Showers

Not the rainy kind, the baby and wedding kind.  I live in New York City and it’s 2017. Most of the wedding or baby showers I attend are for women or couples in their early 30s, there is catered food with vegan and vegetarian options, “good wine” and micro-brewed beer, and presents are not opened at the shower (as I’m told that’s not in good taste?!).  You mingle, drink, nibble, there may be a cake, but not necessarily.  There might not be any games (as I’m told that makes some people uncomfortable?).  Sigh!

I miss the showers of my ’70s childhood.  They were always held at someone’s home in “the country” which referred to the cedar-covered hills outside Austin off Bee Caves Rd.  We were the city family so we’d drive out a two-lane road up and over and around hills until we finally turned off onto an unpaved white-rock road.  The shower would be in the house, no men allowed.  All the husbands would mill around outside, sit in lawn chairs, and smoke.  They could come in the back door to the kitchen to get grab sandwiches or punch to take outside.  The kids could run in and out as they pleased, but the girls usually sat alongside their mothers dreaming of the day they would be the center of attention.

Everyone dressed in their Saturday finest, not as fancy as Sunday, but slightly better than weekday wear.   I wore a frilly dress, white lace socks, patent-leather Mary Janes, and satin ribbons in my hair.  The men didn’t have to wear suits, but a shirt and tie was the norm.  Depending on the time of year, most of the ties ended up coming off in the Texas heat.  The guest of honor wore a large corsage.

Opening the presents was the most fun part.  The packages were wrapped with fancy ribbons and large bows.  If you were lucky, you were the young girl chosen to sit next to the bride or expectant mom and collect the bows.  They were usually threaded onto a wire hanger to be saved as keepsakes.  I’m not quite sure what was suppose to be done with those saved ribbons and bows, but I’m sure there was an unwritten rule about it.  An adult sat on the other side and wrote down a description of the present and the giver.  The recipient was expected to send a handwritten thank-you card within two weeks of the shower.  Then the present would be passed around in it’s box so that each guest could oh and ah over it.

The food and drink was always the same for every shower.  Butter mints, salted peanuts, punch, tea cakes, and a decorated sheet cake.  The punch was served in a crystal punch bowl with matching crystal cups and a ladle, all of which the hostess had received at her own wedding shower.  The punch itself was made by placing a frozen molded fruit-flavored jello ring into the bowl and pouring sprite over it.  The tea cakes were made with white bread spread with tuna salad or pimento cheese, crusts cut off, and cut into fourths in the shape of triangles.  The cake was cut after the presents were opened.  The kids were assigned to take slices out to the men in the yard.

Lots of photos were taken, but some of the women in my family refused to let their faces be photographed.  There are many, many photos of my Aunt Arlene and cousin Doris blocking their faces from the camera.  The photos of showers from my childhood are gone from our family’s collection now, perhaps there are a few here and there, but I don’t have any.  I do have a few photos from my own wedding shower from my first marriage.  But it didn’t feel nearly as magical as it did when I was a child.  I treasure those memories from a time before I knew what it really meant to be married and have a child.  Those are happy, sunny, slightly foggy memories.  The best kind.

 

 

 

 

 

Why the upROAR?

Why did so many people freak out on social media about Cecil the lion’s murder? I can only speak for myself, but I think it might be about the word “dentist”. Now hear me out on this one. For me it was like, “Dentist?! I go to a dentist. Does my dentist do this? Does my doctor? My lawyer?!” We all go to the dentist. We all have some professionals in our lives that make large amounts of money, some of it from us personally. We might even have friends that are dentists. And why do they keep saying “Minnesota dentist” to identify this man? Because it brings it all home to us as individual U.S. citizens. This isn’t some far-off billionaire that most of us would never run across in our entire lifetimes. He lives in Minnesota. He’s a dentist (not even an oral surgeon!). He could be your dentist, as so many horrified patients found out.

So now, I want to ask my doctors and dentists, do you trophy hunt? Do you kill lions, elephants, zebras? But then, I think what other kinds of things should I ask? Are you racist? Are you homophobic? What if I need brain surgery and the best brain surgeon in NYC (that takes my insurance, yeah right!) is a trophy hunter? Do I go to a lesser skilled surgeon who does not trophy hunt? What if it’s my son who needs the surgery?

