A Mother's Musings and Mumblings

Your Mind is 75% Cluttered

Your mind is quite cluttered. And like most clutter, it’s a bunch of crap you don’t need. Try writing down your worst problems and fears. And then put them out of your mind for a while.

The house is getting cleaned up as it generally does in the fall. That’s right – the rest of the world does “Spring Cleaning” and I do “Fall Cleaning”. If you’ve read this far into my blog you’ll know that I don’t do thing exactly like everyone else so this shouldn’t be a great surprise. For weeks I’ve been a Witch on a rampage, whirling from room to room with a pile of bags – plastic bags for the trash and paper bags for Goodwill. I dance in honor of the Goddess and magically clutter evaporates and the floors materialize again.

All of this is making one thing painfully clear to me:

I need to start keeping a journal again.

There are things that I don’t want to put out there into the great unknown Ether of the Internet but I need to get them out of my head. They’re just taking up space and collecting dust – dust that makes my nose run and my head hurt. Maybe, just maybe, if I get all that crap cleared out I’ll sleep better.

To say that I “am not a morning person” would be a gross understatement. Of the order of magnitude of saying that the Pope “has read the Bible”. So it should be no great surprise that morning in our home is not the most pleasant time of the day. Y’all have heard the question: “If a tree falls in the woods where no one can hear does it still make a sound?” right? Well, if an alarm clock sounds in our house where no morning people can hear I am quite convinced that it really makes no sound. That or I’ve trained myself to turn it off in my sleep. This would be why “Good morning” in my house tends to sound much more like “Oh crap! We’re late!!”

“Crap” is the operative word, in case there was confusion.

So it was this morning, the second day of school for the year. The first day adrenaline has worn off and we’re back in our comfortable routine of cutting it just as close as possible in our quest for those last 3 nanoseconds of sleep. Naturally, the Wonder Dog picked up on this and chose this morning to run out the gate as we were collectively sleepwalking to the car. And unlike prior excursions, Wonder Dog elected not to return promptly this morning and stood in the road and taunted us for running so late.

Luckily, the school bus had only just left and there was a group of mothers hanging around the corner near our house who saw the whole thing. One of them called out to me and said that she’d catch the renegade mutt and that I should go on. In my rear view mirror I could see her heading up my driveway with Wonder Dog in tow and I said a heartfelt blessing for her as I went to work.

Now, I don’t consider myself to have a job so much as I have a career. Thing 1 went with me this year to a professional conference and the look on her face when she said to me “You’re really well respected, aren’t you?” was worth every hour I’ve had to spend away from her and her sister over the years. I’ve maintained that part of the reason I value my career so much is because I have daughters and I want to be the kind of role model who shows them that you can be a mom and a valuable, contributing member of society at the same time. It isn’t that I don’t value stay at home moms (SAHM), I just would never choose to be one.

But this morning I had to stop and think about this for a bit. The group of women at the bus stop were all SAHMs. The one who retrieved Wonder Dog was a SAHM. Over the years many of the “room moms” and school volunteers my girls have known have been SAHMs. The parents who drive for field trips often are as are many of the parents who pick up the slack in our various carpools. And it isn’t just SAHMs that do all this work – there are dads and work-at-home parents of both genders.

If everyone I know shared my values and beliefs on the subject then I’d have been running after Wonder Dog in my suit this morning late for a meeting. My girls would have fewer school activities and field trips because there would be fewer volunteer hours to go around. Basically, there would be no slack in my life or schedule of the kind afforded to me because others have chosen a different path from mine.

So I guess when I start to get all uppity about what makes a “valuable, contributing member of society” I need to stop and remember that what allows me to be a mom while having my career is the willingness of others to be parents at the expense of careers that take them away from home and family.

And we’ll end it there before I mention the whole single mother thing……..

Labor Day weekend is just around the corner. You know what that means, right? No, I don’t mean picnics or grilling or a long weekend or even the Labor Day sales. I’m talking about the approach of the bestest holiday of the entire year.

Samhain.

