Will You Be My Galentine?

I just completed an incredibly difficult assignment.

I submitted a description of why a certain friend, a special gal....is my Galentine.

But I had to do it in 100 words or less.

I know...right?

First off, I could write a million words about a whole lotta ladies that deserve a special spotlight every day of the year. So many women have my heart in a unique way these days since I've gotten over myself that makes me appreciate the passage of time and makes me say things like "you couldn't pay me to be 22 again".

That's not to discount the men in my life. They're important, too. I value them, I respect them, I treasure friendships and the honest feedback that those brave souls who have stuck it out through tumultuous years with me provide.

But this is not my Palentine.

Here are the 100 words I managed to edit down to, thinking how ridiculous it is to even attempt to condense her into this tiny space:

Emaline. Emmie. Em.

She’s been a sister, soldier, artist, traveler, and runner.  She’s run for a firefighter to drape a Tiffany necklace around her neck at the finish.  She more often runs for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and to remember those we have lost.

She doesn’t just face adversity bravely, she shows us all how to dissect and defeat it.  Though her heart’s been broken open, the love that flows out of her for others is immeasurable.

She knows when to hold on and when to let go. I’m so happy she holds onto me.

She is my Galentine.

She is so much more than these 100 words. She is infinitely more than this to me, to everyone who is lucky enough to know her, to have her in their lives. She's a lifelong friend despite the sands of time and more miles than anyone is happy about. She is loved more than she knows by more people than she realizes.

And so, for this submission assignment, win or lose, I love her. She is my Galentine.

Who is your Galentine?

We Are the Other People

It only happens to other people. Other women. Mostly trashy ones. Mostly trashy ones that live in trailer parks. Mostly ones that have a bunch of baby-daddies. Mostly ones that have shitty teeth and shitty hair. Mostly ones that aren't smart. Mostly just the ones who have no self esteem and no future and think he's right when he says nobody's ever gonna love her but him. For sure they're not smart enough to leave that sonofabitch for what he does to her. She needs his money anyway. She's probably pregnant AGAIN.

Maybe.

Or not.

Maybe she's super smart. Maybe she's got a great job and a good head on her shoulders, and that head has a salon cut you've always admired. Maybe her house is always perfect and her adorable kids always look like mini-models and you long for the perfect fairy tale romance that she seems to have with her Prince Charming husband.

Except you don't know what goes on behind closed doors.

Maybe she doesn't have any kids. Maybe she's too terrified that he'll do the same thing to a kid that he does to her so she couldn't fathom reproducing with him. Maybe she's seen how he treats children and it's so inappropriate she'd rather spare another life that misery. Maybe he didn't show his true colors until after the nuptials.

One in four. They're reduced to statistics that way....for every one that admits having lived through a level of disregard for another human that nobody should have to...three either are lucky enough to avoid it or don't report it.

We can't seem to get messaging right, either. While putting out a pretty strong statement about violence against women at the Grammys....they still managed to give nods to a couple of dirt bags that don't deserve mentioning.

The truth is, these are our sisters, our cousins, our mothers, our daughters, our neighbors, our friends. They are US. We keep our truth hidden as long as we can because we think everyone will judge us for our poor mate selection skills and our poor relationship maintenance skills rather than recognizing your ability for compassion. Sometimes...some people are quick to judge. Sometimes...some people are quick to try to fix our situation and tell us what to do.

I've been on the witness stand, answering questions for the prosecution, while focusing on a victim's advocate as my eyes started going black...going into tunnel vision, the body's response to stress. I would only let my Dad come to support me that day, and only because he insisted. I wouldn't let him wear his hearing aids. I knew if he heard the testimony he would cause a "contempt of court" type commotion.

I've been the unlikeliest person to reach out to the next victim of another so she knew she was not alone, and to offer my support to help build her case. Just passing along a note to let her know his behavior was consistent and that I'd be there if she needed me gave her the boost she needed to move forward and not look back.

If you are the one, make a plan. Pack a bag. Make it a "donate to Goodwill" bag if you have to. Drop it off with a friend, a coworker, a family member. Have someone whose house you can show up at unannounced and be safe and welcome for a week, preferably where you can park your car in their garage. Preferably not the person most obvious. Store some cash somewhere besides home. Even if things aren't at crisis level 5 yet, people can be unpredictable, and your safety is important. Talk to your boss. Make sure if you had to suddenly take a week off it wouldn't be a big deal. Your boss will be a lot less judgemental than you think. If your boss is judgemental and urges you to "leave your personal life outside work", you can remind him (or her) that is exactly what you are trying to do, and present him (or her) with sections from your employee handbook that address workplace violence. I almost guarantee your employer has some mention of interpersonal violence including domestic violence situations addressed somewhere in their HR materials, though some frontline supervisors fail to remember that.

