My Family, My Enemy

The people I live with are conspiring against my well-being, against my peace, my happiness, and even my general health. It is the only explanation I can manage.

Let me back up a bit. And I will begin with the victories, lest you think it is all despair.

The twelve-year-old loves his school. Or rather, he likes it moderately, which is the same thing as love on his part.

The first week he came home from school and was excited to tell us all about it. This has never happened before. He was working on a project, something involving the extinction of the dinosaurs. He would come home every day and work on his project without being told to. Voluntarily. I could only surmise that the school was some sort of cult and that our child has fallen under their spell, but I honestly do not give a fuck. If they have some strange magic that makes him voluntarily do homework, I don't care if they're the Reverend Sun Yung Moon and L. Ron Hubbard mixed into one.

On the following Sunday, he announces that he has finished his project. Early.

I think I just held a blanket and wept soft tears of relief and joy for a couple of hours.

This joy was short-lived, however, when I discovered I had fucked up.

It began with an off-handed comment from the 12-year-old about being late for school. "You aren't late for school. We're like twenty minutes early every day." He really has no concept of time.

I mention this to the Goddess. "What time are you getting there?"

"About 8:10," I say proudly.

"Yeah, his classes start at 8:00."

Fuck. Me.

I don't know how I have missed this. I am an ass.

Also, that means I've got to get everyone ready a half-hour earlier. That's okay. I've got this.

On Wednesday, there is a parent meeting at the school. I really want to go, meet his teachers, and especially learn about his upcoming three-day field trip. They're going to a nature conservancy, talking about the natural world, hiking, all that jazz. Unfortunately, both of us can't go and besides that, his bio-dad decides he wants to be there. (We don't really co-attend events.)

On Friday comes a bombshell. We get a message from his teachers: the twelve-year-old has been skipping homework.

What? How can this be? What about the project? I thought we had this figured out.

We didn't know he had homework. He claims he didn't know it was homework, which is bullshit.

He sits at the dining room table on Friday night, finishing his work.

Friday night also featured a meltdown by the Goddess. She's deep into her teaching gig now and I am certain she's doing well. She talks about a few classes she struggles with. She sees 300 students a week for forty minutes each. It is very difficult to establish a classroom environment in that time and many of her students come from very troubled homes.

She got an email from her supervisor telling her she was doing a good job, but also including some constructive criticism.

I love my wife, but taking things in stride is not really her strong suit.

"I'm awful. I suck. I'm going to quit." She screams. She cries. She crawls into bed.

"I'm sure you're not awful. And you can't quit. I don't make enough money for you to quit, even if you completely suck." As I have previously mentioned, I am not noted for my sensitivity.

This breaks into a very predictable fight which ruins an otherwise lovely Friday night at home.

The first of this week started well. The twelve-year-old is off to his field trip and we are getting into a bit of a routine with the others. I'm still struggling to get them all out the door on time, but with one less child, it seems more manageable.

Wednesday is my day off and I'm pretty excited. I haven't had a break in a few weeks. I've had gigs on weekends and worked more hours this pay period than I ever have. I haven't seen much of the kids, but I'm pretty proud of the paycheck I brought home.

On Tuesday, the Ape is sick. The Goddess takes him to the doctor. She messages me at work. Hand-foot-and-mouth disease. Didn't he have that two weeks ago? Apparently not. That was some other kind of rash.

Fuck.

I get home late on Tuesday. Everyone is already in bed. The house is completely destroyed. There are wet diapers in the floor. The place is littered with Thomas the Tank Engine and Sponge Bob toys. A towel covers a wet spot on the rug where someone either peed or spilled juice. Crackers and bits of food cover everything.

So on my day off, I stay home with the Ape and the Goddess. We get up and clean the house for about four hours, alternately trying to entertain a grumpy baby.

I go out and get some cash from the ATM. There must be something wrong. There isn't much left in our account. That fat check that was deposited on Monday has nearly disappeared. There isn't enough to cover the mortgage, which is due on Friday.

Fuuuuuuck.

I make dinner. Tacos.

"What's in these?" the seven-year-old asks.

"The normal. Beef, beans."

"Yuck. I hate beans."