My favorite holiday may be two full months off, but I’m already planning. You see, I struck a deal with the multiverse a few years back. I figure if our Judeo-Christian society can put out Christmas decorations and start playing Christmas music before Thanksgiving then I can put up my Samhain decorations after Labor Day. My only constraint is that I first must see Christmas decorations for sale in two separate retail stores. Not online. Up close and in person.

We’ve had our first spotting for 2008 at one of the usual offenders of early retail. Now, as soon as I find a second source I can begin to put up the decorations (don’t worry, pictures will be posted). The only trouble is that I’ll feel absolutely silly if they go up in any visible sense prior to September 1st no matter how many stores have their Christmas wares on display. I guess this means that I have one week that I have to avoid shopping. At least at certain locations.

That’s okay, though. I can still practice my cackle. Cackles are timeless.

Now that we have that out of the way, let’s talk about children under 13. After all, they shouldn’t be reading at this point so they won’t know that we’re talking about them, right?

At the back to school picnic today, Thing 2 found and ran off with her friend Bea. That statement should come with the caveat that “friend” is open to interpretation. These two girls can either be as close as conjoined twins or they can be as lovingly kind to each other as a two starving dogs with a single chicken nugget. The two states alternate at a dizzying speed and you never know from one breath to the next what you’re dealing with. That kind of “friend”.

So these two little darlings had wandered off and I’d finished counting my blessings, one of which was the lack of both screams and mushroom clouds. Still, I thought it best to find them so I asked one of the other moms if she’d seen Thing 2. She hadn’t but asked who Thing 2 was with so that she might keep an eye out for her. The name “Bea” didn’t mean much to her at first but slowly recognition lit her face and she said “Oh! The other bossy girl.”

The look on her face told me who the “first” bossy girl was.

She apologized, needlessly, and explained that it was just what the other kids called the two of them but I was already laughing. You see, I know the truth.

The truth is that Thing 2 entered this world, looked around at the delivery room and cast a disparaging look at the Obstetrician as if to say “Tell me you had nothing to do with the selection of wall color in here. It’s simply hideous.” In the 7.5 years since then things have not changed substantially.

Over the summer WF and I have worked a bit on the life lesson that one should generally avoid telling one’s parents what to do if one wishes to have a life outside of one’s bedroom. It’s not been a particularly gratifying wall to beat my head on but it has been educational. It taught me that my first stop at the picnic today needed to be with her teacher to offer bribes of alcohol or chocolate in lieu of hazard pay for this academic year. Yes. I gave a preemptive apology. Don’t criticize until you’ve spent the day with Thing 2.

All behavior issues could, of course, be solved very quickly and easily in the manner most familiar to parents in our society. We could have her “evaluated” and “treated”. That’s a modern euphemism for “complaining” and “medicating”. I’m not saying that there aren’t children with legitimate issues that need to be medicated to help them function in adaptive ways, I’m just saying I’m not sure Thing 2 is one of them.

She’s successful in her academics – her ability to sit still seems to be good enough to allow her to have her multiplication tables down cold. She’s articulate – too much so for me some days. Really, the biggest issue is socially and even there she seems to be limping by even if it is with the reputation of being “bossy”. So why doesn’t this bother me more? Don’t I want my child to be a team player? How can I ignore that the bossy kid isn’t the most popular kid?

Bear with me while I go off on a short feminist rant that may be totally off base. But it is my blog. And you were warned.

Too often I think we teach our young girls to be passive. They learn that they have to play cooperatively in teams and get along. They learn that they have to build consensus. They learn that they can’t be in charge.

And while we’re teaching our girls this, what are the boys doing? They’re beating on each other, competing with each other for dominance. In short, they are learning to stand up for themselves and be in charge of something – even if it is just themselves. When they’re older, we teach them that they must get along with others, share their toys and find ways to build consensus. But when they’re young so many things get dismissed as “boys will be boys”.

The girls, on the other hand, learn to be compliant and passive. They do well in school because they know these skills. And because they don’t have trouble, there’s no need to teach them the other set of social skills as we do boys. Try telling a teacher with 30 kids in a classroom that not only do they have to teach the boys to share and play nice but they have to teach the girls to be more assertive. Then see which gets priority. It’s a simple matter of time management – teachers can’t do everything!