Some of our local resources have joined forces to create the Idaho Coalition Against Sexual and Domestic Violence. Click on the link for additional details on how to access their services or how to support their cause. My shorties picked up a water bottle at an event somewhere bearing their logo and they seem to pick that as a favorite to drag back and forth to school all the time.

 These women have incredible strength to have endured both physically and mentally, and trailer park or mansion, they deserve our ears, our shoulders, our hearts. Make sure the ones you care about know that your door is open, without judgement if they need you. Stop feeding into the competitive culture and pictures of perfection perpetuated by Pinterest. Be real with your friends and share your genuine self with them, and let them do the same.

It doesn't matter if you've been given sons or daughters....both deserve to be shown healthy, real, respectful adult relationships. Speaking of tunnel vision...did you know young boys who witness violence actually lose peripheral vision and can lead to diminished performance in school because they literally can only see what's directly in front of them? That's right. Their little bodies go into survival mode and start to block out what it can't handle and it's so damaging as a result that it sometimes doesn't come back.

Please. Lead by example. Show them how to treat others and how to expect to be treated. That's the best gift you can give to them, and to yourself.

Get Your Balls Out of My Face

I've been silently searching quite a while (since last Fall, actually) for the right words to capture this weird, awkward, and unnerving feeling that sometimes surfaces for me when dealing with boy-children.

And we all know that's my only option here...boy children.

With two so close in age, it's easy to fall into "comparison" mode.  Hubs was famous for anxious statements around #2 not making milestones at the same rate #1 did.  My sister-in-law, a kindergarten teacher, even provided us with a developmental milestones chart so that he could see his children were, in fact...all normal.

Clayton caught up to Esten with his abilities, mainly because he was determined. When Esten learned how to ride a bike, Clayton wanted to be right there doing it too.  He was driven and mimicked everything he saw.  He developed his own interests and they're each good at their respective hobbies.

Clayton grew to love and have a desire to play sports.  Esten grew to love and have an uncanny talent for more cerebral things, like building working Lego vending machines and systematically leveling his way through a video game.

With a husband who grew up participating in sports, it was second nature to assume that his offspring would just naturally want to play, too.  But just as I hate the expectations for choices and behavior put upon our young girls, I began getting very uncomfortable at the prospect of forcing either kid into anything.  I considered the possibility that the difference in the two was solely because Esten didn't like not being the boss.  If he couldn't tell people what the rules were and make them listen, then he didn't want to play.  I call this *FirstKidSyndrome.  Clayton, by contrast, was used to doing whatever Esten told him.  This makes him an EXCELLENT team player and he is never bothered by someone else taking charge.  ToddlerBandit has *ThirdKidSyndrome.  This is characterized by a general but marked and sometimes alarming lack of fu*ks for your opinion regarding how said child should behave, dress, or eat, and is further enabled by one or more parent's worn nerves. See also: FirstKid, SecondKid for reasons why.

(*Disclaimer: FirstKidSyndrome and ThirdKidSyndrome are not actual diagnoses, and I am not an actual doctor. This is not meant to be medical advice, and as your child(ren) did not come out of my actual vagina, your results may vary).

We signed up for soccer once.  What.A.Shitshow.  Both claimed immediately after practice that they could no longer walk and expected me to carry them and their gear to the car.  It rained every.damn.day. Clayton wandered off TWICE in the just-after-sunset darkness because all the parents "look the same" and he thought he was following me.  Hubs could never take them to practice or games because of his work schedule.

I had to regroup.

Then, Clayton hit me with a request that literally stopped me in my tracks.

"Can you sign me up for tackle football?"

Ummmm....what do you say to that? We were just coming off last season where his cousin had a nasty concussion scare. But once I got ground rules laid out and Hubs' agreeing to work with me on shuttling to practice, I went to work researching the league rules and downloading the sign up forms.