The moral questions can go on and on until you get a headache and throw your hands into the air and say fuck it. But, isn’t it important just to ask the questions? Isn’t that the start of awakening? Isn’t awareness the first step towards action? And does one small action help? Do I go in for my next dentist appointment and say, “I know this sounds crazy, but it’s important to me to know, are you a trophy hunter?” Maybe.

The things people say…about my son

This is a small sampling of things that have been said to me over the past 9 years by parents on the playground, friends, family, speech pathologists, guidance counselors, occupational therapists, physical therapists, special education teachers, general education teachers, pediatricians, psychologists, psychiatrists, social workers, tutors and various people on the street.

“You are STILL swaddling him?”

“He’s fine. Stop worrying, he will talk when he’s ready to talk.”

“He’s fine. Stop worrying, he will walk when he’s ready to walk.”

“Just enjoy him.”

“You need to call Early Intervention for an evaluation since he’s got less than 10 words at this point.”

“He’s very active.”

“He’s a playground bully!”

“He can’t really pay attention.”

“He’s not going to do anything just to please you. That’s just his personality.”

“He isn’t really able to attend to anything.”

“Do you feed him sugar?”

“You need to say NO and mean it.”

“A good spanking might stop that.”

“Give him a nap.”

“Just enjoy him. You are not enjoying him.”

“If you say no and stick to it, he will eventually stop tantruming.”

“He’s going to be fine!”

“He’s too young to care about letters anyways!”

“He’s dangerous and I’m afraid he will hurt himself or others.”

“He’s out of control.”

“He’s so adorable and funny.”

“In some ways, he is an old soul. He is wise beyond his years.”

“He’s improving.”

“He hasn’t made any progress.”

“When I tell him NO, he listens to me. I just am firm with him.”

“I think another school might be better for him.”

“He meets the criteria for Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder.”

“I cannot diagnose him with an anxiety disorder because of your recent separation which is likely causing his anxiety.”

“He meets the criteria for Generalized Anxiety Disorder and has had these symptoms since he was very young.”

“His disfluency isn’t considered stuttering because it’s still developmentally appropriate.”

“His disfluency qualifies as stuttering.”

“Have you considered that he might be PDD?”

“He has dyslexia.”

“We can’t diagnose dyslexia persay because he has learning disability across all subject areas and the anxiety is so pervasive that we don’t know if he would struggle learning if he did not have the anxiety.”

“He knows 3 letters.”

“He knows 12 letters.”

“He knows 6 letters.”

“He is making progress.”

“We are not sure what to do with him, do you have any suggestions?”

“He is very kind.”

“He cares a lot about the rules.”

“He’s so dramatic.”

“He’s funny.”

“He’s been very weepy this week.”

“He’s going to be fine.”

“He’s really still so young. He’s going to be okay.”

“Some kids don’t learn to read until they are older.”

“My kid didn’t really read until 3rd grade.”

“He just needs a sensory gym.”

“He just needs a good tutor who he will like.”

“He has many of the symptoms of autism, but he’s not autistic.”

“He falls under the autism spectrum. I could diagnose him as autistic or we could just list this long list of diagnoses which are consistent with the neurological condition of autism.”

“Maybe you should just send him to live with his father, if you can’t do it.”

“You should look at schools in Texas.”

“You don’t need a lawyer yet.”

“You need to take time for yourself. What are you doing for you?”

“You pay a flat fee of $4500 and I see your case all the way through to settlement to cover full tuition of private special ed school. If we have to go to a hearing, it’s $1500 more.

“My evaluation with the report and expert testimony will be about $1,000.”

“A full neuropsych evaluation including my participation in meetings/proceedings is $3,500.”

“Summer camp for children with ADHD is $7,500 for 2 weeks. It’s a GREAT program!”

“A full neuropsych evaluation is $6,000 and we have no waiting list. We can do it immediately.”

“We do not deal with insurance.”

“I do not accept insurance.”

“I will file with your insurance company, but they don’t pay very much at all…less than 10%.

“Your claim for the neuropsychological evaluation exceeds our acceptable limit of $125.”

“We have hundreds of applications and only 8 spots open for next year. We will not be able to respond to your application. If you don’t hear from us, then your child is not being considered for a spot.”