"You eat beans in tacos every week."

"No I don't."

"Yes, you do."

She does that thing where she puts the taco on the tip of her tongue, pretending to taste it. "Icccckkk! It tastes HORRIBLE! You are trying to starve me to death." I grab a piece of bologna and white bread and slam it on the table in front of her.

The twelve-year-old arrives home from his field trip.

"How was it?" I ask excitedly, hoping to be regaled with how much fun he had and how much he learned.

"It was awful," he says. "It was pretty much the worst field trip ever. We had to answer questions before they'd give us a s'more!" he adds indignantly. Then he tells his mom he needs to get the new bey-blades that come out next Friday. I tell him he should put them on his Christmas list. He says he must get them that day so he can do an unboxing video on his YouTube channel. He starts crying.

I hate these people.

The next morning is miserable. I've slept uncomfortably, mostly due to the fact that we are co-sleeping with the Monkey (seemed like a good idea at the time), who gradually forces me to the edge of the bed all night. My body is sore and I've gotten little sleep. The Monkey and Ape both scream bloody murder when we give them chocolate milk to drink, like we poured gasoline in their sippy cups. The twelve-year-old is running 20 minutes late, which means the rest of us are running late, too.

The Monkey refuses to go into his daycare. First, he stalls in the parking lot, kicking and screaming. I'm dragging him in, so I expect a visit from CPS any time. The he lays in the floor and I have to carry him in a ball to his room. He looks at me with complete contempt.

I drop the twelve-year-old at school -- 20 minutes late -- and the teacher who greets our car looks at me with pity, the sort of expression you reserve for parents who don't bathe their children.

Miserably long day at work. I practically drop into bed when I get home at 10:00.

I got up earlier this morning. I thought I'd head off any potential problems.

The Goddess gets the twelve-year-old up earlier, so he won't be late for school.

I go to walk the seven-year-old to the bus. She is doing homework.

"Let's go," I say. "You're going to be late."

"Ughhhh! I have to do my homework!"

"You should have done it last night."

I walk her to her stop. She's weeping. Great.

I go to dress Monkey and Ape. Both of them emit tortuous screams when I try to dress them. If our neighbors can hear it, I'm sure they assume I beat my children. It is literally the most difficult task in my current routine. It takes all of 20 minutes to put a shirt, pants, and shoes on each of them. They both cry literally all morning, crying for their mommy.

I shout at the twelve-year-old. "We're leaving!"

"I'm still getting ready!"

We wait.

Finally all the boys are in the car. We're running about 8 minutes behind.

"I didn't get to eat breakfast," the twelve-year-old says.

"Not my fault," I say. "Why didn't you eat?"

"Because you were rushing me!" he screams.

"We're running late," I say. "You can't just be late for school every day."

"It's not my fault."

"Then we'll get you up earlier."

"No!"

"Then you can take you shower at night."

"No!!"

He sulks the rest of the drive to school. We get there a few minutes after his classes have started.

I'm really tired. I'm working 12-14 hour days on a regular basis. My body is aching and I have weird physical things happening all the time: sore muscles, scratchy throat, headaches.

I'm broke. Despite one of the biggest paychecks I've ever gotten in my career, we don't have enough money to pay the mortgage on time. (Please don't send money. The Goddess gets paid next week. We'll just be making a late payment.)

My wife is miserable. I suspect she resents my inability to make more money and, conversely, the fact that I'm never home to help with the kids.

My kids resent me. The twelve-year-old resents that I can't buy him everything he wants. The seven-year-old thinks I'm cruel for making her shitty food and forcing her to get to the bus on time. And the Monkey and Ape hate me for putting clothes on them.

I feel defeated.

I feel like I never see my family, and when I do, it's these sorts of tense interactions.

And, paradoxically, I want a break from them.

I love my family. I really, really do.

But it's just so fucking hard sometimes. I feel like a stranger around them these days.

You're not supposed to admit these things. You aren't supposed to admit parental failure unless it's just something cute. You aren't supposed to say that even though you really, really love them you feel like you are going to completely lose your shit on them at any moment and scream, "Why are you trying to ruin my fucking life?!"