As I scrolled through the league's website, I remembered having worked with the organizer in another lifetime. I remembered him telling me about how when they'd moved here, how disappointed they were that there was no football for younger kids to learn fundamentals. That it was his dream to one day start a program. It was always clear when you talked to him about it that his passion would make it a reality one day, despite this town's notorious reputation for local-yocal infighting and the innate ability to shut down outsiders' start ups.

It seemed like they had their act together. One of his friends' dads was going to be a coach. His friends were playing. I was being a lame mommy holdout and was running out of excuses.

I wrote a check.

We endured many a disappointed face when I insisted that "I heard Coach say socks on game day had to be black, white, or maroon. Anything else and you don't play. You will have only those colors", and then show up and see other kids in socks every color under the sun.

"I'm not their mom. I'm sorry that I make you follow the rules even when other people don't do what's asked of them."

I had to be the bad guy....a lot. This is normal for me.

Clayton showed up.  I mean....he SHOWED UP.  He put blood, sweat, tears, and 100% into whatever it was that was asked of him.

And pee.

The kid has like...a mini bladder.  Just after halftime at a game, as other players were taking the field, he was up on the railroad tracks taking a big-ol'-wiz because...well...he's 8 and it was his Auntie's town and he probably figured none of the 368 people that live there would mind.



I tried to tell him all season his helmet was blinding him.
He told me all season, "I'm FINE, Mom."

He never complained, unless you count the time I was late getting him to practice.  Then yes, he still complains about that to this day.

ToddlerBandit, giving zero fu*ks that this is not his ball,
nor that he looks like a hot mess.

He had existing friends on that team and made a lot of new friends along the way.  They won every single game and went on to win the championship.  Their coaches taught them well and they won with sportsmanship and pride.  He celebrated his teammates' individual successes.  He celebrated successes of players from other teams.  He tends to have a positive and supportive outlook in general, but I began to worry how he would react to a loss.

This banner was no match for the brute strength of
~The Wildcats~

Clayton was as close to flying as a tiny human could be when they won.

And then....there's Esten.

When the idea of football came up, as soon as Clayton asked to be signed up, Esten almost couldn't get out fast enough, "Please don't make me sign up too."

He preferred to bring his Kindle to the game rather than actually watch his brother and the rest of the team marching up and down the field.  He literally had zero interest.  Hubs was annoyed.

"You need to play a sport.  It would be good for you.  Pick a sport or I'll pick one for you."

Esten never hesitated.  He puffed out his chest and replied with enthusiastic sarcasm, "Fine. Gymnastics."

"That's not a sport...don't be a smart alec...you know what I mean."

Esten then proceeded to make his argument about gymnastics, knowing full well Jason wouldn't sign him up and he'd be off the hook.  After much back and forth, we revisited an old idea: Hockey.  Esten readily agreed.  Unfortunately, Clayton decided HE wanted to do it too.

Of course, as per usual, I missed the sign up deadline.  But with some quick finagling, I was able to get them signed up, jerseys ordered, and petitioned to have them on the same team.  This meant Clayton had to move up from the age bracket intended for him, but I knew this arrangement was the only one that would work for us and our schedules.

It was also....a lot of money.  Like...the kind of a lot of money that you mumble about under your breath but that you try NOT to mumble about under your breath because you really REALLY don't want to make your kid feel guilty and after all, we were supportive of spending money for your brother to do HIS sport so while it's unfortunate that your sport costs like FIVE TIMES MORE THAN THAT of COURSE we will sign you up because when you have a kid who is not-so-athletic who all of a sudden says "I want to do something athletic" it's difficult to poo-poo their dream.

Hockey is like....a million times weirder than football.  There's the whole getting dressed thing.  We had to watch a YouTube video to learn how to gear up our children.  I won't get into much detail about our first experience buying cups for sports other than to say there was a LOT of quality control going on at our house that first night.  It was a REAL novelty there for about 6 hours....lots and lots of quality control.  And then, when I finally had enough?  Clayton put his in the most obvious storage place for it: the kitchen counter.

Some days there's just not enough bleach.

There are so many secrets about tape and neckguards and not putting your elbow pads on upside down that to an outsider it's super intimidating.  Once you're IN though....it's easy.

I'm not all-the-way IN.  I don't have a bedazzled "Hockey Mom" sweatshirt.  I don't have ANY decals on my car proclaiming the league status of its occupants...so in that area I may be considered a failure.  In fact, if I did opt for a uniform, it would be a series of hoodies that say things like:

• PUCK YOU
• PUCK OFF
• GET THE PUCK OUT OF HERE (Because my kids primarily play defense)

Luckily, I'm allergic to clothing with words.  But I DO schlep my shorties to practice with their gear, and I DO show up for games in my fur coat like a crazy person, all the while trying to wrestle ToddlerBandit to sit still so I can watch.  This task is nearly impossible.

