Yesterday, was the dreaded second parent/teacher conference of the year. The one where most of the time the kids show an improvement because, of course, no matter how smart or good they could possibly be in September--they need an incentive to grow. So, this is the time the teachers usually, hopefully note the improvements or chastise remember we were going to help him work on...
Although I left the house with my "hello-world-ready-for-anything" poker face, I was still nervous. Because, lets face it, as a mom, an enlightened, hands on, overly doting, new aged: I'm not too intrusive, not totally living through you but I've got your back, type of mom--it reflects on me (us--Tom) as parents. So as nervous as my kids were, magnify that three-fold. It'll be my fault if they aren't doing well, right?
The surprises in life are wondrous. Good report cards and showing great test scores is one thing but I was thrilled to hear, "I'm not really supposed to say this or judge but Melanie is such a happy child."
Is it teacher spin to put the parent at ease? I'd like to think not because it was an after thought, a whisper kind of going out into the hallway as I was deposited back into the crowd moving down the hall towards another classroom.
We must be doing something right, I thought with neon light beaming pride on the drive home. "Happy!!" She's happy. This is a child whom I butt heads with on more than one occasion daily. A child who has fits when her socks "throw up" she calls it as they loosen and bunch at the toes. A child whose emotions skyrocket and plummet in zero.3 seconds when asked to brush her hair or teeth. Happy!
That glow continued even through my return home to:
"Mom, you said we could buy books at the book fair, you forgot."
"There's nothing to eat."
"Daisy, pooed in the house, again."
Happiness.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Trump's personal attacks
I'm done with the Apprentice. Thanks to DVRS we watched last week's episode this week. The firing of TLC's Tionne for backing up Joan Rivers daughter Melissa was ridiculous--Trump power play.
Exposing Dennis Rodman for who he is, and firing Khloe Kardashian for her DUI conviction...
These have nothing to do with getting a job and/or being an apprentice which was supposed to be the point. It's Trump on a power play--nanny nanny poo pooing, exploiting people's weaknesses for charities. Shame on Trump. Meanwhile he oogles women discussing the body of the model in Clint Black's ALL detergent masturbation-skit and is constantly hitting on ex-Playboy Bunny Brandi, who I have to admit I kind of like.
Jesse James is the man. I'm waiting for him to just walk off and tell Trump to take this job and sh_ _ _ it.
It reminds me not to turn on the TV. Yet soon he'll be taking over my favorite beach, Jones -- on Long Island.
Exposing Dennis Rodman for who he is, and firing Khloe Kardashian for her DUI conviction...
These have nothing to do with getting a job and/or being an apprentice which was supposed to be the point. It's Trump on a power play--nanny nanny poo pooing, exploiting people's weaknesses for charities. Shame on Trump. Meanwhile he oogles women discussing the body of the model in Clint Black's ALL detergent masturbation-skit and is constantly hitting on ex-Playboy Bunny Brandi, who I have to admit I kind of like.
Jesse James is the man. I'm waiting for him to just walk off and tell Trump to take this job and sh_ _ _ it.
It reminds me not to turn on the TV. Yet soon he'll be taking over my favorite beach, Jones -- on Long Island.
Monday, April 20, 2009
First Love--Ibanez
By yesterday morning I was cranky. After spending the week home with all three kids on vacation, still working to drum up story ideas for editors and crafting a mother-daughter website and catering to a 7, 9 and 10-year-old--to really be with them, really enjoy our vacation, I was exhausted. Robert spent the week mooning over a bass guitar we'd found in All Music, a store not far from our home on Long Island.
"Let's go back," he would beg repeatedly each day by 10 am. He had it bad and pined for a metallic blue Ibanez electric bass, pre-owned so it was cheaper (smart kid) but fit perfectly in his smaller 10-year-old-hand. His blond scruffy surfer dude hair in the musician persona was a fitting accessory against the bright blue.
I know this obsessive, burning passion he has for music. Did I do it to him? Can you project all your stuff onto your child and then live vicariously through them? Been done already by fathers on various fields. Ya think?
"Okay kid, let's go." We spent three separate afternoons at the store, Robert plugged in playing the same four riffs he somehow plucked out by ear on his upright bass; "Smoke on the Water," "Iron Man," and two he wrote.
I wandered around the store circling him, a satellite in our bond and love for sound. The guys who worked there, musicians in their own right, smiled at my indulgence of his need to play and fielded questions about price, case, amps, etc.
Finally yesterday, after much cajoling and reasoning, Tom and I decided instead of making Robert wait for his July birthday, we would see how much of his saved allowance he could gather and we'd add some and buy the bass to put him out of his misery.
Robert had squirrelled away $100 and by trading in Xmas gift cards, Easter money, advances on his allowance and a bag of change totalling $11.50--he hit the magic number--$140 to buy it outright himself!
So Sunday morning off we went in a religious ceremony--the whole family his witness. He walked into the store proudly with a fist full of cash in his hand, marched to the back where the basses hung from racks in front of sheet music boxes with Paul McCartney smiling down from a photo to anoint the moment. Robert selected his first guitar, pulled it off the rack and began the ride of his life.
