(too) random

Love the Life You Live

2012-01-02T20:27:00.005-05:00

This was our holiday card this year. As we decided on a photograph, we worried that our friends and/or family would find us twisted human beings for putting our scouring/crying kids on a card to be sent to the masses, but we were surprised at the amazingly positive response we got from nearly everyone. And, amid these responses, our choice of photograph grounded me in some deep thoughts about our life and our little family.

Last spring my close friend Julia Beck Vandenoever, of Julia Vandenoever Photography, spent a grey spring morning with us in Prospect Park. Adam was ridiculously hung over from a good friend's bachelor party the night before, I was cranky because he had been out to 6am the night before our family pictures (!), and the kids were just...Well, a one and a three year old. Needless to say, anyone who dared hold a camera up to take images of us as a family was a brave individual that day, and Julia did it with grace.

When we got the images back, I was thrown. I blogged about it here, but suffice to say we looked amazing--like photos of fake families that get put in frames (but much cooler, of course). I never like photos of myself, but I liked these. Wow. And there was such a great variety of all combinations of the four of us.

But, like every busy family, the photos were taken in April and by December they all still only existed on the computer. When we went back to look for a holiday card shot, I laughed--heartily--at the many photos of either one, or the other, or both of the kids crying. They sulked, scowled, cried, and ran away from Julia during the shoot, but she kept shooting. And it's those photos that I love the most: the ones of my kids being the little pissers that they are every day. She truly captured who they were, at those ages, in images. I'm not sure every photographer would keep shooting, or that every photographer would present those images in the final edited version that the client gets, but I am so thankful Julia did.

As much as we all try to get our kids to smile, be cute, look like little angelic model children, I think we all know that our kids can be difficult, challenging, or downright intolerable. I'm so thankful to have images of some of these less-than-perfect emotions documented. There were many a beautiful photo of them as well, but somehow they didn't resonate in me like the cranky ones.

And maybe I am twisted to put it on a Christmas card, but, as my friend James said in a text to me proclaiming his love of our card, love the life you live.

And I do.

Regift Boomerang

2011-10-31T09:57:00.005-04:00

For those who know me well, you might know that I am an avid regifter. It's shameful, I know. Not one of my best attributes at all. But, if I am given something and I don't like it, I am not the type of girl to hold onto it and wear/hang/put it out in obligatory fashion when the giver comes over. I usually stash it in a drawer and then give it to someone else. Sometimes as a present, but more often as a simple offering because I like them and I think they would like my unwanted gift. Maybe they do....Or maybe they regift it to someone else. I don't know.

I do have a shred of sentimentality in me. If the gift truly means something or is symbolic in some way and I don't like it, I still hold onto it. I'm talking more about the regifting of common everyday gifts here, so let me make the disclaimer that I'm not completely heartless.

But, for example, I have received a proliferation of items that depict my first tattoo--Picasso's hands holding flowers drawing--throughout my life. I got this tattoo when I was 18 years old, and while I don't loathe it now, it no longer feels like me. However, the stuff keeps pouring in: erasers, pencils, coffee mugs, notepads, posters, stationary. Most of it is from my mom (bless her heart), but sometimes it'll come from someone else. I smile when I receive it and stash it in a drawer to regift it.

This past weekend we attended Adam's Aunt's funeral. Aunt Marilyn was the best recipient of my regifts. She accepted all gifts with pure joy and thankfulness--an earnest joy and thankfulness. She was a very simple woman who appreciated simple things; she was also single her whole life, and I feel that when gifts came to her she truly felt part of a family and loved. I cannot begin to explain the large number of gifts that were given to me by my family that were recycled to Aunt Marilyn, and she loved each and every one. In fact, at the luncheon after the funeral and burial, Grandma Watson (Marilyn's mother) explained to me how much Marilyn loved a throw blanket that Adam and I had given her years ago for Christmas. Well, that was actually a gift my mom and stepdad had given us, but in a small apartment that already had three throw blankets, we didn't need another and regifted it to Aunt Marilyn. Grandma said how once Marilyn was wheelchair bound, that throw blanket was on her lap 24/7.