See that hoop? Yeah. ToddlerBandit is a baller, too.

I'm still unclear about the rules.  Aunt Nanny came to a game and started asking questions that I didn't have any answers for.  She left dizzy and deciding that she would prefer Jason as a bleacher mate next time.

I've watched both of my kids go from knowing nothing at all about this sport to exhaustingly correcting me when I praise them for doing a good job being wingmen.

"WING!!! MOM! It's just....WING!" they yell in unison.

Clayton on the right, per the tape on his helmet, which the
coaches have asked that we never remove, lest they never be
able to otherwise tell the Lee boys apart.

They've made new friends, and I was relieved that some of the playground judgement that Esten endures fades away when he's at the rink.  These are a new group of kids that can't pick him or not pick him in a popularity contest to be on their recess football team.

Until one of them invited the boys to his birthday party.

A teammate and his older brother celebrated their birthday together, and each invited friends.  There were 25-30 boys there and it was loud and chaotic in the rented gym where they gathered for pizza and cupcakes.

And dodgeball.

Three games in, someone decided to pair off the birthday boys and have them pick teams to play against each other.  I could feel my face getting hotter and hotter as one by one boys left the wall as their names were called and Esten got picked.....last.

Nobody really gets "picked last".  If you're last nobody even really picks you.  You're the only choice left.  He didn't even get picked by the friend that invited him, the brother ended up with him on his team.

I was a hundred times more bothered about this than him.  His face never showed disappointment, he was just as eager as the other boys to go out and play.  I was still prepared to deal with the fallout on the way home, if there was any.  Maybe his friend was trying to get all the brother's "older" friends so that his team would win (even though he still picked Clayton, who's younger than both of them)....maybe his brother wanted to pick you earlier but he doesn't know your name....

But he was preoccupied with other things in the car.  Talk of what apps and games he wanted to buy with a prepaid Visa he will get in April....some cool new function in Minecraft....something awesome that Alex said today....it was evident that this schoolyard team pick thing was not even on his mind.

It doesn't keep my heart from breaking for him.  Not that I want him to be better at sports so he'll be a more desirable teammate, either.  I hate that we are so quick to place value only on those talents we deem worthy.  The football player and the cheerleader are our "All-American" vision.  We aren't giving those with more cerebral or artistic talents and endeavors our same excited support and enthusiasm.  We expect that our boys have to do something with balls in order to make men out of them.  It's sometimes easy to forget how incredibly brave Esten has been at wakeboarding when we're stuck in the dead of winter, and it's hard for him to convince his friends (even the ones who are the best ever at football but who couldn't do what he can do on the water) that he might have some moves of his own.

Getting ready to rip this wake a new one...with a smile.

And so I will go forth and celebrate the excitement with which my children have both embraced this no-balls sport and its teaching model and our local coaches who consistently remind me just how hard these boys are working, and how impressed they are that they know if they asked them to skate on their hands they'd figure out a way to do it.  I will go forth and make sure that if my kid is picked last for something...it's not because he's a little ay-hole.  That's MY job as a parent.

Nobody has breathed one word about quitting because it's hard.  They ask to go to the rink every chance they get.  The boys (and girls) on their team and the teams around them are like a funny little family.  They are supportive of one another's growth and responsibility to the program, and outside the program...like tonight when one of their teammates...as punishment for acting up at school (and at the request of his mother) will have to skate laps while the rest of the team is practicing.

We will move on and maintain a positive outlook, not lingering too long on the losses nor the victories, and, fingers crossed, we will come out at the end of the season a cohesive family unit, a collection of individuals who have each grown in our own way through this process.  It's my hope that it gives us the wisdom and insight to pass along to new hockey families next season, and that we can take our lessons forward into the warm sun-filled summer days.

Or it might go differently, after this weekend's parents vs. kids game where, in an effort to remind his boys who has the biggest balls in this house, Hubs will likely incur a traumatic head injury and I'll spend my warm sun-filled summer days spoon feeding him applesauce.

I'm surrounded by boys.  Please send help.