He talked through the issues of not getting a amp yet (use mine, I said) and a strap and a case but stood taller and was more mighty than the overpowering storm of musical obsession that overtook his life.
Since we got home yesterday, we haven't seen him. But the house is alive with sounds of real music in low, thumping rhythms drowning out the drone of video games and lifting my mood.
"Let's go back," he would beg repeatedly each day by 10 am. He had it bad and pined for a metallic blue Ibanez electric bass, pre-owned so it was cheaper (smart kid) but fit perfectly in his smaller 10-year-old-hand. His blond scruffy surfer dude hair in the musician persona was a fitting accessory against the bright blue.
I know this obsessive, burning passion he has for music. Did I do it to him? Can you project all your stuff onto your child and then live vicariously through them? Been done already by fathers on various fields. Ya think?
"Okay kid, let's go." We spent three separate afternoons at the store, Robert plugged in playing the same four riffs he somehow plucked out by ear on his upright bass; "Smoke on the Water," "Iron Man," and two he wrote.
I wandered around the store circling him, a satellite in our bond and love for sound. The guys who worked there, musicians in their own right, smiled at my indulgence of his need to play and fielded questions about price, case, amps, etc.
Finally yesterday, after much cajoling and reasoning, Tom and I decided instead of making Robert wait for his July birthday, we would see how much of his saved allowance he could gather and we'd add some and buy the bass to put him out of his misery.
Robert had squirrelled away $100 and by trading in Xmas gift cards, Easter money, advances on his allowance and a bag of change totalling $11.50--he hit the magic number--$140 to buy it outright himself!
So Sunday morning off we went in a religious ceremony--the whole family his witness. He walked into the store proudly with a fist full of cash in his hand, marched to the back where the basses hung from racks in front of sheet music boxes with Paul McCartney smiling down from a photo to anoint the moment. Robert selected his first guitar, pulled it off the rack and began the ride of his life.
He talked through the issues of not getting a amp yet (use mine, I said) and a strap and a case but stood taller and was more mighty than the overpowering storm of musical obsession that overtook his life.
Since we got home yesterday, we haven't seen him. But the house is alive with sounds of real music in low, thumping rhythms drowning out the drone of video games and lifting my mood.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Okay. Someone very helpful on Twitter explained the drill to me. Once you hit 2,000 people you can't follow any more until you are followed by 2,000 people.
Got it. I was confused.
Got it. I was confused.
Friday, April 10, 2009
A Tweet and a Twit
I'm on Twitter, up to 2,000 I'm following and 1,200 following me...and last night two things were evident.
One: my neck, wrist and hand hurt. This cyber communicating is tough on the body yet there is no body needed. It's fascinating to me how in the moment Twitter is without the physical presence of human beings. ME, ME, ME -- it screams. I craved comfort, so I listen to the waltzing 3/4 time of Ray LaMontagne crooning "Let It Be Me" and thought something's false about all this tweeting--yet I'm hooked and fascinated. This was what my parents must have felt like staring at the black and white TV that invaded their quiet lives when plugging something in for the first time all those eons ago.
Two: I had the weirdest dreams last night, like a Martha Graham or Merce Cunningham dance sequence of humanity with tables and tables of people. It was a family gathering of sorts, but not MY family that I've known and loved for 43 years (or my husbands) it was strangers who embraced me and my three kids, fluffing out white table cloths, opening folding chairs in preparation; showering us with fattening, buttery foods and laughing at shared family stories. I didn't recognize anybody in the foggy, billowy dream.
Weird.
One: my neck, wrist and hand hurt. This cyber communicating is tough on the body yet there is no body needed. It's fascinating to me how in the moment Twitter is without the physical presence of human beings. ME, ME, ME -- it screams. I craved comfort, so I listen to the waltzing 3/4 time of Ray LaMontagne crooning "Let It Be Me" and thought something's false about all this tweeting--yet I'm hooked and fascinated. This was what my parents must have felt like staring at the black and white TV that invaded their quiet lives when plugging something in for the first time all those eons ago.
Two: I had the weirdest dreams last night, like a Martha Graham or Merce Cunningham dance sequence of humanity with tables and tables of people. It was a family gathering of sorts, but not MY family that I've known and loved for 43 years (or my husbands) it was strangers who embraced me and my three kids, fluffing out white table cloths, opening folding chairs in preparation; showering us with fattening, buttery foods and laughing at shared family stories. I didn't recognize anybody in the foggy, billowy dream.
Weird.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
She loves me, she loves me not
I know our puppy Daisy loves me. I can tell. Really! After just a few weeks, she knows her name now. When I pull her out of the crate in the morning, she's bigger than ever, growing like Clifford the Big Red Dog. We got her four weeks ago at 9 lbs. now she's 13.
She loves me: Oh Yeah! She leaves me presents--a little poo by the back door, paws at me to pet her head, protectively growls at strangers, follows me through the house (and I pace a lot--helps the writing but must drive her crazy), she does the major hoola hoop wiggle, tail wagging and all when I come home.