But today is Friday. It's not the end of the work week for me, but at least it's the end of the school week. It's Labor Day weekend and they're visiting bio-dad and Granny S this for a couple of nights.

Maybe we can all recharge our batteries. Maybe next week will be better.

Wherein I Describe the Mutual Meltdown of Children and Parents; Also, the First Day of School

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.

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.

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.

Wherein We Break into the Palace, Go Trick-or-Treating, and Begin Planning a Wedding

It's a typical whirlwind at Crackerbox Palace this week.

Our friend Eva came over on Tuesday. The Goddess made a big pot of chili. I bought some bourbon, and we got everyone in bed on time so that the three of us could enjoy a conversation without talking about MonkeyBoo or Doctor Who.

Eva stepped out to smoke on the porch and I walked out with her. The Goddess was just behind me. When she'd finished, the Goddess turned the door knob to go back in the house. It was locked.

"Is there an extra key -- like under the mat?" I asked.

"No. I used it to get back in when I locked myself out last week."

Hmmm.

The three of us walked around the house trying every single door and window in the place. Nothing was open. We tried knocking on the front door. We tried banging the front door down. We threw balls and rocks at the kids' second floor windows to wake them. Those people sleep like the dead. We fetched our ladder to try the roof, but our ladder wasn't long enough.

Eventually, we woke our neighbor. She's an older lady -- nice in her way -- but frequently annoyed with us. Apparently Eva had pushed open her garden gate the wrong way while stumbling through the dark and she was quite put out. We explained the situation and she looked at us like we were drunken panhandlers.

"I've got a longer ladder," she finally said. "You can try it."

Eva volunteered, as she is both smaller and younger than the two of us. By this point it had started to rain, so I began wondering what my liability was in this situation, having a non-family member climbing on my wet roof in the dark to try to break in to my children's rooms.

She made it to the seven-year-old's window and began knocking loudly while shouting her name. I was fairly certain that the seven-year-old would assume it was a vampire or perhaps a dead spirit and begin screaming bloody murder at the top of her lungs.

Nothing. She rolled over and covered her head with her pillow.

Our neighbor Crystal was sneaking behind her house for a cigarette, so she came over when she heard the racket. We had decided to fetch the tools and the Goddess was doing her best to pick the lock on the front door. We discuss calling a locksmith.

Crystal has a neighbor in school with the eleven-year-old. She asked me what team he was on.

"Cobalt," I said.

"Well, let me ask you a question," she said. "What do you think of Mrs. T.?" 

Well, at this point, I had to decide if I wanted to tell Crystal that I think Mrs. T. is a bully and a cunt. But I wanted to test the waters.

"We've had a few problems with her," I say.

Crystal then unloads on me. She doesn't like Mrs. T. She thinks she is mean and picks on certain kids. She talks down to parents. And Crystal hates the way she wears her hair. I agree.

We talk for about twenty minutes about school, about our school, about how we think it does a poor job of serving children -- especially boys -- who don't like to "play school." Eva and the Goddess eventually wander off, trying to pick other locks, while Crystal and I continue our conversation.

Then the Goddess comes through the front door from the inside.

"How'd you get in?" I ask.

"Oh, I tried to remove a panel from the French doors in the dining room."

"That worked?"

"Kind of," she says, holding out shattered pieces of glass.

In any event, we are back inside after two hours of the ordeal. The kids were still dead to the world.

The next evening I left the Goddess to watch the kids by herself. I had a rehearsal that lasted till almost midnight because we have two new band members and two shows this weekend. They are our Halloween shows, which are the biggest ones of the year.

Wednesday I went in to work early, because I'm trying to pick up some extra hours. The Goddess texts me just a few minutes after I arrive.

"I've been looking at next year's taxes."

I don't ask why.

"Well, it looks like you made too much money this year."

For reasons I won't go into, I made a little extra money this year -- a one time thing -- which I used to dig myself out of debt. Even though I'd already paid the taxes, it apparently put me in a different tax bracket.

"You may owe about $5000." 

I have literally never owed income tax after filing each year. $5000 seems like a nearly impossible sum. They might as well ask for $50,000, because I don't have it. 

"If we got married, you'd probably get something back."