The boys enter adulthood with both sets of skills – albeit one more polished than the other. The girls enter with only one. If these girls then attempt to enter a male-dominated field they must learn at least the basics of the other skill set. Trust me – if you don’t learn how to be assertive and take charge of your own life/career someone will do it for you. And it won’t be fun. So how do girls learn this? Well, you can try “trial by fire” or “years of therapy”. Those are the two most popular options.

At this point, Thing 2 is the “bossy girl”. I could die on the hill trying to teach her that this isn’t the way girls behave and helping her learn to be more passive and compliant. And I would die on that hill. Not only would I suffer from that decision but I believe that she would, too. In breaking her spirit I fear that I would rob her of a skill set that currently comes naturally to her. A skill set that I am only just learning to acquire for myself. So I’ll let her be the bossy girl. But I am not going to re-paint any walls.

I have never been a fan of the tiny school. This is most likely because in terms of our local schools, I have two diverse roles in examining the schools in our district: Diversity and Cost.

Looking at it from the standpoint of diversity issues, tiny schools are likely to be more homogeneous in population and offer their students exposure to a less diverse peer group. As a member of a religious minority, this is no small concern to me. Looking at it from a resource utilization standpoint, tiny schools can be a drain on the limited resources of a community. Regardless of how small the student body, these tiny schools still require administration and facilities that are not substantially less expensive than their larger counterparts. Either way, tiny schools cannot compare favorably to larger schools in the same district serving the same demographic.

As of today, this is all past tense. Today, next Monday if we must be specific, I gain a new role in which to examine schools. In three short days I will become the mother of a Middle School Witchlet.

Oy.

MSW attends a tiny, private school that falls outside the realm of schools I am involved in examining. No, those two facts are not connected. WF and I chose her school on its merits not the shortcomings of the public counterparts. No insider information was used in the processing of this decision and no animals were harmed in the execution of her transfer.

For those of you who don’t grasp the concept of “tiny”, I’ll put this into perspective. There were 14 children in the entire 5th grade last year. There will be two second grade classrooms with 12 children in each this year – making it the biggest class in the school. The entire Middle School is in one hallway. The lockers aren’t assigned in advance, they’re first-come, first-serve on the first day of school (see also: chaos). The lockers don’t lock. Kids keep their notebooks in their classrooms. Band instruments are kept on a folding table in the hallway. You have the same science teacher and classroom for all of middle school (same with English, Math and Social Studies). Maybe I should use a capital “T” on Tiny?

The school isn’t the only thing that’s tiny here. MSW isn’t exactly large. She’s always been my “little” girl and at four years older than Thing 2 she’s still less than 10# heavier and 6″ taller. They wear the same size, more or less. And while Thing 2 is built like a hockey player, she’s not that big for her age.

Keeping with her diminutive size and genetic heritage (late bloomer, moi?), MSW is showing few signs of the kind of maturity that her peer are not only starting to show but to brag about. You know – physical stuff. (see also: Tanner Stage) Face it, emotionally and intellectually she’s older than I am. This bothers me not one, Tiny iota. I’m more than happy for her to be my “little” girl a little longer (see also: denial). MSW disagrees. Or at least I think she does. We still need to “talk” (“Talk”?) but the whole “I borrowed my friend’s razor to shave my legs” thing seems to indicate that she and I have different perceptions on her level of physical maturity.

Layer Middle School on top of this. You know, that place where the kids dream of lockers and “cussing”? No shit. I picked that up on a g-damned routine e-mail screen. I mean, where the Hel did she pick up that cussing was acceptable? I’m going to f’ing nip that in the bud!

A tiny school means that she’ll have contact with fewer teachers who will get to know her better and are more likely to pick up on issues before they become Issues (I’m stuck on this capitalization theme today, aren’t I?). One hallway means that she’ll have less territory to roam when the issue isn’t borrowing a friend’s razor but taking a drag off a friend’s cigarette. Fewer peers mean that the risk of her falling into a crowd where I don’t know the kids (or the parents) is slim. And it means that even if she’s the only late bloomer, she’ll know all the kids and that’s the best insurance I know for teasing. At least the mean-spirited kind.