She loves me not: chews my shoes, my legs as I walk, growls when I try to leash her, sets a firm stance and refuses to walk down the block only to come home and poo in our backyard.
Daisy. Daisy. I pluck petals...she loves me, she loves me not!
She loves me: Oh Yeah! She leaves me presents--a little poo by the back door, paws at me to pet her head, protectively growls at strangers, follows me through the house (and I pace a lot--helps the writing but must drive her crazy), she does the major hoola hoop wiggle, tail wagging and all when I come home.
She loves me not: chews my shoes, my legs as I walk, growls when I try to leash her, sets a firm stance and refuses to walk down the block only to come home and poo in our backyard.
Daisy. Daisy. I pluck petals...she loves me, she loves me not!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
My Hero
It happened yesterday.
Robert and I were practicing for an open mic night performance. I would play chords on the guitar and sing Ray LaMontagne's "Shelter." Robert would play the upright bass that he plays in the elementary school band. We were fussing with the notes and he got red faced, flustered and the tears began...
"I can't do it," he blurted out. So we stopped rehearsing.
"You don't have to do it," I said gently thinking I pushed him too far too fast, eager to share music with him.
"But, I WANT to..."
And here's what Tom and I have been saying for months, and months of the Guitar Hero video things. The reality is: it's a game. But kids feel they are rock stars entitled to the keys to the city. Hours of Rock Band fun yes, but not to the exclusivity of wasting time NOT learning something real with the potential for a lifetime of joy sharing music with others.
Sadly, Robert slunk away defeated and I tried to lift his spirits but it's hard when he knows the truth now. Practice and do it, don't pose your way through life. Better to learn at 10 than 22 or 43. Work your craft no matter what it is because no one can take that away from you.
Ever.
This morning Robert said he wants to take lessons. I smiled. "I'll sign you up today."
and my hero, sans the red cape, bent down to pet Daisy. "Who's a good girl?" and began training her to sit and shake a paw. He's excellent with her; a natural born teacher.
Our performance has been postponed but a fresh dream with the path to get there is newly illuminated.
Robert and I were practicing for an open mic night performance. I would play chords on the guitar and sing Ray LaMontagne's "Shelter." Robert would play the upright bass that he plays in the elementary school band. We were fussing with the notes and he got red faced, flustered and the tears began...
"I can't do it," he blurted out. So we stopped rehearsing.
"You don't have to do it," I said gently thinking I pushed him too far too fast, eager to share music with him.
"But, I WANT to..."
And here's what Tom and I have been saying for months, and months of the Guitar Hero video things. The reality is: it's a game. But kids feel they are rock stars entitled to the keys to the city. Hours of Rock Band fun yes, but not to the exclusivity of wasting time NOT learning something real with the potential for a lifetime of joy sharing music with others.
Sadly, Robert slunk away defeated and I tried to lift his spirits but it's hard when he knows the truth now. Practice and do it, don't pose your way through life. Better to learn at 10 than 22 or 43. Work your craft no matter what it is because no one can take that away from you.
Ever.
This morning Robert said he wants to take lessons. I smiled. "I'll sign you up today."
and my hero, sans the red cape, bent down to pet Daisy. "Who's a good girl?" and began training her to sit and shake a paw. He's excellent with her; a natural born teacher.
Our performance has been postponed but a fresh dream with the path to get there is newly illuminated.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Let the Games Begin
Ugh!!! Here we go. Not the Oprah adage, but my life, scuse me Tom, OUR lives. Every April it starts. We are traipsing across many different soccer and softball fields.
And, ahem, could we have a little sun and nicer weather? Please? Yesterday we froze our cans off. I remember as a kid that April with spring break and flowers blooming was more balmy than this and October--Halloween--was down right, bone chilling frigid cold. I was more upset about having to wear a coat over my costume than about how much candy I didn't get.
Now, Halloween has been gorgeous coats off and it doesn't get warm until late May. Maybe Al Gore is right. Global warming?
And, ahem, could we have a little sun and nicer weather? Please? Yesterday we froze our cans off. I remember as a kid that April with spring break and flowers blooming was more balmy than this and October--Halloween--was down right, bone chilling frigid cold. I was more upset about having to wear a coat over my costume than about how much candy I didn't get.
Now, Halloween has been gorgeous coats off and it doesn't get warm until late May. Maybe Al Gore is right. Global warming?
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
April Fools--NOT
I never liked April Fool's Day. When I was a kid, my cousins lived with us for a few months before they were able to find a house they liked. My cousin John pulled a bunch of pranks--switching sugar with cream of wheat and other "fun" things. I don't think mom was amused when her sugar floated in lumps in her coffee.
Kelly zinged us a few times this morning. "The dog pooed on the floor." To which I reacted in my usual tone -- DAY ZEEEEEE! "April Fools!" Kelly hooted.
Just wait till I tell them we're NOT going to Disney in July after all.
April Fools.
Kelly zinged us a few times this morning. "The dog pooed on the floor." To which I reacted in my usual tone -- DAY ZEEEEEE! "April Fools!" Kelly hooted.
Just wait till I tell them we're NOT going to Disney in July after all.
April Fools.
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