Do Not Speak to My Children -- Another Round of OOC

I could see them coming.  They had flyers in their hands and they were going door-to-door.  Their shirts had a single name, which I couldn't make out, but it looked to be political.  Knowing they were political solicitors, I could feel my adrenaline start to pump.  "Be kind. Be respectful." I chanted over and over in my head. I don't tend to like the Lakeville politicians much, but I know what it is to approach someone's door with your beliefs at stake.  And, well, I didn't want to be unkind and dismissive.    

The middle-aged lady arrived at my drive-way and handed me a flyer. 

She told me her candidate was for "cutting spending, cutting taxes and less government."  "He's a good guy," she added as an extra endorsement.  I glanced down at the flyer and saw "republican endorsed" and that was the final nail in the coffin for me. 

Screw good intentions, cooperation, and acceptance.

I turned around, opened my garbage can lid, filed her handout then looked right back at her.  There was passive-aggression again. It constantly comes and whops me upside the ass despite my best intentions. 

The woman started down my drive, but stopped by my children.  She began talking to my children.  

Sweetly.  

"GET AWAY FROM THEM!" I wanted to shout, fearing they'd catch what she had.  My response was as guttural as the time the anti-gay, anti-abortion, extremely conservative state rep for Lakeville sent myself and my newborn twins a "welcome to the world" card.  I didn't like her even uttering my children's names.  

This woman in my driveway, talking to MY children was, in my mind, the evil person who would just as soon judge someone and then, while on her high horse, cut funding from them.  She, for all I knew, was the driver of the oversize Ford truck at Fleet Farm with the bumper sticker that read, 

"Tell my president I live within my means."

Oh really?  Well I did, too. 

Until I had a health issue called infertility 

that my insurance would not cover and 

then I had to use the equity on my home to get the medical treatment I NEEDED.  

 But hey, that was MY choice, right?  Call me entitled when it comes to health coverage. That's fine.  Say I consequently deserve to be screwed by the mortgage crisis that some old-white-greedy-corporate-asshole created ALL while he was taking Viagra so he could screw some 20 year old bimbo.  And guess what?  Funny thing.  His reproductive medicine WAS covered by insurance.  

So excuse me if I don't want to hear your cute little slogan about cutting taxes.  It's too black and white for me and it insulted me that some middle-aged white guy just thinks I'm gonna trust his plan because he has some hot slogans.  

I have a brain AND A HEART and I want to know...

What taxes will you cut? 

Who will be affected?  

Unlike the other voters in Lakeville. I HAPPEN TO CARE what will happen when there is an absence of funding.  

I'm not going to be satisfied until everyone is treated fairly and equally and has the services they need. 

And if that means paying more taxes. Fine. If that means involving the government to make people white corporate assholes do the right thing. Fine.

Fine. Fine. Fricking Fine.

  

Trips

Laying on the wet pavement, it occurred to me that Sophia might have good reason to ban me from attending her school field trip.  

1st Day of School 2010

The two weeks since preschool orientation in which the field trip was announced and parent participation requested, she emphatically asserted that my presence was not wanted during her class trip to the apple orchard.  If I came, she would not sit with me on the bus as she had plans to sit with her friends.  In fact, she intended to avoid talking to me altogether. By the day of the field trip, my forecasted attendance had so popped her bubble of hoped for independence that she told me "if you are going then I'm STAYING HOME!"

I was in a pickle.  Ella is in Sophia's class, and Ella wanted me to come. I can remember times that I wanted my mom to attend my school functions but instead I had only her empty seat to look upon, as Kelli's behavioral needs did not mesh with whatever I had going on. I didn't want Ella to experience a mom who couldn't be there.  

So I stuck with my promise to Ella and as for Sophia, I crossed my heart, swore and promised on a daily basis for two weeks to stay away from Sophia on the trip.  The teachers agreed to place Sophia in a group separate from Ella and me.  When the morning of the trip came, and with firm instructions from Sophia "not to talk to" her -- we boarded the bus and Sophia sat with her partner.  I snuck a look at her, and she was grinning and seemed happy.

I was glad for Sophie to seek independence.  It didn't matter to me that Ella was the only one of my children who would acknowledge my existence -- even after I had fallen flat on the ground days earlier.  

Exiting the girls' school I had walked swiftly to the car.  A lone rock lay on the sidewalk. Stepping on it, my foot rolled, my ankle gave out and -- Andi still in my arms -- I suddenly found myself laying on the wet, cold pavement.  Laying just outside the windows of the preschool, and with cars pulling up next to the sidewalk I was planted on, I hopped up, "I'm okay!" 

