I have soooooo... many fucking writing projects I want to work on for this blog!
- But working at my high school's graduation...
- and then there was my birthday...when I had one of the most humiliating interviews I've ever had in my life (story for another post)
- and preparing for weeks for the class at Whittier College I will be teaching TO ACTUAL GROWNUPS!!!!!...
Paul took today off since his family is here to visit.
When I got home from running an errand this morning, the kids had been separated, forbidden to be in the same room.
They fight over and about everything. We took a walk this evening and the fight was over a weed.
Eli had picked up a weed off the sidewalk that Savvy said she was just about to grab.
Yeah. Like that.
There is this house we walk by where an older gent lives by himself. He sits shirtless in his garage that is plastered with yellowed pictures of hot air balloons, I'm guessing old calendar picture cut-outs. He wears these huge 1970's eyeglasses that magnify his watery eyes and those glasses are always the first thing you notice. He is peering out of his hot-air balloon garage every time we walk by.
For some reason, it is when we walk by this house that the kids seem to be at their worse. When Eli's whining has reached torture proportions, when Savvy is screaming no!!! and pulling away from me, flaunting to the world her total fucking defiance towards me.
The man never says anything, just slightly nods at us as we pass by.
But he doesn't have to say anything, because in his bug-eyes I see reflected who I used to be:
...the one who used to wonder why someone didn't just shut the kid up.
...the one who used to roll her eyes and recommit herself to never having children when that mom, with those kids were in a long grocery line.
...the one who would rush out of the supermarket sighing in relief that she had the freedom to roll her shopping cart as fast as she could away from the screams and snot.
And yet there I was, the old me: peering out of plastic '70's eyeglass frames, shaking her head at the new (twitchy) me.
I think of all the progressive bullshit I've read in parenting magazines. What could I have done to prevent their behavior from elevating to such proportions? How about some positive reinforcement, huh?, worker mom?
But the magazines don't tell you: what do you do if your kids
are like mice before a trap:
always manage to grab the cheese and be long gone wayyyyyy before the thing goes snap!?
Because I'm a teacher, I get home early from work, but do I really get home early from work?
It takes so long to emotionally leave my teen mom who has recently become homeless with her infant.
Or how about my brilliant foster girl who is being treated like fucking Cinderella by a 24-year-old foster mom?
I have just enough juice left to sit and do homework with my (of course) resistant son.
I say a silent prayer that Savvy won't want to play her favorite "school day," where I have to be one of the students among her dolls, andget time-out if I yawn.
I try to forgive myself for being sooooo grateful when bedtime comes. But by the time I am at the bottom of the stairs after putting them to bed, I am riddled with guilt and regret. What could I have done differently to make it a GOOD DAY?!
On a positive note, I am thankful for my molar that broke, oh, about a week ago.
No, wait, listen! I'm not wallowing.
I think I've lost one or two pounds because it hurts really bad now to eat, even with Advil.
But this is good news. Tomorrow I am going to the dentist...and might be able to squeeze into skinny jeans for the occasion.
OK, I did warn you this would be a rant.
P.S.: Dewi, if you read this: I haven't been able to send you an email...an error always occurs!
My email address is: LaSavvy1@hotmail.com.
I'd love to hear from you!