behavior."
The thing is, I taught middle school for nine years. At one point I had 120 students a day and I had one planning period, not two, like the teachers on the "Cobalt Team" have. And you can be damn sure I called a parent every time I saw a child bullying another.
"We know exactly what to expect, Mrs. T. We both used to work in education. I taught middle school."
At this news, the other teachers noticeably relax. A couple of them smile.
"We're on your side," I say. "We just need communication from you so we can address these problems at home."
I'm probably misremembering the meeting. I probably make myself sound like way less of an asshole than I actually was. The thing is, I really am on their side. I know the kid can be a dick at times. I know he lies about homework. But work with us.
The Goddess cried all the way as walked home. She feels like she has failed. She hasn't, but those meetings can sure make you feel that way.
I met with the eleven-year-old. We talked for about an hour. I reiterated that he was grounded for a long time. We worked on an action plan. We discussed empathy and why he may feel like his "joking around" can be hurtful. I told him that we supported his teachers, that they wanted good things for him. I told him we loved him, but that middle school is where people begin deciding what kind of person they are going to be for the rest of their lives and that so far, he's made some terrible choices.
But I come away convinced that schools fail kids like our eleven-year-old. He's not a "teacher pleaser." He needs art and physical movement almost as much as he needs food and rest. He succeeds most when his instruction is hands-on. These teachers have been working with young adolescents for a long time but they still don't seem to understand some basic developmental issues. Their classrooms seem (from my single impression) pretty teacher-focused. I don't blame the teachers -- necessarily.
I also come away frustrated with my own parenting. I'm missing something in helping him learn to control his behaviors. My dad would've told me he needs an ass-whipping. That might give vent to my frustration, but it would just teach him that negative emotions are soothed by hurting others. (Yeah, I know a bunch of you will disagree there. That's okay.)
But middle school is just three years, right? How bad could it be?
Addendum: Mrs. T also made threats regarding the eleven-year-old's "permanent record." Really? Here's a tip for you non-educators: there's no such thing as a "permanent record." I mean, yes, schools keep educational records and you might even find an old disciplinary referral somewhere. But no one was ever kept out of Harvard because they got in trouble for throwing spit balls in 8th grade. Don't believe me? Call your old junior high and ask to see your "permanent record."
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