Happy New Year

I love a new year. A fresh start. A blank slate. I've been spending a bit of time this week gutting out some old and outdated stuff from my office, some of it not even mine. Last week I multitasked, deciding to call up the friend the dusty box of 10+ year old documents belonged to and chat with her while I purged, separating metal clips from the recyclables.

Today's stash took me back even farther, to a time predating my current position, but the hanger-onner, ever prepared good girl that I am, I had not turned loose of a binder full of reference material. I quickly thumbed through its contents before committing the pages to the shred can. I flopped the sheets open on a blank note page containing a quote at the bottom. I sat for a moment in silence at the message, so fitting for today:

Yes. So much yes. I was returning to this thing...this binder full of information from 2006 and it was absolutely telling me how I was different and didn't need it anymore. It also reminded me that Nelson Mandela died this month one year ago. He was still alive when I was using that reference material. The second notes page came with another quote that made me laugh. First, because it was a little serendipitous that these quotes just popped up today of all days in my office that is otherwise pretty devoid of inspirational messaging. Secondly, I thought it funny because someone must have thought the subject matter at hand, which at the time was a fairly big change for some staff, might be met with some resistance and they might need to be made to feel better about embracing it.

And I do look to the New Year with hope. I also don't ever discount the old year because we must acknowledge what we did before we can move forward. I'd like to take this time to do that thing that some people do in their Christmas cards where they give a rundown of their year in a way that will inevitably annoy some people, piss people off for being omitted as a highlight, or otherwise aggravate or agitate folks. Ready? OK.

• I failed to renew my free trials of OnStar and XM Radio, and have somehow survived without both.
• I watched the Olympics. I retained zero info about anything except the clothes.
• I learned a new haircutting technique for those "Heather's House of Handsomeness" days at the Lee house.
• I sent my kids off to a rock concert and they came back alive and without any tattoos.
• I schlepped to the school several times for character kid assemblies.
• I made four birthday cakes. Maybe two turned out OK.
• I managed to get myself and the toothed children to the dentist when appropriate.
• I stood up to the Parks & Rec Board. I stood up to the City Council. Neither of those things worked out but we all know it was still the right thing to do. I helped stand up to the Port of Lewiston and that DID work out (temporarily).
• I discovered TED Talks.
• I read a ton of fantastic books.
• I watched a ton of TV. (This sounds bad but I'm also counting all the great, heartbreaking, and informative documentaries on Netflix).
• I got a FAB new roomie at work who doesn't even make me want to punch her in the throat, even on Throat Punch Thursday.
• I got a new boss, and I don't hate his guts yet.
• I cleaned paint out of the carpet.
• I cleaned gum out of the carpet.
• I helped a friend get her sweet daughter's story out to the world on ireport.cnn.com. (Read it here: Crista and Alex's story)
• I enjoyed another week with the Boyles clan.
• I got to reconnect with the classmates after 20 years and have bonus fun with the planners.
• I lost 30 pounds after the class reunion so nobody there would feel bad about themselves. (Just kidding. No, really I did lose the 30 pounds.)
• I became an ordained minister, just because.
• I watched proudly as my #2 kid played football for the first time and his team went undefeated and took the championship. I was equally proud that he shamelessly wizzed on the sidelines in his Auntie's town like he owned the place.
• I became a Hockey Mom. Well, I mean...I don't have the sticker on my car or the bedazzled hoodie yet...but I do wear my vintage Persian baby curly lamb fur coat to games like a crazy person.
• I successfully kept the magic in the Christmas season for my children for another year so they could keep the magic alive for me.

So there you go. We can now close the books on 2014 and look ahead to a shiny fresh new year, not yet smudged by sticky peanut butter fingers with excitement for what life might bring and who might come into our lives at THIS right time for us to have them.

That is my wish for everyone this year, that you welcome whatever comes with an open heart and an open mind, and embrace YOUR life. Share it with the rest of us. Fun, boring, shitshow, whatever form it takes.

PS: One last thing for the year to my list: I'm updating the tagline of my blog today from "A random collection of thoughts and observations about and from my kids and family" to "From rainbows to reality in a heartbeat" because 1) it's time to change things up, and 2) Kris Tanory totally gets credit for pointing out that this descriptor one random day in a CarVersation with Clayton essentially sums up how things go down in the Lee house. As much as we'd like life to look like a Pinterest board, it just...doesn't.

HUMP DAY! (And, Even Better: BACK TO SCHOOL!!!!)

Everyone knows what today is.



Yes, Camel. That too.

