A Christmas Wish from the Circus

Homemade Gifts

I won't lie - I like presents: shopping for them, wrapping them, giving them, but especially getting them. I tell people all year long what they could get me. In fact, I wandered around work one day telling everyone where they could buy me toe-socks for the holidays. (Thank you, by the way, to whoever sneaked those in my box!)
However, the best gifts of this holiday weren't bought or wrapped. They came in the form of simple, authentic expressions of love. My older son, when I asked him to name his favorite teacher ever, said simply, "You, Mom. Because you love me." No shiny package can top that. And so, today, in my own tiny way, I paid it forward. After spending an afternoon in the House that Jerry Built, I watched the Cowboys win their game. The bile rises in my throat just thinking about it, but when I saw the joy on my husband's face, I swallowed it with a smile. Today, his joy is mine, Cowboys or not. Merry Christmas, Honey . . . and Happy Holidays to you all.
(P.S. - GO STEELERS!)

The Straw

I cried about my haircut.  I should mention that this is not the norm for me:  generally speaking, I'm not a "cry over cut hair" sort of girl.  It's a testament to just how a mom can bleed out from a thousand little cuts.  I feel some guilt even blogging about this:  I haven't blogged in quite a while, and some really wonderful things have happened during that time.  I vow to blog about one of those tomorrow.  Somehow, though, it's the things that drag us down that end up unloaded onto the page, as if somehow this emotional retching somehow staunches the hemorrhaging. 

Back to the haircut.  My hair is ridiculous, which is to say that this particular haircut does not make my ridiculous hair look any more so than it did yesterday.  In fact, I would gladly have handed a pair of shears to any one of the ladies in my bunco group last night, in the hopes of finding some new aesthetic for which I am so sorely lacking. However, I have been growing my hair own from a Martina Navratilova "do" to something with more bounce for over a year.   And so I walk into this mom and pop salon with high hopes that Teri, my "regular girl", will be there to tame my flyaway mess and give me a bit of style for the holiday party week upcoming.  It was my only evening off, and I took advantage.  Alas, it was not to be.  Teri was absent, but in her place stood a perfectly capable black-smocked woman with scissors and a smile.  Rather than be horrified at her apparent glee, I went for optimism that this would be a great cut.  We sweep the "cape of protection" over my festive Christmas sweater and begin.

A moment of digression again, if I may be so bold - "optimism" does not in any way, shape, or form articulate exactly how I was feeling at that moment.  It was much more akin to "I've had it up to HERE!", or something along those lines.  What any sane woman would have done in this moment was to respectfully ask when Teri will be pack and then set an appointment.  Not me, no, no, no.  I waved around my head, said the world "clippers", then took off my glasses to hope for the best.  Idiotic right?  Naive to the point of being infantile, I know.  But to remember, I have fond memories of Teri in my head, and I am just so tired of being a cheaply colored sheepdog, so something must be done.

Which returns us, finally, to the tragedy unfolding in and around my chair.  I see some tufts float down and I think:  really?  Where did that come from?  But do I speak?  NNNNNOOOOOOO!  I just sit there in my utter blindness until she hands the glasses back to me.  And then, the moment has arrived.  I smile in the mirror to see . . . an entire year's growth gone.  Now I have had haircuts this short before; shorter, in fact.  But this was simply not the day to go renegade.  I just cried and cried and cried.  I cried about every tiny thing, every silly moment, every gripe, every cry, every disappointment that had led to this one watershed (and waterworks) moment. 

I'm over it now, although I dread the day at school tomorrow hearing my entire faculty say with one voice, " but why did you CUT it?  It was so pretty a bit longer!"  Ggggggggrrrrrrrr.     Friends, working moms, countrymen, lend me your ears:  IT'S NEVER ABOUT THE HAIRCUT.  The haircut is the straw, and whether the haircut broke you, or the yelling, or the grabbing 34 cans of Spaghettios off of the shelf, or screaming "I hate you" with the same mouth that they kiss you goodnight with. 

Cry, my comrades in arms.   CRY!!!!!!!!!!!  Then splash off, breathe, and jump back in.

On the upside, the haircut was free.

Safety First

I mentioned a little "Circus Factoid" to my friends this weekend and, at their urging, I'm sharing it with the universe. At this moment, I have sixteen fire safety posters in my house, in various stages of completion and display. Two or three feature EDITH (which, for those not current with the lingo, stands for Exit Drills In The Home), one boasts an escape plan replete with windows we don't actually have in our home, and several star a famous little box-shaped robot soaring above the Towering Inferno with his fire extinguisher. These posters have become the go-to activity in our house. Need a little break? Draw a fire safety poster. See something exciting on television? Go add it to a fire safety poster. Want to show your love for someone? Make them a fire safety poster. This week I picked up Mr. Fire Safety after what was apparently a tough day. I hear, in the most dejected little voice, "I love you so much, Mom. I want to make you a fire safety poster." Two days later, after an exponentially better day, I hear, "Mom! I got five basketballs! I'm going to draw you a FIRE SAFETY POSTER!" He was in such a great mood that I thought I'd take a chance: "So, buddy, maybe you could draw me a camping poster, instead, and show me all of the great things that you did on your campout?" His response: "Sure, Mom! I'd love to add a nice roaring campfire to my fire safety poster."