“We currently have no spots for 3rd grade next year, but we will keep your application.”

“It sounds like your son is lovely and we would be able to meet his social/emotional needs, but he is too low academically and everyone in his class would be reading far above him.”

“If we offer you a spot, you will need to put down a $10,000 non-refundable deposit to hold the spot and then sue the DOE to cover tuition. If your case is not settled by September, you will need to pay the $57,000 tuition up front and wait for reimbursement from the DOE. That reimbursement would then pay for your second year at the school and so on.”

“He’s so smart.”

“He is able to figure things out that no one else in the group figured out.”

“He’s doing so well.”

“He’s going to be okay.”

“He’s not autistic!”

“People just don’t know how hard it is to have children.”

“Children really aren’t ready to be on their own these days until they are about 25 years old. So he has time.”

“You are doing everything you can to help him!”

(He’s not okay now, but) “He’s going to be okay.”

(We have no idea how, but) “He will learn to read.”

(We have done everything we can so) “We support your decision to seek private school.”

“Things are going to get better.”

Dear Laura,

Dear Laura,

I’m going to go ahead and give you my best parenting advice now while you actually have time to read it!

There is no right or wrong way to be a parent.  That includes how to birth and feed your baby.  Your baby will teach you the kind of parenting he needs.  Trust your instincts and trust your baby.  If something doesn’t feel right, then it’s not right.  Nothing is permanent, nothing stays the same.  You will not scar him!

You will make mistakes.  You will not make the same mistakes your parents made.  You will make your own unique mistakes and your child will survive and probably thrive.  For better or worse, you are the only mother he will have and he will love you no matter how badly you think you have screwed up.

Your child will not be you.  He will not be anyone that you think he will be.  He will be someone who has never existed before.  He will inherit things you like about yourself and things you hate about yourself.  Sometimes this is painful.

You will lose your pre-baby self.  The only self you’ve ever known will get swallowed up and disappear.  For awhile you will be only a mother and you will be happy with that.  And one day you will say, “Wait a minute, where did I go?  Who am I?”  And then you will become a new self.

You will do things you never imagined you would do.  You will stand up to a 6ft scary crazy person on the subway and yell, “Don’t touch my child!”  You WILL get in a fight with another parent at the playground.  You will bump someone with the stroller (maybe on purpose).  You will curse in front of your child and he will repeat it.  You will sit him in front of the TV for 3 hours straight because you just need some peace and quiet.  You will stomp out of the public library when the librarian tells you to control your toddler.

He will get fully potty trained when he is good and ready.  And you will feed him M&Ms to make it happen if that’s what works.

You will cry when other children don’t want to play with him.  When his heart is broken, yours will break too.  When he laughs uncontrollably, you will laugh too just because he is laughing and not because anything is actually funny.

You will finally understand why potty words are so funny to boys and men.  Well, you may not understand, but you will accept it because the first time, I mean the VERY first time your son hears the word “POOP”, he will laugh until he can’t breath.

You will learn what it truly means to have no control and to have faith.  And you will have to relearn it over and over again.  Because he will be okay.  Because of and in spite of everything you do, he will be a unique human being that the world has been waiting for.  He will do things that can only happen because of him.  And you will have the best seat to watch it all unfold.

You will be the best mom ever!

Love, Dianne

Forever in School

I love living my life by the school year.  I mean I love school.  A brief history of my life goes like this:  elementary school, junior high, high school, college, 3 years in the “real world”, masters program, doctoral program, professor, masters program, elementary school teacher….So for 3 years of my adult life I wasn’t in a school living by a school year calendar.  Three of the not-so-good years.

And it’s not because of the breaks and summer.  Just to clarify, most teachers I know, the really great ones, work way more than 40 hours per week.  I work even more because I’m a workaholic.  Summer is only 2 months, not 3 (kind of like pregnancy is 10 months, not 9!) and we spend at least half of the summer packing from the previous year, writing curriculum for the next year, and setting up our rooms for the new year.  There is also a mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual meltdown after the last day of the school year that takes at least two weeks of recovery.  I’m not complaining, just stating the facts.  So, no.  It’s not about the time off.