Picking the girls up from preschool that same day, I shared with them my story of my graceful exit from their classroom that very morning at drop-off.  "Did you all see me fall?"  No. They had not.

"Well, let me tell you about it."  Sophia looked embarassed, yet intrigued as I told the story.  She turned red for me.  Ella was curious and had a lot of questions about the specifics of my landing, just where the fall had occurred, how wet and dirty my knees were, was there any blood loss, did anyone laugh at me...that sort of thing.

During the field trip, Ella and I stuck together, and it seemed very odd to me -- just having one child to dote my attention upon.  This was probably a good set-up for Ella, whose quiet demeanor usually falls by the wayside of Sophia's sparkling, yet demanding personality.

Loading onto the bus at the end of the field trip, I saw Sophia get on.  I couldn't help myself and I smiled and waved.  The enthusiasm was not returned, however.  Eyeing me sitting in the back of the bus with Ella, she broke loose from her chaperones and marched up to me. 

"YOU LEFT ME. I COULDN'T FIND YOU ANYWHERE!  I LOOKED FOR YOU THE WHOLE TIME!"

The other moms on the back of the bus watched, wide-eyed and curious.  I explained, after attempting to soothe Sophia, that the girls were twins and Sophia had not wanted me there.  Their eyes all said they understood, a couple of them sympathized saying that their older children had banished them from associating with them at school functions. 

Two days after the field trip and waiting in line with all the other parents outside the preschool classroom, small-talk bloomed as we awaited the children's dismissal.  A mom said to me "Oh...Are you the mom of the twins?"  I told her I was and she explained that she and her husband had been in charge of Sophia the day of the field trip and that Sophia was constantly looking for and asking for her mom.  

"We didn't know if her mom was there...or what to do."

I explained Sophia's explicit instructions that I disown her for the 1-1/2 hour long field trip.  

"Well, that is not the tune she was singing while we had her."

I thanked the woman for tolerating Sophia's change of heart. 

"We just kept talking to her and asking her questions.  She was really quiet. She wanted her mom."

I apologized that Sophia was a boob the entire time, and again thanked them for acting as her chaperon, and acknowledged that -- yes -- Sophia changed her mind.

"She was not happy.  She kept looking for you.  We didn't know you were there.  We just kept talking to her and tried to get her to talk.  She sang a whole other tune that day."

Oh dear, I had said, turning around, hopeful that dismissal was imminent.  

Still the mom went on  -- talking to my back now -- "She was really unhappy. So quiet.  She just wanted you."

OK. I fucking get it lady!  Really. I do. And seriously, you signed up for it, so let it go.  What are you trying to do? Get me back for Sophia's perseveration by perseverating on her perseveration? I mean. Good God woman and holy crap.  I mean, and maybe this is why I have no friends, but this chick wore out her welcome to speak with me and I was done with our conversation. Thank goodness I was next in line to have my children dismissed so I could leave Ms. Perseverator and act as if I was eagerly awaiting the twins return to my arms.

Pierced Nipple Anxiety

I was back on my A game -- or so I thought.  I have nearly licked this bug that I've had all week -- passing it off to Dave -- who is traveling again.  Last night after the house was picked up and the girls were asleep, I whipped off an article on "How to Deal with a Child Flipping Out at the Dentist."  Completed in less than an hour, I was hopeful that I would get two articles done today.  

It's nearly time to pay the girls' October tuition for preschool, and beggars can't be choosers when it comes to accepting titles of articles to write about.  The article I have selected has taken me into uncharted territory: pierced nipples and breastfeeding. 

Searching the internet, I find there aren't a lot of authoritative resources on this particular subject. Scanning the indexes of my parenting books only leads me to get distracted when I find topics such as "nose: beans and pees, inserted," or "nipple confusion" followed by "noise making toys" and "overstimulation" and I begin to wonder if I've picked up a bedroom-type book -- if you get my drift -- as opposed to a parenting book. 

Time's a tickin' before I have to get the twinados from preschool and the more I think about it, the more paralyzed I become. My template glares at me.  I have nothing to write on it.  My heart beats. Fast. 

As an undergrad, I'd hand in term papers weeks ahead of time. I couldn't stand the pressure of doing it last minute, nor the weight of it hanging over my head.  

Handing in a 15-page research paper on "Why it does Not Harm Children to be Raised by Same-Sex Parents," the child development professor told me she knew she'd be seeing me, term paper in hand,  weeks before anyone else even thought to start theirs.  I smiled at her and dashed into my other child development class. We were getting our exams back and I. Couldn't. Wait. to see how I'd done. 