Aunt Marilyn had been in an assisted living facility for the past eight years. There wasn't much to clean out of her room, but Adam's mom, Marcia, came up to me on Saturday and handed me a mug of Picasso's hands holding flowers and said, "This was in Marilyn's room and we thought you should have it." Marcia didn't know that I had given the mug to Marilyn (or if she did, she didn't say), and she definitely didn't know that the mug came from my mother about nine years ago at Christmas. But now the mug is back in my hands, and, since it is a relic of Aunt Marilyn and symbolizes the hilarity of my regifting boomeranging back in my face, the mug is now safely situated in our cabinet where it will stay.

I guess when I regift comes back at you, it's the universe's way of saying you're meant to keep it.

Rest in Peace, Aunt Marilyn. I'll drink my coffee and tea from my mug, which was your mug, which is now again my mug and think of you.

Parent Teacher Night

2011-10-27T22:41:00.006-04:00

My body may have been deep in my crappy Ikea couch tonight, but my mind was at my the high school where I taught the last ten years where my past colleagues stayed at work until 9pm to host parent teacher night.

My first parent teacher night in Bushwick was when I realized how important this night was to figuring out my students as people. Seeing who my students went home to at night peeled back layers and layers of who they were and they made so much more sense. I feel very strongly that so much of us comes from our parents--the good and the bad--and that once you meet someone's parents you truly begin to understand their quirks and neuroses. When you observe how the parents dress and how they carry themselves, once you hear how they speak, once you watch how they beat or berate their kid in front of you for the bad grades, once can realize that their kid has them more duped than he had you, once you see a single mom cry after she reads her son's college essay about her....Wow. So much is said by both words and body language on parent teacher night.

I miss that window into my students' worlds.

Because now I teach adults. They may mostly be one year older than my prior students as freshmen in community college, but they are no longer wards of the NYC Department of Education and they are paying for their education. After the first day of class, I stood in my empty room after my students left and made mental notes of which parents to call when I realized, "I don't have anyone's phone number!" Several times I have wanted to call when a student was absent, or if s/he did something amazing, but I can't.

It's so strange!

But I also realize how--developmentally--it's important. It's time for personal responsibility to kick the f*ck in finally. Now my students have nobody to fail but themselves in this attempt to secure their human capital through education and a degree, and it's high time they know that. Nobody's checking on you, so check yourself (before you wreck yourself, as Ice Cube would say).

And, as a control freak, it's time for me to let go, too. Grow up, my students. And welcome to the harsh, and often rewarding, world of adulthood.

Occupy Wall Street

2011-10-21T11:51:00.007-04:00

I have yet to go down to Occupy Wall Street. I guess I have been trying to solidify why I would go before going; I want to make sure I understand my own stance in relation to others and I want to be able to articulate that stance intelligently before placing myself in the public sphere. Maybe it's too calculated for most, but in my pragmatic mind that's just how things work.

But as I have negotiated my personal angle on this, a few photos on facebook--posted by friends and family--have pushed me solidly into believing that I *do* agree with the protests and, to use the Occupy Wall Street creed, I *am* part of the 99%. These photos are above.

What really strikes me about these personal diatribes that folks feel the need to post is the immense lack of critical thinking skills in their words. Yes, I understand that you busted your ass in college and worked four jobs to pay for it because SO DID I. Yes, I understand that you live below your means because SO DO I. Oh, but your solution to massive unemployment and a tanking economy is for all the unemployed in the country to work at McDonald's or pick crops in Alabama? You think it's that simple? And, obvious in your statements, you assume others haven't worked their asses off to get where they are, even if where they are currently is laid off, or under a pile of debt, or homeless? You think that some folks have a fall from the middle class grace they were trying to climb into?

Dig deeper my friends.

I will occupy Wall Street because I know that I have lived a privileged life. I came from two middle class parents who worked their way up into the middle upper class. My dad was college educated and employed my whole life; my mom had an at home daycare b/c she did not have the same education. We always owned our modest houses in safe communities. I have never been without clothing, food, shelter, two parents, and a good to great school. I am White. I have many class privileges and race privilege in an incredibly classist and racist society. I realize that there are structures in place in society that make it harder for others who have not had my sort of life to succeed. Amid a recession, those structures are even more discriminatory. Although I am not suffering currently (knock on wood), I realize many people are.

I have seen and worked within classist and racist structures as an educator. I would NEVER send my own children to the high school where I taught for ten years--a school full of poor Black and Hispanic kids that struggled with test scores, attendance, and school violence--but I worked HARD to try to catch my students up (academically and socially) so they could function in the mainstream--White, middle class--world and break the cycle of poverty they were born into. A few kids are able to break it, but most are not.