One need only look at their Facebook and Instagram feeds to be inundated with adorable pictures of shorties headed off for the first day after Summer ended for them, including mine.

Of note, this is Esten's favorite "thinking rock".

Aww.  Too bad, now get your fannies on that bus.

Most kids are all decked out in their fly new threads.  Mine opted for old holey shorts topped with the ONE new shirt I let them pick out themselves (the other new clothes were my selection, because I am THAT mom).  Esten managed to plop a blob of toothpaste right into the mouth area of that creeper, while Clayton forgot to push his hoodie sleeves up and ended up with wet wrists and elbows.

I know....this "brushing our teeth every morning" thing is going to be super difficult.

I even addressed it, absentmindedly, on the sheet I was tasked with filling out in order for Clayton's teacher to get to know her students more quickly.  Two sides of questions, I grumbled as I settled into bed with a cup of tea once all the littles were tucked in.  I was already drained from the evening's ice cream social/bring your crap supplies to school/meet your teacher event where I, pushing the giant jogging stroller down the crowded hallway, dropped a full 32oz cup of ice water and the lid busted off.  The one emergency diaper I had stashed in the basket almost sopped up the slippery puddle, but another parent came to the rescue with a rag before I single handedly injured anyone before they even had a chance to do so on their own.  Esten's bestie's mom watched and laughed, her armpits already perched on crutches from a knee injury.

I eyeballed the book calling to me from my nightstand to carry on my bedtime reading routine, but I held fast and completed that paper.  At the bottom I included an asterisk:

*Please do not let the principal read this, thanks! ~ H. Lee

I remembered having completed similar forms in the past, but I just was not ready this year for homework the night before school started.  Since Clayton was in a looping class the last two years, I hadn't filled one out for him since first grade.  I reread my response to his teacher asking: "In a million words or less tell me everything I need to know about your child - favorite foods, hobbies, strengths, weaknesses - anything to help get to know your little one":

Clayton Lee - lover of apple juice, follower/fan of big brother Esten. Still hangs onto his lisp a bit more than others. Throws an uncharacteristically perfect spiral football. Claims to be a "non-reader" until pushed harder, loves Mrs. Brockmann [the librarian]. Pushes the extremes between loving inappropriately heavy metal music, instigating unwanted wrestling matches with his older brother, and soaking up his dwindling months as the "little brother". Was adamant about Mrs. Purcell [this teacher] being his first choice, was overcome with glee to see the class list, except when he noted his bff's Jordan and Cole would not be joining him. Loves crafts and painting, recently proclaimed that "when you clean out the purple from our brush it does NOT taste like grape". Never met a corndog he didn't love, he will occasionally take breaks from food long enough to play video games. Enthused over water parks, especially loves Kellogg and Silverwood, gets in a major funk when plans change. Has been resilient and helpful at school and home, is sometimes sad that Grandpa just died in the middle of August, who lived with us for the past 2 of Clayton's short 6 years. Still convinced his cop dad is a superhero and that mommy is magic because I can spread Nutella on a graham cracker. Has spent the summer on the tube behind the boat, telling us to crank up the music, flashing us the two-handed devil horns and insisting that we make the ride "more extreme". Will show anyone who is interested his ninja moves. Remembers like a savant if you tell him a reward or fun day is coming and exactly how old he will be when he is due for shots again. Cannot hear or remember being told to pick up dirty socks. Is excited beyond words for this school year.

Suffice it to say, his lisp is gone (and I secretly miss it), and he has added to this list, but it's still pretty much him in a nutshell.  I suppose it was easier to describe him "in a million words or less" than it was here, with these specific questions staring at me.  Fortunately, he inherited Esten's 3rd grade teacher, and I love her to pieces and she has an awesome sense of humor.  Perhaps this was my downfall in knowing I could phone it in on some of the responses.  I tried to stay purposeful and grownup about all these questions about strengths and weaknesses and optimum learning environment, but when asked, "What are your concerns regarding your child?" all I could muster was:

I am concerned that my "brush your teeth every morning before school" demands will not be met after about the 4th day of school.

To "What kind of teacher would be ideal for your child?" I responded:

Isn't this a trick question at this point?

1. One with a certificate.
2. One who isn't homeschooling him.
3. One whose name rhymes with "Mashley Wreckenpaugh"

Thank the Lord Baby Jesus that he DID end up in Ashley Peckenpaugh's class, because I'm sure the other teacher is a super lovely lady, but it takes a TEAM of good-humored individuals to take on helping me raise these boys, and to be honest, acquainting myself with ONE new teacher a year is enough.  The other one being old hat for our family is so helpful.