I just love the circle.  I love how there is always a fresh beginning each year.  When school starts in the fall, everything is possible.  Kids will learn to read, artists will be discovered, young poets will write their first poems, architects will be born in the block area, you will finally know exactly the right things to say and do at exactly the right times.  Whatever happened last year is done.  Everyone gets a fresh start.

Then there is the fall when the 20 young and 3-4 older personalities will come together and spend 8 hours per day in the same small room.  Friendships will be made, conflicts will arise, laughter and tears, and a family will emerge.  There will come a day early in the school year when I will say to one of my students, “There is nothing you can do or say that will make me stop loving you.” and another day when I will say to the class, “Look, this is our class, we are all going to be here all year.  We might not all like it, but we are a family and we are going to take care of each other, and that’s the way it’s going to be because that’s what families do.”  Usually there is a day at some point mid-year when I will say, “Everyone listen!  Tommy (or fill in any boy’s name) does not like the haircut he got and he doesn’t want to show it.  He’s going to wear this hat and anyone who touches it or takes it off of his head is going to be in big trouble.  We are going to respect Tommy’s choice to not show his haircut.  Is that understood?!”  And slowly, but surely we become a family, as dysfunctional as any family.

Then there is the first snow and it usually happens when we are inside and doing something “quiet”, but being the Texan that I am, I’m the first one to scream and we all run to the windows and watch the first snowflakes.  Whatever we were doing becomes significantly less important than reading Ezra Jack Keats’ Snowy Day.  Everything is magical for the rest of the day because of those snowflakes falling outside.

There is Christmas and all the holidays which give us breaks and markers throughout the year.  And we all need breaks from each other.  25+ personalities all living and learning together…most people have no idea…

The winter is the most productive time.  The children come back from winter holidays looking taller and knowing more.  Suddenly they can do things they couldn’t do two weeks before.  And then the winter continues.  The adults and children trudge to school weighted down with several pounds of boots, wool socks, long johns, sweaters, flannel-lined pants, coats, scarfs, hats, mittens, and backpacks.  By the time we get to school and get it all off, it’s time to put it all back on again for recess…and it is COLD.  It is cold and yet I am sweating.  And if your teacher is from Texas AND entering menopause, you might have to wear your coat all day because she has the air conditioning on!  Winter becomes dull, grey, and gloomy.

Then Spring!  And we write poetry.  We grow butterflies and Morning Glories.  Everything and everyone feels lighter and brighter except those oh so rainy days.  Many, many canceled field trips, rescheduled over and over again due to rain.  Then we go to an all school picnic and we run in a field and call it field day.  Then the year winds down.  I assess them all and we have all grown in so many ways!  There are successes and there are disappointments.  There is frustration and guilt for the child I just couldn’t reach, the one I never figured out.  We are tired of each other.  Tired of each other’s faces and the sounds of each other’s voices.  Parents are done with me and I with them.  But there is love and there is music and singing on the last day.  And we all cry and hug and say goodbye.  It is an ending and endings are just as good as beginnings.

Then summer. And whatever failures I may imagine are washed away.  I have learned and know better.  My successes are mostly not even known to me yet and may never be.  I sift through papers, most of it going in the trash, except for those few pieces going into the back of the file cabinet, in the folder marked “momentos.”  A few pieces of stray art work, go home to grace my walls.  And before I leave the building, the school secretary puts my next year’s roster in my mailbox.  The list of names representing a new beginning, magic that is yet to happen, lives that will become entwined with mine in ways that I cannot imagine.

And I love it.  I love it all.  Forever in school.

 

To All the Mothers

Thanks to all of the mothers in my life….

To my own mom for showing me how to be courageous and head-strong.

To my sister, Sue, for being my mom when my mom couldn’t be. For being the light in Texas that always brings me back home. Home is where you are.

To my sister, Vel for showing me what a lady looks and sounds like.

To my sister, Shirley for always making sure that I had a patent leather purse to match my patent leather Mary Jane’s even before I could walk.

To my sister-in-law, Cindy, for loving my brother and taking care of him all these years.

To my niece, Cary who can spin a yarn like you wouldn’t believe.

To my niece, Tracey, for being tough as nails and beating that robber down with a broom.

To my niece, Emilie, for being my partner-in-mommy-crime and the best vacation planner ever.

To my niece, Linda, for having such a tender heart.

To my niece Elizabeth, for walking through hell and not stopping.