You think if you were in the situations that plague the bottom of the 99%, you'd be able to pull yourself up by your bootstraps? You think living in a homeless shelter your freshman and sophomore year, coming to school in dirty clothes b/c your clean ones were stolen while you slept, being hungry all the time b/c you can't eat breakfast at the shelter b/c you leave for school before it's served and travel one hour by subway only to get to high school after the free school breakfast is served wouldn't derail your upward mobility? Add a variety of factors to that, like uneducated parents, incarcerated parents, dead parents, fear of being shot at in your neighborhood after dark, not having a washing machine to wash your clothes, not having a winter coat, not going to the doctor, not attending any sort of pre-school...I mean the list is endless when it comes to the obstacles faced by the truly poor in our country. You think you could overcome such obstacles? Maybe you could. Most likely you couldn't.

It doesn't sound like either of these folks with these signs faced those obstacles.

It doesn't seem like they are able to see beyond their own experience.

I will always remember the shame I felt--as an American--the first time I traveled to Bushwick, Brooklyn, for my first teaching job in 2000. Bushwick, at the time, was the neighborhood you were "most likely to be shot at random" according the The New York Times. I rode the B39 bus from downtown Brooklyn through Fort Greene, Clinton Hill, Bed-Stuy, and into Bushwick. When I got off, I was shocked. There was trash all over the streets, prostitutes still lingering at 7:30am, crack vials and needles and dog shit all over the ground, boarded up houses with sketchy folks standing in their doorways, empty lots with burnt out cars, mattresses, trash piles heaped up taller than me. I had arrived in Third World America. Most folks like me (read White and middle upper class) will never see that. Everyone should.

I will go to Occupy Wall Street for the bottom of the 99%. I have been lucky in this life. Although statistically speaking I am part of the 99%, I will go because there are others whose lives are so complicated by poverty and race and the solution is not for them to get a job at McDonalds or to become a migrant worker. If only it were that simple. And those folks are most likely not at Wall Street because they're working three jobs, or struggling to find decent daycare, or waiting in an emergency room because they had a miscarriage and don't have a doctor...The options are endless. But if you see me at Wall Street, it will be because I am there for them. I want there to be more options in our country than McDonald's and migrant farming for many of my students.

The inability of many Americans to see this and to care about anyone besides themselves is, and will continue to be, the cancer of our society.

Reading

2011-10-13T16:45:00.003-04:00

Did any of you ever watch "The Great Space Coaster" on morning TV before school when you were young? And by "you," I mean the 37 year old crowd out there that might match my age demographic. Anyhoo, on this show was this guy called Speed Reader. He could run around in super short runner's shorts, tube socks, and sneakers (and maybe a tank top?) and he would read, read, read. I specifically remember he did a handstand on a stack of newspapers at and would read the headlines in the one second when he was upside down. I thought he was awesome, and a mobile version of my physically handicapped dad.

My dad was a prolific reader. We went to the library weekly, he would check out literally 8-12 books, and read them all in that week. It blew my mind, even as a kid. Now, as a professor of reading/writing it really blows my mind. How did he read that fast? I mean, really, how?

But I have been channeling my dad lately since I have acquired this new commute. Twice a week I schlep out to Kingsborough Community College to teach my Freshman Composition course. Three days a week I commute to Bryant Park in the city. The past ten years I have worked two subway stops from my house which does not even warrant pulling out a book. While I should use my commute to grade, I have decided to allow myself that time to read. And it is glorious.

Since September, I have read seven books:
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
The Unthinkable
Girl in Translation
There's no Jose Here
The Kid
Blindness
The Help

And I am back in love with reading. Not that I have ever been out of love with reading, but it's hard to carve time out of your day to read amid the grind of job, kids, grading, socializing, laundry, etc. But I feel a new sense of connectedness to my books. I have even chosen to read over watching TV some nights--imagine that!

But this has all made me think of my dad more. I wish I could ask him what his reading strategies were (he had no commute--how did he read so much?), how he became such a big reader, and all the questions I poke and prod my students with in order to better understand others' reading approaches. Instead I guess I'll just have to model his speed reading behavior to my kids so that one day, when they look back for memories of me, these memories will be of me with a book on my nightstand, in my backpack/purse, in my hand and want to do the same.

