You would think that a new blog after a week of deadly, ringing, earth-shattering silence, means that the craziness is over. What can I say? HA! Would seem to cover it pretty well. Craziness ends with commencement on December 12 at 10am, which is about 24 days, one hour, twenty-three minutes and ten seconds from now.
So no, the craziness has not yet ended. Instead of advisement, it's now registration, which means endless lines of students with forms to sign, questions about classes, overrides, overloads, and grade changes. It's senior portfolio presentation time as well, which means high drama in the hallways as students hear whether they're "walking", the euphemism used to describe graduation, or not. And it's also general end-of-semester blues, which entails the usual temper tantrums, late nights, and tears and lots of chocolate and coffee.
But sometimes there is a little haven of peace. A few moments when you realize that the clothing line may have a point after all. One of those moments happened yesterday. I should probably tell you that Steve and I have been harassing each other, beyond what we normally do, about the other person bringing in a) fancy coffee, or b) a hot breakfast. You see, I did Steve a few favors a while back, and so I figured he owed me a Starbucks pumpkin-spiced latte. For those of you unfamiliar with that beverage, let me just say w-o-w. I think I would gladly donate one of the kids for charity for a medium pumpkin latte. So anyway, I would send Steve random little messages a few times each day reminding him about the coffee I felt he owed me. You can probably see how that added to my merriment, while doing very little for his.
But then last week, during advisement, Steve saved my butt a couple of times too. For some reason only known to the Gods and our department secretary, Steve has no advisees and I have 70. Let me repeat that. Steve has no advisees and I have 70. Yes. 70. I don't know why or why, as the secretary likes him even less than she likes me, and Steve is an atheist, so I know God has nothing to do with it either. So anyway, last week, as I'm dealing with the long line of students at my door, and would run out of manilla files, or registration permits, or the batteries in my mouse would die, all it would take was a quick message to Steve, and he would show up with the necessary office supplies. So then Steve figured, I owed him a hot breakfast. So now my little emails about coffee received responses that involved hot biscuits and donuts. And of course, neither really happened, as we were either too busy working, or too busy complaining about work to step out of the office.
And then yesterday we received an email that our paper got accepted by a major conference. After doing a little "We're going to Memphis" dance in my office, I called Steve, and he finally did the right thing. He instructed one of his interns to drive to Starbucks and pick up two tall pumpkin-spiced lattes. Let me tell you, I was so excited, I almost cried. I nursed that cup the whole day (yes, I microwaved it too), and realized that Life is indeed Good. Sometimes anyway.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Ik word gek
Ik zou vandaag een Engelstalig blog schrijven over state's rights and waarom manlief wel vrij heeft en ik niet. En dat komt er echt aan. Alleen niet vandaag. En misschien ook niet morgen. En dat komt omdat ik namelijk gek word. Net als dat liedje van Brigitte Kaandorp word ik "gek, harstikke gek, helemaal gek". Sorry, ik kon even geen leuke Youtube link vinden, dus u moet het maar doen met het feit dat ze in dat liedje helemaal gestoord wordt van allerlei mensen die vanalles van haar willen.
Zo voel ik mij dus ook vandaag. Of nou ja, de hele week. Naast dat het namelijk weer eens advisement week is, en ik dus vijftig studenten in vier dagen van zinnige advies moet voorzien, moet ik namelijk ook dertig proefwerken, veertig onderzoeksvoorstellen, en tien online opdrachten nakijken. Ik moet een aantal online discussies modereren, en ik moet mijn eigen opdrachten maken voor een verplicht online college voor online instructeurs. Daarnaast word ik voor diezelfde cursus vanavond geacht om van half zeven tot half acht een "wimba classroom session" bij te wonen, en moet ik, ook voor die cursus, met een subgroepje een voorstel voor een college opzet schrijven. Raad eens wie aangewezen is om de eerste versie te produceren? Juist. Gekke Henkie. Sorry. Ik dus. Daarnaast moet ik ook nog, om aan de "publish or perish criteria" te voldoen, deze week mijn meest recente onderzoeksvoorstel indienen bij de ethiek commissie van de universiteit. Oh ja, en had ik al vermeld dat ik ook nog twaalf keer deze week college moet geven? En dat het al twee dagen regent?
Dus vandaag geen gezellig blog over het leven in het zuiden. Want DixieChick wordt gek. Harstikke gek.
Zo voel ik mij dus ook vandaag. Of nou ja, de hele week. Naast dat het namelijk weer eens advisement week is, en ik dus vijftig studenten in vier dagen van zinnige advies moet voorzien, moet ik namelijk ook dertig proefwerken, veertig onderzoeksvoorstellen, en tien online opdrachten nakijken. Ik moet een aantal online discussies modereren, en ik moet mijn eigen opdrachten maken voor een verplicht online college voor online instructeurs. Daarnaast word ik voor diezelfde cursus vanavond geacht om van half zeven tot half acht een "wimba classroom session" bij te wonen, en moet ik, ook voor die cursus, met een subgroepje een voorstel voor een college opzet schrijven. Raad eens wie aangewezen is om de eerste versie te produceren? Juist. Gekke Henkie. Sorry. Ik dus. Daarnaast moet ik ook nog, om aan de "publish or perish criteria" te voldoen, deze week mijn meest recente onderzoeksvoorstel indienen bij de ethiek commissie van de universiteit. Oh ja, en had ik al vermeld dat ik ook nog twaalf keer deze week college moet geven? En dat het al twee dagen regent?