To my grandmothers who made such beautiful quilts that comfort me and my son when we are sick or feeling far away from home.

To my Patterson aunts who showed me what a country girl really is and how to raise a boy.

To my Turner aunts who showed me how to make a home and craft and never, ever sit still.

To the mothers in Africa whose daughters have been kidnapped for bravely sending your daughters to school, for believing in their future and the future of your country.  May your daughters come home soon.

To the mothers of children with special needs, you are doing the right things.

To all the mother bears out there both human and animal.  Hear us roar!

 

Top Ten Things I Learned in 2013

In no particular order…

1.  No matter how old you are, when both of your parents are gone from this earth, you feel like an orphan.

2.  Things may get better or worse, but mostly they just get different.

3.  Where you come from and who you come from matters a whole lot more than you realize.

4.  Having a porch to sit on, even if it’s not your own,  is a key ingredient to well-being.

5.  Sometimes it’s best to let things lie for awhile and not try to resolve it.  Sometimes it gets resolved for you.

AND

6.  Sometimes you need to get off your ass and get yourself OUT of the crappy life situation you have somehow gotten yourself into.

7.  Withholding judgement is the greatest gift you can give to others and to yourself.

8.  I have abandonment issues which have become self-fulfilling prophesies.  I’m not so sure about this one, but it’s a theory I’m working on.

9.  Living with a miniature version of yourself can be HELL, but also somewhat endearing!

10.  Watch and listen carefully to what people do to themselves to create their own suffering and try not to do that to yourself.

Contents of Upended Junk Drawer

7 Metrocards which may or may not have any rides left on them

10 Gift Cards which each have less than $2 left on them

12 pencils in need of sharpening

1 pencil sharpener

1 Halloween pencil

2 felt tip markers

10 Sharpie markers of various colors and sizes

1 green marker

1 highligher

2 mini Swiss Army knives

3 reward member cards

3 post-it note packs of various sizes

1 set of math playing cards from Sal’s homework

2 unopened packs of Dentyne gum

blue painters tape

clear Scotch tape

1 plastic Army guy

1 large glue stick

1 tube and 1 tub of carmex

2 eyeglass screw drivers and 1 screw driver for mini Deck Tech skateboards

1 postage stamp

1 pair of “decent” scissors

1 pair of cat claw cipplers

2 rechargeable batteries (the charger is no where to be found)

1 subway map of manhattan

2 garment tags

1 empty tictac container

1 screw

3 safety pins

3 paperclips

21 ballpoint pens and 1 pen shaped like an electric guitar

3 color pencils

 

From Someone Else’s Porch

Recently my niece, a gifted writer, wrote about traveling.  As an Army brat, she grew up all over the world and, as an adult, continues to travel throughout the world every time she has saved enough money for a plane ticket.  She writes that it’s important to experience the world and get out of your own small space in it.  I agree.  But I have done most of my traveling through books.

At the end of To Kill a Mockingbird, Scout walks Boo home and then looks at her neighborhood from Boo’s porch.  Suddenly, she sees the world and the life she has lived through Boo’s eyes, from his porch.  It is a transforming moment.  It is what her father, Atticus, has been trying to teach her to do.  This is what travel can do for you and this is what reading has done for me.

I read so many posts and articles about how unhappy we are as Americans.  We are unhappy that children are obsessed with video games.  We are unhappy that our President wants healthcare for everyone, but the system is full of glitches.  We are unhappy that we are involved in wars that are “none of our business.”  We are unhappy that our country has a welfare system.  We are unhappy that we send aid to foreign countries.  We are unhappy that most of the wealth in our country lies with only 1% of the people.  We are unhappy that people risk their lives to enter our country to work for 95 cents a day because it is better than what they can make in their own country.

And, I am unhappy too.  I am unhappy that I need to pay $100 per hour for a tutor for my learning disabled son and $6000 for a neuropsychological exam to figure out all the various ways that his brain and personality are making school so impossible for him and life so hard.  I am unhappy that people who make less money than me can get all of this for free for their children.  But I don’t make enough money to pay for it myself.  I am unhappy that I can’t get divorced from my husband because he wants half my pension and refuses to pay child support.  I am unhappy that, as a teacher, I make so little money and that I’m being pressured to teach completely inappropriate curriculum.  I am unhappy.