The days leading up to the exam consisted of eight-hour runs of note taking and reciting information under my breath.  Lists of terms, phrases summarizing theories, and fact-based opinions on parenting styles consumed my mind. Contrary to my fellow classmates, the night before the exam contained no last minute cramming.  It contained quiet.  And by exam mornings -- silence reigned.  I offered no "hello's," to classmates and ignored Dave's small-talk.  Classmates would talk nervously and try to review information in the hall and I would enter the "dark zone" where nothing comes in or out.  It's as if speaking -- hell, even breathing -- might allow a critical piece of information to slip from my mind, never to be retracted. 

Once in the test, I'd scribble my answers down furiously before the information in my mind evaporated. I'd jump around on the test, completing what I felt like doing -- no particular order ruled my test-taking.  The order of answering questions was ruled by what my gut told me to do. 

The days leading to the test results allowed pessimism to overtake me.  "I failed. This time I really failed. I didn't know a single thing on that test."

"You say that everytime and you always ace it," Dave, in his 21 year-old wisdom, would try to reassure me. 

Frustrated that he just didn't believe me I'd go on and on about failing the test.  I could barely function. Barely think at times. And so I cleaned.  I cleaned and cleaned -- until the morning of the arrival of the test results. 

Sliding into my chair, the professor pulled out the exams.  My stomach flip-flopped and my bladder contracted.  Should have worn a pad, I'd think, fearing that I'd pee my pants a little out of the suspense of waiting to see my grade. 

"Someone in here threw the curve off by scoring a 98 on her test," the teacher announced. She continued on, explaining how grading was done, but I didn't hear her.  I'd begun ruminating angrily.

"THAT BITCH!" My eyes scanned the room wondering what person had thrown the curve off.  Was it Miss Happy Peppy Pants with all the blonde curls, bright blue eyes, and perma-smile?  Probably it was.

"Shannon." Oh god. She said my name.  This is it. My bladder surged again. Really should have worn a pad -- do I have to stand up? I'll surely pee my pants.  I open the folded exam -- and circled -- is 98.

Got Sheepish?

Caged Children

I can't think.  My head is pounding, my throat is raw, I have the chills...and seven articles are due.  Tonight, I just can't write...  Take it away Robert and P.J.

Humans are the only animals that have children on purpose with the exception of guppies, who like to eat theirs. P.J. O'Rourke

I take my children everywhere, but they always find their way back home.  Robert Orben

Never raise your hand to your children; it leaves your midsection unprotected. Robert Orben

Anyone who uses the phrase 'easy as taking candy from a baby' has never tried taking candy from a baby. Unknown

Let's All be a Little Og

Here's to parents who aren't "inconvenienced" by their children. Parents who don't view it as being "stuck home with the baby" when they can't go out partying every night, who value their time with their children, who don't pawn their kids off as often as they can on whoever wants to take them, who accept responsibility..., and love it too. Parents who deserve to be parents. If you're one of these, repost this!

Yikes!

That's what I thought when I read the above post on Facebook.  Lots of people "liked" it.  I didn't "like" it.  I didn't like it one bit.

I wondered "who would write such a judgmental thing?"  I'm always thinking like a social worker.

Today I got my answer.  I'm pretty sure the lady walking into Target who gave me "THE LOOK" was, if not the writer of the above statement, at least "liked" it on her Facebook page.

Andi was laying just off the curb, screaming, kicking, and crying, the twins were five feet behind me quarrelling over how to carry the too-heavy diaper box I had dropped as I lurched after Andi who had darted towards the Target parking lot.  A kind gentleman intervened, taking the box from my twins, he told me he would help us to the car.  As we all turned to cross the lot, I met "THE LOOK" head on. The woman made a point of meeting my eyes, her eyes were narrowed, lips in a flat-line, she emphatically shook her head in a disapproving fashion.  

You've seen "The Look," right? 

"The Look" that says "Can't you control your naughty, ill-behaved, animal-like children?" 

"The Look" that says these people don't get/know/remember/believe/tolerate children having a NORMAL childhood moment.  

Nor do they allow parents forgiveness for wanting to run away from it all when it just feels like it's too much. Because sometimes it IS too much.  And in the moments when it is too much, kindness, not critical -- judgmental stares and statements -- goes a LOOOONNNNG way.

"The Look" that does nothing but make me want to reach out and,

with my one bare hand

-- while still holding  my screaming, writhing toddler in the other arm--

squeeze the neck -- of this person who doesn't know the situation, but still condemns us.