Dus vandaag geen gezellig blog over het leven in het zuiden. Want DixieChick wordt gek. Harstikke gek.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Dan zeg ik lekker bil!
Weet u waar ik niet tegen kan? Naast mandarijntjes die met het openmaken hun sap over je net gestreken blouse morsen, en mensen uit Florida die 60 rijden in de middelste baan? Ik kan dus absoluut niet tegen mensen die mij vertellen wat ik moet doen. In mijn vrije tijd dan wel te verstaan. Op mijn werk kun je me vanalles vertellen, en ik doe het met liefde. Of ik doe in ieder geval alsof ik het met liefde doe. Soms dan zal ik je zelfs vragen wat je wil dat ik doe. Maak ik totaal geen punt van zelfs. Maar in mijn vrije tijd wil ik graag zelf de touwtjes in handen hebben. Heel raar, maar ja. Er is nou eenmaal niks aan te doen.
Dus toen ik vorige week van een van de dames van de Nederlandse koffie te horen kreeg dat "Ja, omdat je er vorige keer niet bij kon zijn, bel ik je maar even. Want we hebben vorige keer besloten dat het de volgende keer bij jou is. En oh ja, het is op 16 November", begrijpt u dat ik niet echt een gat in de lucht sprong. Naast mensen die me vertellen wat ik moet doen, kan ik er namelijk al helemaal niet tegen als mensen mijn tijd voor me indelen. En dan doet het er nog niet eens toe 16 November voor ons het begin van de laatste weken voor commencement is, en dus het begin van "hell's weeks". Nee, het gaat erom dat het mijn tijd is. En daar ben ik heel zuinig op. Wederom erg vervelend, maar ja. Ik ben nou eenmaal een mini-scrooge.
Maar goed, ik ben ook de minste niet, en was bereid om dit gewoon maar zonder zeuren te doen, of in ieder geval alleen met zeuren tegen manlief. Want die is wel wat gewend. Alleen toen ging vrijdag weer de telefoon, en het was weer een van de Nederlandse dames. Ik wil u het daaropvolgende gesprek niet onthouden, en dat ging ongeveer zo:
"Ja, ik wil niet vervelend zijn, maar heb je al gedacht wanneer je mensen ging bellen over de volgende Nederlandse koffie?"
"Uhm. Nou, ik dacht.."
"Ja, want dat is 16 November al, en dat is al heel erg snel, en dus dacht ik, je moet toch wel morgen gaan bellen, want anders hebben mensen al andere plannen."
"Nou ja, ik dacht dat ik komende week kon gaan bellen"
"Nee joh, dat moet veel eerder. Anders hebben mensen al andere afspraken. Heb je alle nummers al?"
"Ja, die heb ik. Maar ik wilde het eigenlijk verzetten naar de 23e. Dan hebben de kinderen namelijk vrij."
"Oh maar dan mag je wel helemaal opschieten. Zal ik anders nu gaan bellen? Anders heeft iedereen al andere dingen. Het kan anders ook wel bij mij hoor, de 16e."
"Nou... ja..."
"Weet je, bel jij iedereen vanavond op, en dan laat mij maar weten of ze wel of niet op de 23e kunnen. Anders doen we het bij me. Dan bel je ze gewoon terug dat het veranderd is."
"Oh."
U begrijpt, dit streek recht tegen de haren van de innerlijke rebel en de innerlijke southern lady in. Het is ongeloolijk, maar het is deze vrouw maar liefst gelukt om deze twee tegenpolen tegelijkertijd te beledigen. En wat deed ik, als volwassen, goed opgevoede vrouw nadat dit telefoongesprek was beeindigd? Juist, ik stak mijn tong uit, riep in goede oude Annie M.G. stijl, "Ik wil niet meer, ik wil niet meer!", en heb nog geen enkele Nederlandse vrouw gebeld. Dat doe ik lekker wanneer ik daar zin in heb. Lekker puh.
Dus toen ik vorige week van een van de dames van de Nederlandse koffie te horen kreeg dat "Ja, omdat je er vorige keer niet bij kon zijn, bel ik je maar even. Want we hebben vorige keer besloten dat het de volgende keer bij jou is. En oh ja, het is op 16 November", begrijpt u dat ik niet echt een gat in de lucht sprong. Naast mensen die me vertellen wat ik moet doen, kan ik er namelijk al helemaal niet tegen als mensen mijn tijd voor me indelen. En dan doet het er nog niet eens toe 16 November voor ons het begin van de laatste weken voor commencement is, en dus het begin van "hell's weeks". Nee, het gaat erom dat het mijn tijd is. En daar ben ik heel zuinig op. Wederom erg vervelend, maar ja. Ik ben nou eenmaal een mini-scrooge.