And then I read a book like A Long Way Gone:  Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah.  Beah writes of his young life in Sierra Leone.  How at the age of twelve, he fled attacking rebels and wandered a land rendered unrecognizable by violence. By thirteen, he’d been picked up by the government army, and Beah, at heart a gentle boy, found that he was capable of truly terrible acts.  I read about how this is how wars are fought now: by orphaned children, hopped-up on drugs and wielding AK-47s. Children have become soldiers of choice. In the more than fifty conflicts going on worldwide, it is estimated that there are some 300,000 child soldiers.

Or I read a fiction book by T.C.Boyle titled Tortilla Curtain and I am seeing the world alternately between Mexican illegal immigrants and priviledged, but unhappy Americans.  Boyle’s characters are written as real people, neither all good nor all bad.  The reader can experience both sympathy and anger toward each one as you see the world through their eyes.  An even more disturbing immigration story is found in The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down by Anne Fadiman.  It is a story of a Hmong family’s experience immigrating from Laos and the disastrous clash of cultures around their young child’s epilepsy.  I learned that during the Vietnam war, the U.S. government needed the help of the Hmong, a mountain people, so we promised them protection and U.S. citizenship if they would fight against the Vietnamese.  When we pulled out of Vietnam, we left them behind and all promises were broken.  Those that did manage to make it to the U.S. were not given citizenship.

I am uncomfortable as I read these stories.  I see the world from someone else’s porch.   I see my life from someone else’s porch.  I realize that I have so much more to be happy about than the things that make me unhappy.  I turn to my problems and tackle them as best I can.  I take a deep breath and I carry the boy soldier, the Mexican immigrant, the Hmong girl with epilepsy, and Boo Radley with me as I go.   

The Nose Job

So I got a nose job. It was many years in the making. The first time I got teased about my nose (specifically the bigness of it) was in junior high (middle school). I had a cute nose when I was a kid and then something happened. Puberty happened. Ah, puberty. It was not kind to me. It was vicious. Long silky hair became curly and frizzy. Acne. Glasses. Nose explosion. Menstration. Ugh…what a horrible, horrible way to enter adulthood.

For most of my life, I thought I inherited my nose from my mom and dad. They both had large noses and I felt that I got a double dose. I got the biggest nose in my family. Like it was saved for the baby, the best for last. My nose had several aspects of bigness which was confirmed by my plastic surgeon upon first consultation.

By the way, I never stopped getting teased about it. Really. My most recent ex-husband teased me about it (yes, he’s gone) all the time. At 44, walking in NYC a teenager called me a “big-nosed bitch.” One of my first graders once said that I didn’t need a Halloween costume because I already had a witch nose.

I wanted a nose job for a long time. First, it just wasn’t conceivable. Plastic surgery is not common in my family or in Texas (as compared to LA or NYC). Second, it just didn’t feel right. I looked like my mom and dad. Did I really want to look different from my family? Then there was the money issue. In the past 10 years or so I started saying that if I got any inheritance, I would get a nose job. Then…I got inheritance. So then I really did have to decide if I wanted this or not.

So I did it like I do most major things in my life. I just did it. I didn’t shop around for a doctor. I looked up the top 100 doctors in NYC and called the first plastic surgeon on the list. His office is in the highest rent district of Manhattan so that was recommendation enough for me. I went for a consultation. I put a deposit and set the date. For two months, every time I looked in the mirror my nose looked bigger than before. My only hesitation was how to explain it to my son. Turns out that was no big deal. Kids are very self-centered!

Am I happy? It’s a few weeks now and I’m still swollen and a bit bruised and every time I look in the mirror it looks a little different and the pain was WAY more than anyone suggested. And it does continue to feel like an alien mass has landed on my face. But I AM THRILLED!! I admit that it might be more psychological than physical, but I don’t care. I feel so much more confident. The only thing I regret is not getting it sooner.

It’s really hard for me to keep a secret, but I did a really good job before I had it done. Other than my family, only 2 people knew. Right before, I did start getting panicky and needed to tell more people. I didn’t think I’d tell because I felt ashamed, but the only way I know to live my life is to be open and out there. Being mysterious is not my strength.
Besides, feeling ashamed just sucks! Viva la nose!