"How much?" I ask her.

"Looks like about $5000."

I'm suddenly feeling very romantic.

"Maybe we should get married."

"Yeah. Probably."

Now, the Goddess has been wearing an engagement ring since Christmas. We've been planning on getting married for a couple of years. It's just not been a big priority. We've had two kids, bought a house, and moved everyone in together. We also just haven't had much money for a wedding.

We had told friends that we were getting married this November, but honestly, we've just let it slip. We've gotten no license, reserved no venues, hired no band. 

After some discussion, we decide to keep the November date. It's on a Sunday. Three weeks from now.

We talk about what we want to do since we have no money.

The answer is pretty obvious. We are going to have a Gothic-themed wedding.

Because, I'll be honest, we really don't get enough Halloween. And we like dressing up. And it's a second marriage for both of us, so we might as well have some fun.

I make a big announcement on Facebook and we chat back and forth all day, trying to work out details. It's fun. I'm excited.

I left work a few minutes early, because our city decided to do trick-or-treat on the 29th instead of the 31st. The seven-year-old was already dressed ("rock singer") and she and her older brother were carving jack-o'-lanterns. We get the Ape and the Monkey dressed in their costumes -- and ape and a monkey. The eleven-year-old decides (last minute) to wear his Doctor Who attire.

This is the first time I've been trick-or-treating since I was a child. The Monkey went last year, but my band was on tour and I couldn't go. The Ape is just 8 months, so it's his first time. He literally sleeps in the stroller the entire two hours. The Monkey gets out a few times and manages to walk up to a few houses to get his bucket filled. The seven-year-old goes with her friend Moriah and we catch up with her later. The eleven-year-old uses a British accent all night. We see Crystal out with her son, who is carrying a Scream mask, because he decided 6th grade was too old to go in costume. 

We eventually catch up with the seven-year-old, who is now walking with no shoes, because her rock-singer boots hurt her feet. We go to a few more houses and then it's back home.

"I just saw Rayanna," the seven-year-old says, "but I thought it was Layanna because she had on her mask."

"Are they sisters?" I ask.

"No, why?"

After the kids are in bed, I start packing up for my Friday show in Cincinnati with the band. Then I spend about an hour doing a trial run on my make-up for my Halloween costume: the Wolfman.

The Goddess had planned to go with me, but her mom called and told us she couldn't watch the kids. She is a teacher and was going to take the day off so that she could make the two-hour trip to our house in time. But her substitute backed out at the last minute, so she would arrive too late. 

I'm pretty bummed, but there's always Halloween.

And a wedding to plan.

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.

Rayanna, Jayanna, Layanna, and Haile Selassie

On Tuesday, I picked up the seven-year-old from gymnastics. I hate gymnastics. Well, I hate all the other parents there. I was walking across the parking lot to enter the building when a white Escalade cut me off about twenty feet from the entrance. As in, pulled in front of me, stopped, and forced me to walk around the vehicle. The waiting area is on the perimeter of the gym and all the parents hover there. They all talk about who the best kids are. It's a competition, even for first graders.

She gets in the car and I ask her what the most interesting thing was that happened to her all day. She tells me that she started a club at school -- The Cheetah Club.

"Who's in it?" I ask.

"Moriah," she says (I know Moriah), "Rayanna, Jayanna, and Layanna."

"Are those sisters?" I ask.

"No. Why?" she says.

We walk through the front door of the house, and it's controlled chaos -- which is the normal state of things. The Monkey is running around in his diaper and a shirt. He's apparently been eating blue and green markers and is also super grumpy. The eleven-year-old is working on a homemade Doctor Who video. The Ape is crying.

After Dinner the Goddess gives baths to the younger kids. I talk to the eleven-year-old about his homework. It's stupid. Social Studies. It's this decoding worksheet with terms related to world events in the 1930s, before war breaks out. Basically, he just unscrambles a code and writes out the words and names. It's from some website called StudentHandouts.com or something.

"Have you talked about any of these words in class?" I ask.

"No," he says.

One of the names he unscrambles is "Haile Selassie." I talk to him about Rastafarianism, Bob Marley, and sacramental marijuana. I'm just doing my part to educate the kid.