Maar goed, ik ben ook de minste niet, en was bereid om dit gewoon maar zonder zeuren te doen, of in ieder geval alleen met zeuren tegen manlief. Want die is wel wat gewend. Alleen toen ging vrijdag weer de telefoon, en het was weer een van de Nederlandse dames. Ik wil u het daaropvolgende gesprek niet onthouden, en dat ging ongeveer zo:
"Ja, ik wil niet vervelend zijn, maar heb je al gedacht wanneer je mensen ging bellen over de volgende Nederlandse koffie?"
"Uhm. Nou, ik dacht.."
"Ja, want dat is 16 November al, en dat is al heel erg snel, en dus dacht ik, je moet toch wel morgen gaan bellen, want anders hebben mensen al andere plannen."
"Nou ja, ik dacht dat ik komende week kon gaan bellen"
"Nee joh, dat moet veel eerder. Anders hebben mensen al andere afspraken. Heb je alle nummers al?"
"Ja, die heb ik. Maar ik wilde het eigenlijk verzetten naar de 23e. Dan hebben de kinderen namelijk vrij."
"Oh maar dan mag je wel helemaal opschieten. Zal ik anders nu gaan bellen? Anders heeft iedereen al andere dingen. Het kan anders ook wel bij mij hoor, de 16e."
"Nou... ja..."
"Weet je, bel jij iedereen vanavond op, en dan laat mij maar weten of ze wel of niet op de 23e kunnen. Anders doen we het bij me. Dan bel je ze gewoon terug dat het veranderd is."
"Oh."
U begrijpt, dit streek recht tegen de haren van de innerlijke rebel en de innerlijke southern lady in. Het is ongeloolijk, maar het is deze vrouw maar liefst gelukt om deze twee tegenpolen tegelijkertijd te beledigen. En wat deed ik, als volwassen, goed opgevoede vrouw nadat dit telefoongesprek was beeindigd? Juist, ik stak mijn tong uit, riep in goede oude Annie M.G. stijl, "Ik wil niet meer, ik wil niet meer!", en heb nog geen enkele Nederlandse vrouw gebeld. Dat doe ik lekker wanneer ik daar zin in heb. Lekker puh.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The bully and the bus part II
Although I wish it were different, I have the sinking suspicion that there are going to be many more parts to the "bully and the bus" saga. Ours seems to have abated for now, but I'm keeping my fingers and toes crossed for tomorrow, which is, like all other Mondays, going to be come much too soon.
Making Jimmie take the bus on Thursday did not make any difference. If nothing else, it made it worse, as Bully decided to tell Jimmie, both on the bus and at school, that "something bad" was going to happen if he took the bus again. Fortunately for Jimmie, both evil stepmom and Dad do not take to threats lightly, and five minutes after Jimmie walked in the door with that story, Dad was on the phone with the same assistant principal I had spoken to on Wednesday. Much to our dismay, the man had not yet talked to the bully. Yes, you read that right. Even though I had personally received his assurances that he would resolve this issue just a day earlier, he had not called the bully into his office. I thought husband-dear would burst a vein when he heard that.
Mind you, this is the same school system where first graders have been put in suspension for having their shirt tails untucked. The same school system that has five pages on appropriate dress code, rules about which hair styles are acceptable and which are not, and the same place that forbids high school students from engaging in, and I am literally quoting this off the school board website, "The innocent little practice of holding hands". This is also the same school system where abstinence is taught as the main way to avoid any kind of "nastiness", and where in the past children who have defended themselves from a taunting bully with a slap or a kick, have been expelled for "grossly violent behavior". And to top it all off, the school has dedicated three pages of its handbook to "anti bullying policies".
So, tell me again why the assistant principal did not call the bully into his office the moment he stepped off the bus on Wednesday? I mean, I try not to be judgmental (and trust me, that takes a lot of effort on my part), but it looks to me as though that school has its priorities slightly confused. Fortunately, husband-dear did not need me jumping up and down and making faces to get that, and he told the principal how he felt about that call. He also took his air force attitude a step further and threatened to involve the school board and the police (I'm surprised he didn't include the governor's office and the military too) if no steps were taken immediately.
The principal promised to do better, and we were once again faced with the arduous task of comforting Jimmie and getting him to take that bus the next day. Fortunately, on Friday, husband-dear went into work a little later, so he had the honors of dealing with a freaked out kid, who once again expressed his fear and frustration in our driveway at 6:30 in the morning. It's a miracle the neighbors haven't called DFACS yet. We followed Jimmie to the busstop, and parked behind a big SUV, to make sure that if Bully acted up again, we were there to see it. Nothing untoward seemed to happen, which was probably aided by the fact that Jimmie stood about 200 ft away from the actual pick up location.