This is why my friend pool is a foot across and a hundred feet deep instead of 50 feet across and 3 inches deep.  I just don't have the inclination to invite that many people into my planet, and then try to explain to all the new people why it's so weird on my planet.

So to all those moms (and dads) who captured this morning's send off in whatever manner that happened; ala Pinterest props, with signs, toothpaste blobs on new shirts, pouting glares, tears, toothless smiles...all of it, know that I enjoy every one of them just as much as I like sharing mine with you.  To those who didn't happen to catch them?  No biggie.  Life happens.  We aren't required to document everything to enjoy it.

It's Been 20 Years and I Can't Breathe

 

It's been 20 years and I can't breathe.

Maybe it's because I just really can't believe it.  I've been involved in the process, unhelpful as I may have been throughout, offering little more than snarky remarks and moral support and reminders that our drinks are almost empty.  But I can't really believe it's today.  Like today - today.

Maybe it's because this weekend is upon us, this weekend of hundred plus degree weather that's been dragging on forrrrevvvverrrr and seems like it will never end.  The heat is like Satan's-testicles-in-pleather-pants-hot.  I'm not a fan.

Maybe it's because my Spanx are too tight.

I entered this 20th class reunion idea very reluctantly.  It took long reflections and purging of baggage and dealing with the inevitable responses I got from both The Hubs and The Bestie, which were, essentially, identical:

"But...I thought you hated high school."

Yes.  Sort of true.  So to not only resign myself to attending but to also helping to plan this event was way outside my comfort zone.  To be fair, it began with a bit of a distress signal, one that suggested we might not have one at all unless someone stepped up and made it happen.  Those who did made sure that the "committee", if we can call it that (my throat closes up when I say that) merely represented anyone who chose to show at the designated time and place to make that night's decisions.  Nobody more important than another, you could come or go as you wished.

And somehow, this ragtag bunch of bitches has managed to put together what seems like might turn out to be three days of something worthwhile.

I'm shocked.  Except I'm not.

I certainly don't deserve to lump myself in the same category as those who have put in more effort, but I'm glad to have participated, for sure.  It was like "exposure therapy" in psychotherapy world...where I could slowly get used to the idea before jumping in headlong, an idea that it's now becoming evident as we get closer that not everyone is on board with.  Had I not joined in with this group, would I have been one of those who are left thumbing their noses at this gathering, still schlepping around their harbored hatreds and issues from two decades ago?

I might have had some not so great memories, but the good really do outweigh the bad, and the people?  Let's talk about the people.

They're the keepers of our secrets, the only ones who really understood us when our lame-o parents just didn't get it.  They loved us through terrible skin and piece of shit cars.  We duked it out for first chair flute, first string quarterback, head cheerleader, and first place for the science projects nobody wanted to do.  They've been our backup singers, our personal stylists, our heroes, our shoulders to cry on.  They shared their lunches, their clothes, their books, their hairspray, and their hearts.  They have the most embarrassing pictures of us, and they never judged us.  We watched a Space Shuttle fall out of the sky together and they took on the bulk of cat dissection when the teacher wasn't looking so we wouldn't have to.  Sometimes, they made us cry.  But for any tears, there was a thousand times more laughter.

Whatever life had to hand us, these were the people that were there during some pretty important years.

That's why I'm taking my shorties along to help out with some festivities.  They are at that age where they just.cannot.imagine. a time in life where they don't see their friends all.the.time.  Our neighborhood is crawling with kids from their school, or summer would be just.too.unbearable.  Seeing them and their daily hookup with buddies takes me back to the days when weekends were just too long to go without seeing my friends, the ones who lived, you know...like two whole blocks away.  Torture.

I'm so glad for the FB world and the ability to reach those same two whole blocks away friends who live MUCH further away today, because deep down we're just the same geeky kids that were awkward and lived too far away from "town" for anything fun except to hang out with each other and crimp our hair or trying not to maim ourselves taking shortcuts through barbed wire fences, because...well...two blocks in the Orchards is a LONG WAY.  And I still love the bajonkies out of those people.

So, to honor those THIRTEEN years (and not just two or three), we will converge tonight upon this town, not nearly enough of a representative group for the size of our original class, but my hope is that when those who are there get word out about what a great time they had reconnecting with each other, the rest will want to show up in another ten years.