No dice. And still, there has to be a limit, right? I mean, how many fire safety posters can one boy make?


Stupid question.


Not fifteen seconds ago, I was just informed by a little naked person, "while I'm waiting for my shower water to heat up, I think I'll work on my fire safety poster."


Okay, then . . .

Measure of Success

This is an discussion thread that I composed for an academic discussion, but I think it has great value for any parent committed to student success and to public school success:


I believe that the alignment to standards that lies at the heart of NCLB has great value. I believe that every child deserves academic rigor in their grade-level content areas, suited to their particular strengths and weaknesses. As a teacher committed to my craft and to the mission of academic success for all students, I do not quail at the idea of student, teacher, and school accountability. As a parent of a special-needs child, I see every day an academic world available to my son that would have been unthinkable ten years ago. And yet, I also see a system that fails the individual by focusing on the group. Year after year I am frustrated by the basic statistical flaws of our standards-based accountability. We speak to our stakeholders about growth, about adequate yearly progress; yet, we base the public assessment of school success on a “snapshot” that is not only inconsistent statistically from one year to the next, but lacks the vital growth component that assesses true academic progress at a student level:.
Current state accountability systems rely heavily upon performance standards to make judgments about the quality of education. Specifically, accountability systems constructed according to federal adequate yearly progress (AYP) requirements use annual “snap-shots” of student achievement relative to state performance standards to make judgments about education quality. . . Though appropriate for making judgments about the achievement level of students, they are inappropriate for judgments about educational effectiveness. (Betebrenner, 2009)


I teach fifth grade math and science, and few places feel the real-time stressors of NCLB as acutely as teachers in my position. I do worry about whether or not we sacrifice depth for breadth in content, and I do worry about reaching the many at the sacrifice of truly teaching the one: the one who needs the most pulling or the one who needs the most pushing. Mostly, however, I worry about how the accountability system might be self-defeating - for schools, teachers, students - that strive year after year against unbelievable obstacles. If a student improves 150 points on an assessment scale score, how do we in good conscience tell that child, that parent, that teacher, that it is simply not enough? Who, really, has failed?


Works Cited:
Betebrenner, D. W. (2009, April 6). Growth, Standards, and Accountability. Retrieved October 6, 2010, from The National Center for the Improvement of Educational Assessment: http://www.nciea.org/publications/growthandStandard_DB09.pdf

Family Vacation

I haven't posted in a while - life has marched along. My husband and I got the opportunity to take a fabulous vacation to a sunny, gorgeous beach resort, courtesy of my husband's company. We built sandcastles in the tide of the Pacific, lounged on our own personal patio to watch the sunrise, and ate . . . and ate . . . and ate. Our little men were left in the tender care of their grandparents: two sets, working in shifts. We talked to them on the phone each evening, and they made us regaled us with stories of the day and reports of how things were, and were not, moving along as normally scheduled. I missed them desperately: I found myself thinking, "Oh, I wish the boys could see this" or, "Wouldn't we love to bring the boys here?" I knew that everyone was doing wonderfully and having an amazing time, but I couldn't help but wonder if they remembered to check the homework pocket of the binder, or if they remembered to order and extra red sauce with the Crazy Bread. So silly!
On Sunday night, we came trudging in the door, so very tired and glad to be home. The misters were fast asleep, and it took all that I had not to wake them up by scooping them up to me and squeezing them until they squeaked. I settled for kisses on the forehead.
By 7:00 the next morning, I was feeling more like pinching than squeezing -- it doesn't take long, does it? But the time gave us a recharge and a renewal, and we are better for it as a family.

Munchalicious

First of all, let me be clear:  we take meals VERY seriously at my house.  We create the weekly dinner menu as a family, and use our very best consensus-building skills to do it.  When the monthly lunch menu comes home, we sit down and have a family conference about which lunch we'll be having, or if we'll be bringing our lunchbox to school on any given day.  We review that morning what the lunch will be, in the event any last minute adjustments need to be made.  We leave nothing to chance.  And so it comes as a bit of a shock to me that my oldest son has a MASSIVE meltdown at lunchtime one day this week.  Why?  Because he has decided on the way to school that he does not want a grilled cheese sandwich, after all.  He wants to have his lunchbox, with hot dog, no squiggle of mustard, just bun, and a cup of chocolate pudding.  Now, does he share this information with me?  No, he does not.  Does he share this with his teacher?  No, he does not, except to inform her that he will not be making his lunch choice that morning.  (With this child, that act could mean any number of things, none of them actually having to do with lunch.)  He simply refuses to go to the cafeteria.  He tells his teacher, and later on the assistant principal, that he cannot, CANNOT, go to the cafeteria without his lunchbox.  Now, finally, after a Mommy Intervention, we finally get to the bottom of this and move on with life, but it is not without a one-act play in the hall.
That night, my younger son, who has agreed that morning that a hot dog will be a great dinner (Hot dog?  Ah, yes . . . that's right - hot dog.  You see the connection.), decides that a hot dog will NOT be a great dinner, decides to sob inconsolably for 40 minutes about not having . . . wait for it . . . grilled cheese.  Are you kidding me, here?
No, no, wait - we're not done.  The next day, everyone has such a great day at school that we make a trip to Sonic for dinner as a reward.  The older son?  A grilled cheese sandwich.  And the younger?  I'll bet you can guess. . . 