And that afternoon, we received a call from the assistant principal, that he had talked to Bully after his fellow busmates had "ratted him out". Bully admitted to his behavior, broke down and cried, and was "severely punished", although the assistant principal could not tell us what the punishment was. I'm imaging two years of scraping gum off desks, or perhaps fifty whacks with a paddle, or maybe even twenty years of detention.
So we'll see what happens tomorrow morning.
But right now - thank you for all the signs of support. We've been telling Jimmie to be courageous, and it helps when he knows that there are so many people out there rooting for him.
Hopefully tomorrow, we all, this blog included, will be able to return to the order of the day.
Making Jimmie take the bus on Thursday did not make any difference. If nothing else, it made it worse, as Bully decided to tell Jimmie, both on the bus and at school, that "something bad" was going to happen if he took the bus again. Fortunately for Jimmie, both evil stepmom and Dad do not take to threats lightly, and five minutes after Jimmie walked in the door with that story, Dad was on the phone with the same assistant principal I had spoken to on Wednesday. Much to our dismay, the man had not yet talked to the bully. Yes, you read that right. Even though I had personally received his assurances that he would resolve this issue just a day earlier, he had not called the bully into his office. I thought husband-dear would burst a vein when he heard that.
Mind you, this is the same school system where first graders have been put in suspension for having their shirt tails untucked. The same school system that has five pages on appropriate dress code, rules about which hair styles are acceptable and which are not, and the same place that forbids high school students from engaging in, and I am literally quoting this off the school board website, "The innocent little practice of holding hands". This is also the same school system where abstinence is taught as the main way to avoid any kind of "nastiness", and where in the past children who have defended themselves from a taunting bully with a slap or a kick, have been expelled for "grossly violent behavior". And to top it all off, the school has dedicated three pages of its handbook to "anti bullying policies".
So, tell me again why the assistant principal did not call the bully into his office the moment he stepped off the bus on Wednesday? I mean, I try not to be judgmental (and trust me, that takes a lot of effort on my part), but it looks to me as though that school has its priorities slightly confused. Fortunately, husband-dear did not need me jumping up and down and making faces to get that, and he told the principal how he felt about that call. He also took his air force attitude a step further and threatened to involve the school board and the police (I'm surprised he didn't include the governor's office and the military too) if no steps were taken immediately.
The principal promised to do better, and we were once again faced with the arduous task of comforting Jimmie and getting him to take that bus the next day. Fortunately, on Friday, husband-dear went into work a little later, so he had the honors of dealing with a freaked out kid, who once again expressed his fear and frustration in our driveway at 6:30 in the morning. It's a miracle the neighbors haven't called DFACS yet. We followed Jimmie to the busstop, and parked behind a big SUV, to make sure that if Bully acted up again, we were there to see it. Nothing untoward seemed to happen, which was probably aided by the fact that Jimmie stood about 200 ft away from the actual pick up location.
And that afternoon, we received a call from the assistant principal, that he had talked to Bully after his fellow busmates had "ratted him out". Bully admitted to his behavior, broke down and cried, and was "severely punished", although the assistant principal could not tell us what the punishment was. I'm imaging two years of scraping gum off desks, or perhaps fifty whacks with a paddle, or maybe even twenty years of detention.
So we'll see what happens tomorrow morning.
But right now - thank you for all the signs of support. We've been telling Jimmie to be courageous, and it helps when he knows that there are so many people out there rooting for him.
Hopefully tomorrow, we all, this blog included, will be able to return to the order of the day.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
The bully and the bus
Life is full of funny little surprises. Surprises like having your dog chew up your crepe myrtle while you were cooking dinner. Or having your oldest come home with a sheepish look on his face and the statement that he forgot all about this family heritage project that is due real soon. Like tomorrow. Sometimes a surprise can take the form of unwashed PT stuff that has been sitting in someone's bag in a car for over a week. And sometimes a surprise can entail your youngest having a breakdown in the front yard at 6:30 in the morning, while all your neighbors are leaving for work. And when I say breakdown, I mean, full-out bring-it-on breakdown. One with tears and yelling and stomping, that made me want to lay down in the grass and close my eyes until it had all gone away.
Our youngest, let's call him Jimmie (after the greatest guitar player of all time - Jimmie Hendrix. Look I know, Santana is pretty close, but I can't call a boy Santana now, can I?), has been having problems on the bus. One of the kids on the bus, let's call him Bully, has been picking on him like it's going out of style. He's not let Jimmie sit down, he's called him private parts, questioned his sexual orientation, and threatened to beat him up. In short, not cool. Not cool at all. We've talked to the school, we've talked to Jimmie about standing up for himself, and it seemed to have abated. Until a few days ago.