Or not.  Either way..."The Committee" is officially done and due a drink or two for their efforts.  Cheers to that.

Some Concrete Is Best Suited for Headstones

***Apologies now, I realize this is an old topic, but it never posted***

Moving on now.

I really am.  I'm not interested in whether anyone "believes" my position or someone else's position on any given subject.  It's obvious that I deal exclusively in facts and that hurts people's feelings sometimes.

They need to get over it.

The dude that owns the Clippers made some racist remarks.

And people....people that I KNOW?  They got all kinds of upset that people close to that old wrinkly nutsack set him up and coerced him into saying the N word.  And now we're supposed to feel BAD for him because....he has CANCER.

NO.  He IS A CANCER.

I digress.

I simply was trying to point out that despite anyone's shining public service, their years of planning a project, devoting time away from their family, their hours of volunteering and fundraising and whatnot....there were....rules violated along the way.  There were Idaho Open Meeting Laws that were sidestepped.  There were two sides of a fence played.  There were hands that were unclean when the table was approached.  There were statements made, on the record, then promptly denied.  There have been statements made and out there IN PRINT on the interwebz just BEGGING for someone to research for themselves that absolutely are in conflict with what is being said....but LO....it's easier to just say, "That lady is being a meanyhead and acting like a 6 year old."

Yep.  That's me.  The meanyhead who fact-finds for a living, who digs up truth, gets it on the table, and THEN formulates the best, most FAIR decision for everyone.  That's me.  I don't know any other way to do it.  I'm not in any business that forces me to sell my soul to the Devil to get ahead in life.  I'm not in sales, I don't advertise on my blog, I have like....3 readers....and I'm not out to win any popularity contests.  If you're gonna drop me as a friend for calling someone out on their bullshit, don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.

I guess I got it from one of MY Grandmas...maybe because she wasn't rich...DIDN'T have a gold convertible....didn't have a car AT ALL.  But she COULD smell bullshit a mile away.

She also, likely without hesitation, fed a kid who tagged along home with my uncle, a kid who was getting the sense knocked out of him by his own grandma, his grandma who took him in when his impossibly heartbreaking parent situation left no other option.  My grandma did it up until my great grandpa heard the kid's grandma was looking for him and, that, along with his patience running thin at the already full-of-kids dinner table, ran him off one night, and I'll say it's likely her only regret was not standing up to her own father that night and keeping the kid there.

That kid didn't go home.  He hunkered down by the creek that night.  But not all night.  Hunger kicked in and he found himself, like other children of The Great Depression, a sudden burglar, breaking into the local store for something to put in his belly.  When the noise rousted the owners, events of that night turned south, and that kid cowered in a hiding place, pointed the gun borrowed from a friend's house out into the dark and squeezed, its bullet landing in the skull of the local Sheriff who'd come to check out the ruckus.

Oh, how influential we are if only by accident on shaping the path that children will follow.  How infinitely more important that influence is than any measure of self-important influence we may wish to have around our business associates or social circles.  How differently things could have been for everyone involved had one more adult been a bit more understanding, compassionate, patient.

I wasn't there, I can't imagine the hollow feeling that crept through everyone who'd had a chance to do the right thing and didn't.  But that was a different time.  Lucky for us, THIS is a different time.  We have a chance to stand up to those who don't really have the best interest of our children at heart, who have lost sight of the real cost of not taking care of our youth.  Because if we can't do that, and nobody uses that pristine chunk of concrete, it's essentially a monument, and in my book, a pristine chunk of concrete used as a monument is better known as a headstone.  It seems that those decision makers we have selected to run our show are more interested in having a facility serve as their own personal legacy landmark than they really are having it be a community spot for growth and recreation for our youth.

And if you look through history and what happens when we turn our backs on our youth, I believe the results speak for themselves.


Would it have killed you to let them have fun?

On a sidenote, if you're curious to know how things played out for that kid or you're just into local history, I really recommend you pick up a copy of The Boy Who Shot The Sheriff by Nancy Bartley.  Let me know what you thought of it, or if you've already read it, tell us what you think.  It's a great look into how our nation learned to face its deficiencies in facing youth crime and how ill-equipped we were to nurture the children they still remained despite their actions.  Anyone in the periphery of CASA, juvenile probation, foster care, or even our school system is well served to observe and learn from this piece.