So while I can’t say I’ve come full circle on my beliefs about tiny schools in the public sector, I can say that as a parent of a soon-to-be Middle School girl I’ve done some soul searching on the topic. At this point, with this child, I’m glad we’re at a Tiny school.

Still, I think it’s safe to say that I could use a care package of Vodka and Calgon. AA batteries wouldn’t hurt, either, except that I’m planning on sleeping through puberty for both of the Witchlets. It seems safest, Tiny school or not.

I do not feel well. Actually, I feel fine but my gut disagrees and we’ve been in a hostage situation for the last day or so. I know exactly why we’re locked in conflict, and that does not make it any easier because that means that I know there really isn’t anything I can do about it and I just have to wait it out. This is all related to the recent increase in Diamox. That is my wonder drug, the one that saves me from pain that would make me want to throw myself under a bus. But at doses over a gram a day, it is also the drug that makes my gut more pissed off than a cat who just fell into a toilet. Yes, every pun intended.

I know that things will “cool” off eventually so honestly, I don’t feel bad. I can handle this so long as no one minds my frequent Olympic-worthy sprints to the women’s bathroom. But there’s the rub.

They do mind. The folks I work with have been, shall we say, less than understanding about my illness. It’s a chronic condition and I understand that those can be hard to wrap your brains around but for crying out loud!! Where do I work again??? Too bad they don’t believe in compassion.

Every time I have “trouble” like this – something as simple as my gut being mad enough that I need to sit at my desk with a hot pack and sprint to the loo every hour – there’s this general sense of panic. The two concerns that get leveled at me are that I’m going to miss work and that I can’t handle my job. Well, folks, if I miss work would someone explain to me how that is the end of the world? Generally, if I “miss” work I’m lying in bed (or on the bathroom floor) at home with my laptop – get this – working. And I think that pretty much takes care of concern #2 – if I couldn’t handle my job then I wouldn’t be doing it and there would have been more complaints.

So on the walk in this morning, between stops on the tour of every bathroom on this side of grounds, I got to thinking. If I had identical symptoms for other reasons the reaction would be 180 degrees different. I had a thyroid ultrasound on Friday (it was fine, thank you for asking) – couldn’t I just let “slip” that I had an ultrasound on Friday. That combined with the trips to the WC would give the rumor mill food for a month. And, best of all, it would get folks off my case.

Too bad I believe in honesty.

I have had it with the Pharmaceutical industry. Had. It. One too many Viagra/Cialis/Erector Set ads. I’ve lost it.

Would someone please explain to me why we need so many options for men to extend their mating season long past the age where they are remotely attractive? I don’t mean “attractive” like Harrison Ford is at his age. I mean “attractive” as in “attractive to women of their own age”.

There. I said it.

Why do men need these pills? Shouldn’t they be home with their wives who are “of a certain age?” (More on that later, I’m just warming up). Oh. Wait. These guys are out with the young poachers….I forgot.

So what are their soon-to-be-getting-alimony wives up to while Pops is out on the town humming “Woody Nights”? We’re home, suffering. Waiting for the pharmaceutical industry to come up with a little blue pill that will fix us up. (Never mind the lack of hot young stud-muffin poachers – if you build it, they will come.)

And what do we need to “fix” us up, we “women of a certain age”? Chime in, ladies. Don’t be shy. Y’all know what I’m talking about. You thought puberty was bad. You thought pregnancy was bad. And then, BOOM. Here you are.

Acne like a teen ager on a face that is beginning to sag like a Christmas tree after New Year’s Day (without water).  That’s ok because it masks the hair growing in unspeakable places that seems to crop up overnight (just there, on your chin….you got it). The boobs sag, too, but really? It’s all good. If they didn’t sag then the growing girth of your midsection would just stand out more. As for other things sagging, well, your ass has bigger problems if you know what I mean. It has to deal with leaky neighbors. Not to be too explicit (since when? did you really just ask me that?) but when you were younger you held both your liquor and your urine a bit better. Just don’t run for the bathroom, running only makes the, well, running worse. With all of this going on do you really think we care if the man of the house can pitch a tent? Seriously?