Now you have to know that Jimmie is the sweetest kid to ever walk the face of the earth. He's forgetful, he loves leaving things until the last minute, and he doesn't see the point in maintaining any kind of organization in his room at all, but God love him, he's sweet. This is the kind of kid who will play a song for you on his guitar when you're stressed out. Or who will try to give you a foot rub when you've been running. I don't think I've ever heard one mean word between him and his brother too. But Jimmie's niceness is his problem. Because he won't hurt a fly. And really, he won't. When he finds a cockroach, he'll just stare at it, and then ask me if he can keep it in a terrarium in his room. He's the kid who will walk away from problem kids, stay away from fights, and make a joke out of everything.
So when Bully started to act out again a few days ago, not letting Jimmie sit down on the bus, Jimmie had a solution. He was going to walk a few extra minutes and get on an earlier bus stop, so there would be plenty of seats for him to chose from. Husband-dear and I applauded this, as it was the first time we'd ever seen Jimmie do anything pro-actively. So we figured out where this stop was, when he would have to leave, and at what time.
Yesterday morning, the first morning that Jimmie was going to put his plan into action, he was all bubbly and excited. Evil stepmother (=me) was a little more apprehensive, as she was fully aware of his ability to get distracted by a bug or a butterfly and not end up at the right place on time. Add to that the fact that Jimmie's older brother (let's call him Ozzie, after yet another great rocker, and one of the oldest's heroes), that Ozzie would now have to leave after Jimmie, and that Ozzie, like his namesake, does not have the best memory in the world, and you might see why I was a little concerned. I mean God and I love Ozzie, but it would be not completely unlike him to leave all the lights, windows, and doors open when he leaves. So when I drove off, I was not entirely reassured. But I was telling myself they were getting older, and needed coddling as much as they needed a hole in the head, so I was going to not turn back and check on them. I was not.
And then at the gas station a few miles from our house, I got that weird momma-buzz. Don't know why, but I knew I had to go home. So I turned around, and drove home. And lo and behold, when I saw Jimmie's bus pull up to the kerb, no Jimmie. In fact, Jimmie was nowhere to be seen. I drove down our street, and saw him, walking towards, well, goodness knows where. Being the great evil stepmom that I am, I pulled up beside him and asked the age-old, "What happened?"
"Bully told me to get my *** **ss back to my own stop."
Well, excuse me, but wtf?
"Get in the car. What happened?"
I turned out that Bully had cussed out Jimmie and threatened him with bodily harm with he would get on the bus at Bully's stop. I was fuming. On fire. Mad. I had steam coming out of my ears.
"Here, I'll take you to school, and I'm going to go talk to the principal. What's this kid's name?"
And of course, being the protective lionesque evil stepmother that I am, I raised cain at school. I wasn't mean, or rude, or loud, but I made it very clear that this was "unacceptable". For those who don't interact with me on a daily basis, that is a word that I only use when I'm really really mad. I just love how you can clip it into knife-like syllables: un-aX-epT-able. Anyway. Fortunately, the principal agreed. He looked the type of man that could scare the devil himself, so I was comforted that it was going to be taken care of. Now we just had to worry about Jimmie.
So last night, husband-dear and I sat down and talked to Jimmie. He was perfectly fine with this morning's set up, and would have been content if I were to drive him to school the rest of his educational career. Right. No. Even if it weren't for the fact that that would make me late to work almost every day, husband-dear and I believe in teaching children how to face their fears, so that was not going work. We told him the principal had talked to Bully, and so Jimmie would be riding the bus again the next morning. We assured him nothing would probably happen again. But if it did, he would simply have to stand up to Bully. Jimmie did not like that at all. We explained that if Jimmie wouldn't, Bully would only continue to pick on him, and it would even get worse. Jimmie didn't like that either. We told him what he could do and say, and honestly, Jimmie, the non-confrontational boy that he is, did not like that any more either. When we told him he could cuss without repercussions, he seemed to perk up a little though, and when Ozzie, who is two years older, and rides another bus, offered to come beat up Bully, Jimmie even smiled. We thought it was going to be OK.
Fast forward to this morning, 6:30am, DixieChick's frontyard. After walking him out the door, Jimmie balked, "I'm not going"
He was not getting on that bus. Was. Not. He might not ever again get on that bus. Ever. And he did not care what that would mean. I pleaded, I reminded him of having to stand up for himself, I encouraged, I told him he needed to be David and the bully was Goliath. We called his dad who tried to talk to him. It was to no avail. And then I had to do what every (step) mother has to do, I told him he had to walk to that busstop and get on the bus. Or there was going to be trouble.
"But I am not going! I don't want to deal with this. It's not fair!" Jimmie was red in the face and sobbing, "I am not going to do this!"
"You have no choice buddy."
I can't tell you how much I hated myself right then. I wanted to take Jimmie inside, and tell him we would both stay home today and watch Discovery all day long. But I knew that wouldn't help.
Eventually, I had to yell at Jimmie to get in the car, now! I had to haul butt to the busstop, and when he wouldn't get out when the bus pulled up but merely whimpered, I had to yell at him to get out and go. He plunged out of the car, and without looking back, jumped on to the bus.