Enjoy your next meal.  Hopefully, in peace.

One Math Problem

It seems like nothing, doesn't it?  One math problem.  How could one math problem possibly change the outcome of a family's evening so drastically?  We completed homework today in the late morning.  It was the perfect time:  no deadlines, peak potential for a meltdown-free process, maximum concentration.  We struggled to begin the work; overcoming inertia is often half of the challenge.  With amazing cooperation on the part of father and son, with excellent support from little brother, the homework is completed with minimal fuss.  Fantastic!
At 7:55, while the boys are watching a reward episode of Phineas and Ferb for a truly Zen haircutting experience, I give all of our Monday morning items a final once-over.  What do I find?  One math problem, undone.  A journal-style question at the bottom of the math page.  I want to weep the instant I see it.  Why, you ask?  Why would I possibly destroy that peace over one math problem?  Because we must.  Because we do our homework, all of it, no matter what.  Cause and effect is one of the mighty weapons we use to combat the perils of autism.  We understand that actions have consequences, and there is no room for, "maybe next time".  And so, we turn off the TV and we begin again.  An hour later, everyone is in tears and someone has screamed an "I hate you" that they will go to sleep regretting.  We hug and kiss and say "good night", and I lean against the closed door, drained.  Someday, this lesson will be worth it.  He will take this moment, with so many others, and build a scaffolding of experiences that help him live a strong, independent life.  Someday, this will be worth it. 

But not today.

Welcome to the Circus

     My life is insane.  That's not to say that everyone else's life is, by comparison, more sane.  Or less.  I'm simply stating an observable fact.  I have two sons, and they are amazing.  They are also mischevious, dramatic, feisty, unruly, and at times completely incorrigible.  Today we went swimming at Pop-Pop's pool.  It was the kind of day that you daydream about:  cloud-free, hot but not blistering, humidity at a minimum.  My brother's dog was leaping into the pool to fetch her tennis ball-tube device at regular intervals, and the humans were playing and splashing and roaring with laughter.  Now why would my older son determine that this is a perfect time to take a rather large plastic shovel from the sandbox, fill it with landscaping rocks and dirt, and dump it straight down 9 feet to the bottom of my father's pool?  I have no idea.  What's more, I'm not entirely sure my son does, either.  You see, he is autistic.  That's no excuse: I'd still have happily choked him like a chicken in that moment.  However, it does make determining the cause of these inexplicable behaviors a bit like an interrogation in a Monty Python movie, or like the scene of a surreal Abbott and Costello skit. 
     "Why did you scoop up the dirt, buddy?" 
     "I thought the water was too flat." 
     "Do you understand that rocks and dirt can tear up the pool, buddy?" 
     "I need to think this over." 
At which point, he walks with unmistakable intent over to the patio umbrella that we have already discussed three or four times today and starts cranking the handle . . . again.  But make no mistake, this was a truly fantastic day.  No one threw themselves on the ground, no one screamed with the volume and pitch that could shatter a car window, everyone used their "listening eyes" and talked about their first week of school, and we even sang Happy Birthday (in whispers) and blew out the candle for Uncle with smiles on our faces.  He's the most brilliant person I know, bar none, and I know many very smart people.
     My younger son has a flair for the dramatic.  This evening we went to sleep with a rousing rendition of the theme from "Superman", done entirely in "dunh dunh dunh's"  and full flying position.  He wants his share of the spotlight, and he's willing to sing, dance, deliberately misbehave, cry, throw himself on you, or interrupt at the top of his lungs to get it.  He has the most beautiful face and the most adorable voice, and he is, quite simply, sass on a stick.  Half of the time I feel like hugging him with one hand and thwacking his ear with the other.  The other half of the time I feel like hugging him with both hands until he squeals with joy and squirms like an eel.
     My husband an I have been together forever.  Well, since we were fifteen, which is essentially forever.  He drives me crazy.  He makes me want to bang my head against the wall.  There have even been times, I have to admit, that I looked over at him and said, "Who ARE you, anyway?"  I love him so much, there are just no words.  We are a team, the ringmasters of the Huggable Circus.
     Welcome to the show.