I really want to play some music. I'm trying to record this electronic album at home over the next couple of months and I'm anxious to get to work. I sit down with the Goddess to talk to her about a project we're working on together -- this combination burlesque/revue/game show thing that we thought up. While we're talking, her phone rings. It's the director of a show she auditioned for. She crosses her fingers and answers.

Now, the Goddess doesn't get overly enthusiastic about a lot of things, but she was really excited about this show. She hasn't auditioned with this group before, but the part she wanted was perfect for her. She nailed the dance audition the night before and she felt really confident about getting it.

I watched her as she talked on the phone. Her face dropped. She hadn't gotten the part she wanted.

She was upset and it's the worst kind of upset to me, because I'm utterly powerless to do anything about it. We both know how this shit works. It's community theatre and she was the new person. You have to pay your dues with this sort of thing, prove that you aren't a flake, and put in your time playing the "townsperson" or in the chorus.

I just listened while she cried. I'm a terrible listener. It's taking all of my power to not go into problem-solving mode, which is where I normally say something stupid. "Don't talk, Jack. Just listen." I manage to listen for an hour without trying to fix anything or saying something insensitive or horrible. I secretly congratulate myself on acting the way any decent human being naturally would.

Then I play music till about 3:00 A.M.

Wednesday morning came early, but it wasn't hard to find the motivation to get up. We had a lot on our plate.

First off, it was Back to the Future day: October 21, 2015. (Go watch the second movie of the trilogy if you don't know what that is. Also, how have you not seen that movie?)

Also, President Obama was coming to our small city, speaking about two blocks from where I used to live before we moved to Crackerbox Palace.

And I was going to be on the radio that night.

The Obama thing was cool, but received with the typical bigotry I've come to expect living here. I could talk at length about why he was here and what it means, but I'll save that for another time.

My friend Rebecca had asked me to be on her radio show after work and I was really excited about that. It's a new, independent radio station, all volunteer deejays. She wanted to talk about my band and Halloween.

I headed there after work and had a really good time. Rebecca played music from both the band and my new electronic project. We also talked about Halloween candy, horror movies, and Chick tracts.

When I get home, I walk through the front door and I'm overjoyed by what I see: the Goddess has the Monkey (age 2) and the Ape (age 8 months) dressed as Doc Brown and Marty McFly. She's taking photos.

It's hard to explain how much this makes me love the Goddess. She's just perfect. She's a photographer, a dancer, an actress, and an amazing mother who makes life so much fun. Like a lot of creative people, she's very sensitive and is hurt easily. I don't know why she's with me. I'm essentially a bull in a china shop when it comes to emotions. It's not that I don't feel deeply, it's just that I have the empathy of a profoundly autistic child. It's a long-term project for me.

When the older kids get home from the movies, I talk to the eleven-year-old about grades for about the 573rd time in the past week. He's got something like a 58% in Science. One of the grades is "homework," that just consisted of signing on to the grade book online and making note of any missing assignments. We've checked his grades about forty times this week -- but he has somehow managed to not sign in on his own account once. And he has these low scores on tests and assignments about the scientific method, which is weird because when we talk about it, he volunteers all the steps and how he might conduct an experiment on a question he had around the house.

But he's distracted when we talk. He's thinking about Back to the Future and Doctor Who again.

"If you could go back in time, where do you think you would want to go?"

This is followed in quick succession by a series of questions about travel through time and, especially, space.

"Why haven't we sent anyone to Mars?"

"Why haven't we sent any robots to planets besides Mars?"

"How far away is Mars?"

"How fast do you travel through space?"

"How long would it take people to get to Mars?"

"How long would it take to get to Pluto?"

"Do you think they could discover other planets in our solar system?"

"Which is bigger, Pluto or the moon?"

"How many planets the size of Pluto could fit in the sun?"

"Are stars the hottest things there are?"

"Could scientists design a suit that allowed you to touch the sun?"

"Since the sun is gas, if you could stand the heat, could you go through it?"

He asked questions like this for about forty minutes.

This child is failing science right now.

Or maybe I should say, school is failing him.

My family is remarkable -- they are brilliant, funny, beautiful, talented, warm, sensitive, compassionate people, of whom this world is not worthy.