I know it will get better, and Jimmie will be bringing in cockroaches and lizards for pets again soon, but for now, I feel like the worst stepmom in the world. The worst.
Our youngest, let's call him Jimmie (after the greatest guitar player of all time - Jimmie Hendrix. Look I know, Santana is pretty close, but I can't call a boy Santana now, can I?), has been having problems on the bus. One of the kids on the bus, let's call him Bully, has been picking on him like it's going out of style. He's not let Jimmie sit down, he's called him private parts, questioned his sexual orientation, and threatened to beat him up. In short, not cool. Not cool at all. We've talked to the school, we've talked to Jimmie about standing up for himself, and it seemed to have abated. Until a few days ago.
Now you have to know that Jimmie is the sweetest kid to ever walk the face of the earth. He's forgetful, he loves leaving things until the last minute, and he doesn't see the point in maintaining any kind of organization in his room at all, but God love him, he's sweet. This is the kind of kid who will play a song for you on his guitar when you're stressed out. Or who will try to give you a foot rub when you've been running. I don't think I've ever heard one mean word between him and his brother too. But Jimmie's niceness is his problem. Because he won't hurt a fly. And really, he won't. When he finds a cockroach, he'll just stare at it, and then ask me if he can keep it in a terrarium in his room. He's the kid who will walk away from problem kids, stay away from fights, and make a joke out of everything.
So when Bully started to act out again a few days ago, not letting Jimmie sit down on the bus, Jimmie had a solution. He was going to walk a few extra minutes and get on an earlier bus stop, so there would be plenty of seats for him to chose from. Husband-dear and I applauded this, as it was the first time we'd ever seen Jimmie do anything pro-actively. So we figured out where this stop was, when he would have to leave, and at what time.
Yesterday morning, the first morning that Jimmie was going to put his plan into action, he was all bubbly and excited. Evil stepmother (=me) was a little more apprehensive, as she was fully aware of his ability to get distracted by a bug or a butterfly and not end up at the right place on time. Add to that the fact that Jimmie's older brother (let's call him Ozzie, after yet another great rocker, and one of the oldest's heroes), that Ozzie would now have to leave after Jimmie, and that Ozzie, like his namesake, does not have the best memory in the world, and you might see why I was a little concerned. I mean God and I love Ozzie, but it would be not completely unlike him to leave all the lights, windows, and doors open when he leaves. So when I drove off, I was not entirely reassured. But I was telling myself they were getting older, and needed coddling as much as they needed a hole in the head, so I was going to not turn back and check on them. I was not.
And then at the gas station a few miles from our house, I got that weird momma-buzz. Don't know why, but I knew I had to go home. So I turned around, and drove home. And lo and behold, when I saw Jimmie's bus pull up to the kerb, no Jimmie. In fact, Jimmie was nowhere to be seen. I drove down our street, and saw him, walking towards, well, goodness knows where. Being the great evil stepmom that I am, I pulled up beside him and asked the age-old, "What happened?"
"Bully told me to get my *** **ss back to my own stop."
Well, excuse me, but wtf?
"Get in the car. What happened?"
I turned out that Bully had cussed out Jimmie and threatened him with bodily harm with he would get on the bus at Bully's stop. I was fuming. On fire. Mad. I had steam coming out of my ears.
"Here, I'll take you to school, and I'm going to go talk to the principal. What's this kid's name?"
And of course, being the protective lionesque evil stepmother that I am, I raised cain at school. I wasn't mean, or rude, or loud, but I made it very clear that this was "unacceptable". For those who don't interact with me on a daily basis, that is a word that I only use when I'm really really mad. I just love how you can clip it into knife-like syllables: un-aX-epT-able. Anyway. Fortunately, the principal agreed. He looked the type of man that could scare the devil himself, so I was comforted that it was going to be taken care of. Now we just had to worry about Jimmie.
So last night, husband-dear and I sat down and talked to Jimmie. He was perfectly fine with this morning's set up, and would have been content if I were to drive him to school the rest of his educational career. Right. No. Even if it weren't for the fact that that would make me late to work almost every day, husband-dear and I believe in teaching children how to face their fears, so that was not going work. We told him the principal had talked to Bully, and so Jimmie would be riding the bus again the next morning. We assured him nothing would probably happen again. But if it did, he would simply have to stand up to Bully. Jimmie did not like that at all. We explained that if Jimmie wouldn't, Bully would only continue to pick on him, and it would even get worse. Jimmie didn't like that either. We told him what he could do and say, and honestly, Jimmie, the non-confrontational boy that he is, did not like that any more either. When we told him he could cuss without repercussions, he seemed to perk up a little though, and when Ozzie, who is two years older, and rides another bus, offered to come beat up Bully, Jimmie even smiled. We thought it was going to be OK.