Fingers curved around their neck, feeling veins, cords, and bones and I watching their critical eyes grow wide as my arm starts to shake,

and their veins start to pop,

I say "what the fuck are you looking at bitch?"

And then we both stand there -- as if in a stand-off, my knuckles starting to ache from a tight squeeze held too long, my nails digging into my judge's skin -- until I finally let go, grab my other two children, and walk away. 

Was that as good for you as it was for me?

I can't remember where I was going with this. I'm going to hand it over to Og Mandino while I lay here with my cigarette.

Instead of "THE LOOK,"

Beginning today, treat everyone you meet as if they were going to be dead by midnight. 
Extend them all the care, kindness and understanding you can muster. 
Your life will never be the same again. ---Og Mandino

*Authors note- I know there are mandated reporters reading my blog.  Please do not report me, I promise to contract with you not to harm myself or anyone else.

Lubricating My Way into Fall with Caramel

"I just licked the waxed paper clean," I told Dave during our daily, noon time phone conversation. He laughed. "I'm not kidding. I really did. That caramel is soooo good." 

"I fully believed you."

He knows me so well, I thought, as I hung up. 

Every fall since I can remember mom and I would go get fresh apples and bring them home.  School was back in session, the sun was setting earlier, and I hated it.  I never have been one to transition well, especially as a child.  Change things up on me and I'd have a fit.  Sensitive to everything including the way the seam of my sock hit my toes or the tag of the shirt rubbed my back, I'd have something to lament about. I'm sure my *shining personality* is what drove my mom into the kitchen, away from me, to make everything she stuffed in my picky little mouth -- homemade. 

In the fall she would make apple sauce, apple butter, apple pie, and caramel apples.  I loved all of it, but especially the caramel apples.  A year ago, I got so desperate for a homemade caramel apple that I called her up and got the recipe and made them myself. 

This past Sunday, Dave and I packed up the girls and headed to the orchard.  It was relatively bee-free, so we elected picking our own apples.  "This is the first time I think I have ever picked apples," Dave pointed out as we drove away with nine pounds of Honeycrisp apples.

Normally, half-way into the lines of trees the bees get so bad that I can't tolerate the fear of a bee "getting me," and we grab a bag of pre-picked apples and to my great relief, load back into the car. 

Once home we scrubbed the apples clean, stabbed a wooden stick in each of them, buttered some waxed paper, and then got to the business of making the caramel.  It's sticky business -- making caramel.  Heat it too fast or too hot it gets hard. Heat it too slow or not enough it stays runny.  I tested my candy thermometer in a pan of boiling water and, like any true black-and-white thinking, rule-loving fool, I followed mom's instructions to a T. 

The result -- perfectly creamy, chewy, sweet, buttery with-a-hint of vanilla, good enough to like the wax paper clean -- caramel.    Pics and recipe below.

 

 

Caramel Apples

1 cup sugar

3/4 cup Karo 

14 oz sweetened condensed milk

Combine above in a pan. Cook over medium heat and stir constantly until you reach 230 degrees.

Remove pan from heat. Let sit 3-4 minutes

Stir in:  1/4 cup butter (sliced up, not in a big block)

1 tsp vanilla

Let sit a couple more minutes

Dunk your apples in the caramel (I made 12 small apples) and place apples on a buttered waxed paper, perhaps placed in individual bowls to prevent running of caramel. 

If it's too runny, eat it anyway. 

If it turned out hard, well...  Try, try again.

Puttin' Down Roots

*Editor's note: (I'm the editor and author, by the way, in case you didn't know.) Thank you for your comments on the previous blog. I am grateful that you, having busy lives, took the time to comment, in a respectful, and even encouraging tone.  I often underestimate people and their kindness. Now, let's get on with it....

The newest member of our yard -- a Northwoods Maple, known for red "showy" leaves in the fall, and red leaves and red flowers in the spring -- has arrived.  

Lora, a lovely woman who owns a landscape business and who lives in our neighborhood, helped us identify the type of tree that would best fit us. Then she snagged it at a good deal at Bachman's.  Her husband and son installed it.  Lora, I think, does all the designing, and her husband does the dirty work, literally.  Though, judging by her shapely legs, she gets right in there, too, toning herself as she works.  


She's been great to work with; friendly, on the ball, not pushy as far as our (tiny) budget, and I'm looking forward to working with her next spring as we fix up the rest of the front yard. 

"Imagine," I told Dave, "us working together like they do.  And everyday, I'd tell you what to do."  

"You don't have to grin so big," he told me.