So really, I think it was a feature of natural selection that the Goddess designed men’s plumbing to quit working about the time that his mate’s did. And Big Pharma messed with that master plan. Now it’s time for them to answer to us – the women of a certain age who suffer, directly or indirectly, from the overzealous pharmacologic interventions that promote the delusion of youth in men of our age. You can either let men age as ungracefully as women, or develop a pill that treats acne, incontinence and unwanted hair growth. ONE pill. Our memory is failing, too and we can’t remember more than one. Did I forget to mention that?

While on vacation we spent some time in Salt Lake City (SLC, see also, land of the Mormons). That was an interesting cultural experience for this Pagan – even if only 60% of the city is now Mormon the whole place is still so heavily influenced by the Church. The Church of “Jesus Christ and the Latter Day Saints” – that sounds like the name of a punk rock band to me. One that would play at Pagan Pride day. Maybe with an opening act like “Paul and the Apostles”. I’m sure that music would make a dead man rise up and say “Blessed Be!”

But I digress.

We went out for dinner last night (J. Smith, party of 46, your table is ready) and had a Polygamy Porter with our fish and chips. The new shirts for that beer read “I’ve tried Polygamy” on the back and it was all I could do not to buy one. Yup, seems like a bit of overdone to crack polygamy jokes after a visit to SLC but then again I’m nothing if not predictable. And I hate to disappoint……

Driving into town from the desert we saw many billboards for lingerie shops. Now, you’d think that this wouldn’t fit with the culture here but they did. Oddly. You see (well, you don’t, but I’m here to tell you so read on) all those ads were aimed at the men. As in “Man and Wife novelty shop” and “Bridal treasures”. Of course, women aren’t supposed to concern themselves with such things, that would be up to the man involved. After all, his are the only, ahem, appetites that matter, aren’t they?

So how would this work in a good old fashioned polygamous household? The man goes to the novelty shop with a shopping list? “Yes, I’d like 5 small, 8 medium, 4 large and 1 extra large teddies in an assorted pastels. Uh. And one black corset. In, eh, my size.” Somehow, I think I’d like to work there as a store clerk for a week just once. But I don’t think there’d be enough duct tape to keep my mouth shut…..

But when I think of polygamy, I have to admit a certain spiritual kinship to the idea. I mean, the Mormons have their god. In a place like Utah, I feel right at home having more than one god. I mean, I fit right in here. Like some sort of spiritual polygamist keeping my faith with more than one deity. And none of them expect lingerie.

I do have to say that the most exciting part of leaving SLC had to be airport security. Thing 1 asked about putting all her liquids into a clear plastic bag and was very compliant in doing so. I was proud of her – she’s quite the little traveler. Except when we went through security they noticed that her water bottle hadn’t been emptied since the hike two days prior. Oops. Iggy simply forgot to remove his tool from his pack (clearly not the fun “tool” but an actual weapons-grade pair of pliers) and had to mail that to himself.

Me? Well, I had nothing contraband in my bag but they thought they saw a “bottle” in my bag and had to search it. Once they honed in on the part of the bag with the alleged offender I knew I was in trouble. But, much to my surprise, one woman in the Salt Lake City airport found a clue and actually lied to the other woman for me (“It’s her shoes” she said as I collapsed in relief). This was, of course, after I muttered out of one side of my mouth “Vibrator. Daughter standing here. PLEASE DON’T!” Note to self: there are some places on earth where the only thing you should get off is the plane – and maybe not even that. 

Anyone who has ever witnessed first hand my losing my temper
knows that this isn’t a pretty sight. I‚Äôve been told that I ‚Äúscare‚Äù people when
I lose my temper – and that’s a good thing because I scare myself when I lose
it. But there’s a place just beyond losing my temper – a place where I’m not
mad, or angry or even livid. A place where I’m not yelling or screaming or throwing
things. It’s a white-hot place where “angry” is no longer the right descriptor
– rage-filled WMD (that’s Witch, MD for you newbies) would be the more accurate
description.

I‚Äôm there. 

It took nearly eight years to really get here, although I vaguely
remember visiting once before. This time, I’m thinking of building a summer
home. With a dungeon. I found a rack on E-bay.