Fast forward to this morning, 6:30am, DixieChick's frontyard. After walking him out the door, Jimmie balked, "I'm not going"
He was not getting on that bus. Was. Not. He might not ever again get on that bus. Ever. And he did not care what that would mean. I pleaded, I reminded him of having to stand up for himself, I encouraged, I told him he needed to be David and the bully was Goliath. We called his dad who tried to talk to him. It was to no avail. And then I had to do what every (step) mother has to do, I told him he had to walk to that busstop and get on the bus. Or there was going to be trouble.
"But I am not going! I don't want to deal with this. It's not fair!" Jimmie was red in the face and sobbing, "I am not going to do this!"
"You have no choice buddy."
I can't tell you how much I hated myself right then. I wanted to take Jimmie inside, and tell him we would both stay home today and watch Discovery all day long. But I knew that wouldn't help.
Eventually, I had to yell at Jimmie to get in the car, now! I had to haul butt to the busstop, and when he wouldn't get out when the bus pulled up but merely whimpered, I had to yell at him to get out and go. He plunged out of the car, and without looking back, jumped on to the bus.
I know it will get better, and Jimmie will be bringing in cockroaches and lizards for pets again soon, but for now, I feel like the worst stepmom in the world. The worst.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Home
Can I just say that I love coming home? I really do. I love pulling into our garage, knowing that husband-dear finally caved into my pleas to let me park in the garage which, although it is meant for two cars, is so full with his ten bikes and riding lawnmowers and golfclubs and tools and kids' bikes that it only holds one of our cars. I love opening the door to our house, and having two dogs completely lose it because I'm. Home. At. Last. There's nothing like two dogs wagging their entire bodies and jumping all over each other so they can be really close to mommy right now yay! I even love balancing my purse, my travelmug, my lunchbag, and my laptopbag, while trying not to trip over said dogs, and make my way into the kitchen to give husband-dear a hug. If I'm lucky, one of the kids is hiding behind the laundry room door, ready to scare me witless, and have me throw the cold contents of that same travel mug all over the floor, or a wall, or a dog, whichever is closer. And if I'm really lucky, dinner will ready in just enough time for me to pull off my 1950s hose and skirt, and get into some serious jammies. So yes. Coming home is fun.
So you would think that as it's now 5:18pm, and I've just finished my last class, I am dying to go home. And you know what, I am not entirely thrilled. And it's really because the moment I walk in the door, I know I have to leave again in less than twelve hours. So basically, coming home reminds of the fact that I'll have to leave again. And I guess I like home so much, I really don't want to. Every time I come home, I realize how badly I just want to stay home. Just for a day. Just so I can hang out in the afore-mentioned PJs, lay on our couch, hug the doggies, watch TV, and read books. And watch everyone else come home for a change. Because even though coming home is fun, welcoming someone else home is even more fun.
Who knows. Maybe tomorrow will be that day.
On second thought, probably not. I think I like coming home too much to miss that. So I better leave before the doggies forget all about me.
So you would think that as it's now 5:18pm, and I've just finished my last class, I am dying to go home. And you know what, I am not entirely thrilled. And it's really because the moment I walk in the door, I know I have to leave again in less than twelve hours. So basically, coming home reminds of the fact that I'll have to leave again. And I guess I like home so much, I really don't want to. Every time I come home, I realize how badly I just want to stay home. Just for a day. Just so I can hang out in the afore-mentioned PJs, lay on our couch, hug the doggies, watch TV, and read books. And watch everyone else come home for a change. Because even though coming home is fun, welcoming someone else home is even more fun.
Who knows. Maybe tomorrow will be that day.
On second thought, probably not. I think I like coming home too much to miss that. So I better leave before the doggies forget all about me.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Cotton Fields
"Let me hear it for the cotton fields
The cotton fields back home"
Beach Boys
So I've begun to realize that my blog is started to resemble the conversations between the two main characters on Mad About You. All I ever seem to talk about is how I'm tired, and overworked, and my students are weird, and I work so hard, and I'm exhausted, and how Steve is a nuisance. Well, in all honesty, Steve is mainly a nuisance because he's considering leaving, but that's not the point. Not yet anyway.
Anyhoo, I wanted you all to know that I am sorry about whining. Really sorry. And I would tell you I'm going to try and quit whining, but we all know that I'm Dutch and so that's just not really going to happen. Instead I'm going to prove to you that I don't whine all the time, and write about something that has been catching my eye. And my sinuses.
Cotton.
Most people, when you mention cotton, start talking history. You know, plantations, the civil war, Scarlett O' Hara, the cotton gin, and other events from a long ago past. But when you live in the south, you know that cotton, unlike some of the other, less constructive, southern traditions, is still alive and well today. And let me tell you, it is amazing.
I remember the first time I saw cotton. It was Thanksgiving some years ago, when we went to visit my husband's family in northern Florida. We drove through southern Georgia, and upon seeing endless fields of white, I got incredibly excited, "Is that cotton?! That's cotton isn't it?"
When husband-dear confirmed my suspicions, I got even more excited, "Oh wow! Real cotton! I've never seen that before. And there's so much of it! Pull over!"