Doctors, Foxes, Cursed Dolls, and Weeping Angels

Sometimes I think I must have the coolest family around.

This past weekend, I played a lot of music. I'm in a horror punk band, where I play keyboards and saxophone. I also have this solo side project playing live electronic horror music. The band had two shows this weekend and I opened one of them with my solo project. It's lots of fun, too, because I get to play dress-up all the time. My alternate persona for the electronic project is named Doktor Steamly and he is a mad scientist. The Goddess dressed as the bride of Frankenstein for the Saturday show, so we had lots of fun together.

The kids play dress-up on a daily basis. It's normal for me to come home and see one of them dressed as Mario (from Mario Bros.), Spider Man, Foxy (from Five Nights at Freddy's), or Kitty Kat Girl (an original character created by the seven-year-old). When I got home from work on Friday, the seven-year-old was dressed as a "rock singer," complete with neon spandex, rhinestones, and fingerless gloves.

We crashed with the Goddess' mother on Saturday night, because my show was in her town. She is an artist and a really amazing costume designer. She did the Foxy costume for the eleven-year-old and an Annabelle (the cursed doll) dress for the seven-year-old. They've both won contests with them. Last year she designed a Chucky costume for the Monkey, who was just eleven-months-old at the time. (We're big on cursed dolls, apparently.) She did my mad scientist lab coat, too. Sunday morning, she was working on a Weeping Angel costume for the Goddess. (For the uninitiated, the Weeping Angels are one of the recurring monsters/villains on Doctor Who. They look like angel statues and only move when you aren't looking at them. If they touch you, they can send you back in time and they suck the life force from you. They're super creepy.) She'd made foam wings and gray dress; she still had to finish the gloves designed to look like stone arms. It's pretty effing spectacular.

The Goddess and I had a long talk on the drive back from her mom's. It was a beautiful autumn day and we talked -- like we do most of the time -- about the kids. We talked a lot about school. We were thinking about some of the things the teachers said to us last week.

One of the things they kept saying was that the eleven-year-old draws too much. He won't focus on his schoolwork -- all he wants to do is draw. He later told us that Mrs. T., his English teacher, won't even let him draw after he's completed all of his work.

The Goddess talked about how excited he was making videos. He'd just done one where he took a miniature of the TARDIS from Doctor Who and made it disappear, complete with sound effects. She said it was really good -- he got it to fade gradually and she didn't know how he had done it. When he is working on his art or his movies, he is so focused. You can barely even get him to eat.

The thing is, I know these teachers. Or I know ones like them. They're the type who'll say, "If I could get you to concentrate on your English assignment like you do drawing monsters, you'd be a successful student." They seem to miss an important part of the equation: school is really, really boring.

I mean, it doesn't have to be. There are teachers who bring learning to life. But these aren't them. They want to reward compliant children and punish non-compliant ones. They see a kid drawing and think it's a waste of time.

We got home and I started unloading gear in the basement when the eleven-year-old came running downstairs. He wanted to show me -- his mom had landed him a tweed jacket and bow tie at the Goodwill store and he was toting his sonic screwdriver. He was spot-on for the eleventh doctor. He started talking about the video he was going to make.

I don't want a different kid. I want this kid. I mean, yeah, I want him to be nice to others and learn that sometimes he has to complete work that he doesn't enjoy. But he's not lazy. He's not stupid. I don't want school to break his spirit and I get alternately saddened and angered when I imagine how they could completely crush him. Who are these adults who can't see how creative this kid is? Why can they only see failure where I see real brilliance?

We watched an episode with the eleventh doctor while we ate dinner. The eleven-year-old asked all kinds of questions about how I thought the TARDIS worked and what would really happen if you went back in time. It's easy to see the appeal of stories like these to kids like him. I can see the wheels turning in his mind, imagining what it would be like to have a TARDIS, to get away from everyone who is on his back, away from school, from English class, from Mrs. T., and maybe from parents who just don't understand -- all those Weeping Angels who just can't wait to get their hands on him to suck his life force -- and live a life of adventure and saving the world.

I wouldn't mind going with him, honestly.

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?

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."