And the proximate cause of this shift? Witchlets’ Father.
There. I said it. I know, I know. I’ve bitched about him before but most often
privately and well out of earshot of anyone who would ever feed it back to the
witchlets. I’ve tried my best to be good. He’s their father, you know. Half of
their DNA is his (well, we can argue about Thing 1 and my experiments on human
cloning but I still don’t know how the embryos would have gotten switched) so
anything I say about him reflects on them. And I love them too much to ever
hurt them. 

Unless it was war. And it is.

Thing 1 and I just got back from vacation. She helped me
plan it and she asked if Iggy could come with. She likes Iggy – they have a lot
in common and I swear she’s stolen him from me on at least one evening. I was
looking forward to this trip and so was she. 

Until HE started in. First, he called me before she even
arrived to yell about Iggy and how he’d had to hear about his coming on the
trip from Thing 1 – that I should have told him first. Yes, this is the same
man who moved the Rat Terrier into his house and let me find out three days
later from the neighbors. Yet, somehow, my plans and my life are his business.
He complained and yelled and bitched to the point where Thing 1 apologized to
me when she got here (“Dad gets too involved in things.”).

For an encore, he started in with how I “never” take the
girls on long trips like he does or travel with them alone each year. As in,
his recent three-week trip to Europe with Thing 1 or his
current two-week trip with Thing 2 or his upcoming one-week trip with them
both. Yup SIX weeks of vacation. And I suck as a parent because I don’t do
that. 

Let’s think about why I don’t do that, shall we? Before I
moved FOR him, I had a job where I could afford to take that kind of time and
had an income where I could afford to pay for those kinds of trips. HE wanted
to move so HE could have the job HE wanted. So I did. I cut my pay in half,
took a craptastic job where time off is looked down on and sucked it up so HE
could have HIS career success. And now I’m a bad parent for that.

Oh, there’s more. Apparently when I moved FOR HIM, I “gave
up” on the marriage. Yup. He said that. I “walked out” on the marriage five
years before we divorced according to him. This is based on whatever fantasy of
infidelity he has of me. As opposed to the reality of his uprooting me from
everyone and everything (career, friends and family) based on a lie. He made
good on exactly NONE of the things he promised me when we moved. But I’m the
one who gave up. 

Since the divorce, he’s done nothing but try to control me.
I’m beginning to realize that a fair amount of why I married Guido was to get
WF out of my hair. And now that Iggy is in the picture, WF is trying to set
conditions and terms on that relationship as well. Somewhere in the middle of
all that, my patience just snapped.

When I was married to WF, he had little or nothing to do
with me or the Witchlets. He ignored us all – to the point where most people
counted me among the single mothers. And yet when we divorced he was hell bent
on making sure that he had those children half of the time. Why? The same
reason why he took my suitcase, my backpack and all the silverware. He needed
to “win” – it was a competition to him and he wasn’t going to lose to me. So he
“won”, he got the kids half the time and I’ve spent all the time since then
telling everyone what a good thing that is. How the children need both parents
and that I‚Äôm glad he wants to be a parent to them. 

And I am glad for that. I’m glad that he’s finally decided
to be a parent even if it took him over a year after the separation to do it.
Even if it took the fear of “losing” to force him to figure out how to be a
parent. Whatever it was, I’m glad he did it.

But I refuse to go beyond that point any longer. I’m glad
he’s a parent and that he’s in their lives. I’m glad that we’re able to work
together as well as we’ve been able to. But I am no longer going to let him
treat me this way in the interest of “keeping the peace” or “fostering a
relationship‚Äù with the girls. 

At this point if he wants to run me into the ground with MY
children for not taking the summer off work to vacation in Europe
with them then I’ll let them know why I can’t do that. If he wants to tell me
who I can or cannot vacation with, I’ll explain to my children what the phrase
“control freak” means and how to use it in a sentence. And if he wants to
pretend that he’s always been the world’s greatest dad then I’ll quit editing
the stories of childhood that start with “Your father was at work and we were
hanging out alone like we did every weekend when……”

I’ve done my share to keep the peace and avoid a fight and
all it has gotten me is more and more hateful behavior from a man who started
our marriage by telling me that he had a “crush” on his lab assistant. I refuse
to live in or even accept his reality any longer. I don’t want to “win”, I just
want my reality back. Whether he likes my reality or not.