"Why?!" Husband-dear, you should probably know, spent part of his childhood in this part of the world, so the sight of cotton, like many other things other mortals find extremely exciting, does little for him.
"Because it's cotton! It's what I'm wearing!" I turned to the kids, "And the kids want to touch it too, right?!"
If you have ever had two boys, you know that anything will get them riled up, especially if it involves touching something that belongs to someone else, so it wasn't long before we had pulled over next to an endless cotton field, and I was admiring the little white fuzz. And you know what? It felt just like a sweater. Or a ball of yarn. Only it was on a stick with leaves on it. A sweater growing on a bush. Who would have known.
Now that we live here, cotton has become a way of life. I no longer scream or get all excited when fall comes around, and the cotton starts to come up. But I can marvel at its beauty. There is nothing quite like an endless undulating cotton field, with cotton so white it looks like it snowed. Or the sun coming up over a waving field of cotton. Or the way the cotton glows pink when the sun sets at night. It makes me smile and think poetic thoughts every time I see it, even if it is at 7 in the morning.
Now for those yankees among my readers, November tends to be harvesting season. This means big machines plowing through those poetic fields, big machines which somehow, in some weird, unknown way, turn all those little balls of fluff into gigantic big blocks of cotton. Huge white squares, at least eight feet tall and ten feet long, that sit on the side of the field for weeks. They sit there unmoving through the rain and winds, until a semi loads them up, completely intact, and then takes them for a ride down the interstate with nothing but a bitty tarp to hold all that cotton down. You would think all the little fluff would fly it away. But it never does. Not visibly anyway.
Of course, there is a down side. All that cotton produces enough pollen to keep the antihistamine industry viable for a whole year. And the fields do look very brown and depressing from December through to September. But those two months a year when the little white buds start peeping out are magical.
The cotton fields back home"
Beach Boys
So I've begun to realize that my blog is started to resemble the conversations between the two main characters on Mad About You. All I ever seem to talk about is how I'm tired, and overworked, and my students are weird, and I work so hard, and I'm exhausted, and how Steve is a nuisance. Well, in all honesty, Steve is mainly a nuisance because he's considering leaving, but that's not the point. Not yet anyway.
Anyhoo, I wanted you all to know that I am sorry about whining. Really sorry. And I would tell you I'm going to try and quit whining, but we all know that I'm Dutch and so that's just not really going to happen. Instead I'm going to prove to you that I don't whine all the time, and write about something that has been catching my eye. And my sinuses.
Cotton.
Most people, when you mention cotton, start talking history. You know, plantations, the civil war, Scarlett O' Hara, the cotton gin, and other events from a long ago past. But when you live in the south, you know that cotton, unlike some of the other, less constructive, southern traditions, is still alive and well today. And let me tell you, it is amazing.
I remember the first time I saw cotton. It was Thanksgiving some years ago, when we went to visit my husband's family in northern Florida. We drove through southern Georgia, and upon seeing endless fields of white, I got incredibly excited, "Is that cotton?! That's cotton isn't it?"
When husband-dear confirmed my suspicions, I got even more excited, "Oh wow! Real cotton! I've never seen that before. And there's so much of it! Pull over!"
"Why?!" Husband-dear, you should probably know, spent part of his childhood in this part of the world, so the sight of cotton, like many other things other mortals find extremely exciting, does little for him.
"Because it's cotton! It's what I'm wearing!" I turned to the kids, "And the kids want to touch it too, right?!"
If you have ever had two boys, you know that anything will get them riled up, especially if it involves touching something that belongs to someone else, so it wasn't long before we had pulled over next to an endless cotton field, and I was admiring the little white fuzz. And you know what? It felt just like a sweater. Or a ball of yarn. Only it was on a stick with leaves on it. A sweater growing on a bush. Who would have known.
Now that we live here, cotton has become a way of life. I no longer scream or get all excited when fall comes around, and the cotton starts to come up. But I can marvel at its beauty. There is nothing quite like an endless undulating cotton field, with cotton so white it looks like it snowed. Or the sun coming up over a waving field of cotton. Or the way the cotton glows pink when the sun sets at night. It makes me smile and think poetic thoughts every time I see it, even if it is at 7 in the morning.
Now for those yankees among my readers, November tends to be harvesting season. This means big machines plowing through those poetic fields, big machines which somehow, in some weird, unknown way, turn all those little balls of fluff into gigantic big blocks of cotton. Huge white squares, at least eight feet tall and ten feet long, that sit on the side of the field for weeks. They sit there unmoving through the rain and winds, until a semi loads them up, completely intact, and then takes them for a ride down the interstate with nothing but a bitty tarp to hold all that cotton down. You would think all the little fluff would fly it away. But it never does. Not visibly anyway.
Of course, there is a down side. All that cotton produces enough pollen to keep the antihistamine industry viable for a whole year. And the fields do look very brown and depressing from December through to September. But those two months a year when the little white buds start peeping out are magical.
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