Monday, July 13, 2009

Ode to Public Education: Part One

Has it really been ten years already? In some ways it seems like yesterday, and in other ways it seem much longer ago that I graduated from high school. Either way it still haunts me. You probably don't understand; you probably enjoyed public education. Good for you. Why don't you go put on your Letterman sweater and shut the heck up? Sorry, I'm a little bitter. And here's why...
Cobb Elementary School



I was never very special. Not in the positive sense at any rate. From kindergarten through the fifth grade I was painfully shy and had really messed up front teeth, and a blinking eye tic. My mom clearly cut my bangs (as you can observe in exhibit A), dressed me in Victorian era inspired jump suits and I couldn't read analogue clocks. Nobody in my neighborhood liked me. Nobody at church liked me. Few kids at school acknowledged my existence. I recall being excluded from girl circles, getting into slap-bracelet feuds, and being sent to the Principal's office for hitting someone in the face with a tether ball. You can only imagine how excited I was for the clean slate middle school offered.



Middletown Middle School



Well, not exactly a clean slate. Middletown Middle school combined three elementary schools which meant my class went from thirty-five kids to about ninety kids, so there was still that thirty-percent who remembered the unfortunate tether-ball incident. Still, I had had braces, I was sporting sweet new glasses, and although I still couldn't read analogue clocks I was determined to turn my antisocial life around.

Riding the school bus changed my life. It arrived each morning at 7:30 at a cigarette-strewn shanty about half a mile from my house. It was always packed to full capacity with the motliest collection of foul-mouthed high school and middle school students Cobb Mountain had to offer. And since my stop was second to last I had to sit wherever I could. And generally the only open seats were those in the very back with the pirates; a dangerous place for an eleven year old girl in stirrup pants. I witnessed a lot of things back there. Learned many delightful new words and phrases. Saw a kid light his leg hairs on fire. It was a long bus ride with many a sharp corner. Fortunately for me weed + stoners = exceptionally accommodating seatmates and so I was befriended, my life experience expanded, and all the second-hand marijuana smoke probably helped me relax a little.

Of course Middle school wasn't all uncomfortable bus rides. There were plenty of other things contributing to one's discomfort. Like having to change for gym, when all I owned were granny panties. Or when a kid from my core class told me he was going to punch me in my "four inch forehead". Or my seventh grade yearbook photo where I look exactly like the deaf kid pictured above me. I was a nerd from my golden perv glasses all the way to my K-Mart tennis shoes. But the elevation from being rejected to mostly ignored was welcome. I did have a small group of equally nerdy friends, and being one of the eight kids chosen to go on a school-sponsored trip to Japan filled me with a small but happy confidence.

As far as public education is concerned, I peaked in the eighth grade. The summer after I went to Japan I got contacts, a more age-appropriate wardrobe, and started wearing mascara. I bought my first cassette tapes: Ace of Base, and Green Day. By some mistake I was put in the smart class with the smart kids and was able to make more nerdy friends than ever before. That year I was voted "prettiest eyes" in the yearbook. I had arrived. Little did I know it was all downhill from there.
To Be Continued...














Saturday, July 4, 2009

I Am Venom


I'm not going to lie to you, this week kind of sucked. And I can't put my finger on why exactly. Cambria's been sleeping though the night, and the lawn is looking better than ever so I don't know. I'm just not feeling it lately. Some weeks are like that. No matter how well things are going you're just off your game. Outwardly nothing's changed, but inside you'd rather be vacationing on some remote island, being served peach milkshakes by a burly native. You'd rather be somewhere else, even though you love your life, love your fabulous husband and children, love your home. Some weeks it just feels like you're just going through the motions. And you scold when you would normally laugh. And yell at the kids to stop yelling. And feed your family canned spaghetti three times in one week. And find excuses to be alone. And snack at eleven-o-clock at night even though you know its all going into your thighs. AND then feel incredibly guilty for everything you're doing wrong. Guilty for everything you haven't done right. Guilty for feeling down after all that God has blessed you with. Guilty for feeling guilty. Some weeks are a downward spiral that appear to have no bottom. Some weeks you make more mistakes than others.


Thank goodness for Sunday.


Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Darth Schlictenstein


Since Brooklyn was a wee infant we have been taking her Dr. Schlicter. From the beginning we have fondly referred to him as "The Schlictenstein" and in the beginning he was both pleasant and helpful. I turned to him for every cough. But in the last couple of years something has changed inside The Schlictenstein. He has turned to the dark side. The enthusiastic pediatrician is dead. Darth Schlictenstein is our new doctor.
I first noticed the change last year at Avery's two-year check up. He could find nothing wrong with her. This angered him.

"Where did this bruise come from?" He insisted.
"I have no idea." by which I meant I had no idea.
"Strange place for a bruise."
"Yeah." Oh wait, maybe it was from that severe beating I gave her. (heavy sarcasm).

"Does she stack blocks?"
"Yes, she loves Legos."
"No, not Legos BLOCKS. How high would you say she stacks them?"
"I have no idea."
"I see."

Then, at Brooklyn's five-year check up...

"Well, she's definitely knock-kneed."
"What?"
"Yeah, it will probably cause her problems in the future. Does she play hopscotch?"
"Um, no."
"I see. Can she count backwards from twenty?"
"I have no idea. She can add and subtract and read books and memorize songs on the piano and skip, and ride a bike and draw everything she sees. But I don't know if she can count backwards from twenty."
"I see."

Finally yesterday at Avery's three year check up...

"Do you have any concerns?"
"Not really."
"Really? Are you sure?"
"Well, I guess she could benefit from being around kids her own age. She's used to playing with older children and has a hard time playing with other three year olds."
"That's very immature."
"Yes, well she is three."
"I'd say she's acting more like a two and a half year old."
"Hmmm."
"How high can she count?"
"She's solid up to five."
"The next time I see her I want her counting backwards from twenty."

"No bruises??? Is she a couch potato?"
"Not at all."
"I get worried when I see no bruises."

"I see that last year Avery was in the ninetieth percentile for height. Now she is only in the fiftieth percentile. Its probably not a big deal; she may be in between growth spurts. So we won't check her for cancer just yet."
"WHAT?"
"Yes, children with cancer don't grow the way they should. We'll have to see how she grows this next year. No reason to worry...yet."

What the-!!!




I cried and fretted the rest of the afternoon until it occurred to me: The Schlictenstein is a real douche. Time for a new pediatrician.