Happy Birthday to Nico?

2011-09-22T20:49:00.002-04:00

Today is Nico's birthday. I am not sure why, maybe because two seems so much more grown up than one, but I have been very excited. I stayed up last night and wrapped his presents, hung our Happy Birthday sign, and told the story of when Nico was born to Alexandra and Nico when I put them to bed. After the kids and Adam left this morning, I laid out all his presents on the kitchen table. Adam and I met at 4pm at his office, got tiny cupcakes (the same cupcakes that my friend Nicole Macrini brought to the hospital when I had the boy), and went to get Alexandra together so that we could pick Nico up as a family and have an amazing night together.

The night would include: happy family dinner, sweet walk home, presents that would include Nico squealing for glee with each gift and Alexandra not getting jealous, cupcakes and ice cream, fast baths, painless bedtimes, and great photos to document all the super cute moments from that linear trajectory of the evening illustrating what a great little family we have.

But his is what happened instead:

Alexandra started whining that she was too tired to scoot to the Chinese restaurant after picking Nico up, so Adam put her on his shoulders. Nico saw her on his shoulders and started crying. We tried to distract him to no avail ("Look! A bus! A dog!") and his crying turned into full-blown tantrum that necessitated us stopping on the side of the sidewalk, letting him out of the stroller, offering him daddy, mommy, walking, carrying, stroller, backpack--anything to get him to stfu--but nothing worked. He slumped on the stroller, hysterical, writhed on the ground, and walked around aimlessly while screaming.

Then we got to the Chinese restaurant (it's en route to home) and Adam decides to go in and get take out (Nico is on my shoulders at this point somewhat consoled but intermitedly crying, Alexandra is back on scooter, Adam is pushing stroller). Alexandra realizes that we are not going into the restaurant b/c Nico is crazy, and she throws a full-blown-I-should-be-locked-in-an-asylum-tantrum. I only saw the beginnings because I left them to start walking home, but I heard them coming from about a block away as I got home b/c her screaming was so loud.

So we get kids in house, where they literally tantrum for the next 30-45 minutes, including slamming my hand in a door, throwing food, knocking heads on ground, and other insane tantrum behaviors. I start drinking beer. Things. are. not. good.

Nico finally stops. Alexandra stops about 20 minutes later. They eat hot dogs, bunny crackers, and corn for dinner. Bath (Nico throws tantrum #2 then falls asleep on changing table). Bed.

Holy crap.

No presents, Adam and I eat Chinese food after they're in bed, I have another beer, and now we'll eat cupcakes without kids. Totally sucky night. And for some reason, I'm just sad that Nico didn't get to have presents and cake on his birthday, although he doesn't know he missed out.

God, parenting is exhausting.

Survivor's Guilt

2011-09-08T20:52:00.003-04:00

Like many of you around the country, I have been listening to a great amount of news coverage this week on the 10 year anniversary of 9/11. Having been here in New York City on 9/11, these conversations have given me a sort of personal pause; I have been reflecting on what the last 10 years have meant to me. The ten year anniversary of 9/11 also coincides with my teaching career: ten of my eleven years in the classroom were at Cobble Hill, a school that became my second home. It was on my second day of teaching my classes that the planes hit, and all my memories of that day are tied to my old school.

Teaching in a struggling inner city school is the work of civil servitude in the truest sense of the word. No, teachers don't run into burning buildings like firemen, but they do challenging and seemingly impossible work on a daily basis that fosters a sense of "brotherhood" (to steal from the firemen) between them. The united struggle of working in such a school becomes a twisted badge of pride--a deserved one.

In the last ten years, a handfull of us stayed at our school through the administrative upheavals and many new people joined the faculty that continued to be the fabric that held the school together. These teachers have watched me grow as a person and as a teacher. They have celebrated my marriage with me, the birth of my two children, and the completion of my never-ending doctoral work. They let me cry when I lost our first pregnancy and had to continue to teach a class of eight pregnant seniors, when my close friend died, and when the frustrations of the job became too much. We were a very close staff, and one of the things I am most proud of as an educator were the respectful, loving, friendly, and caring relationships we modeled for our students. We supported each other in an unsupportive environment.

The teaching profession employs a lot of war metaphors. Those of us in hard schools consider it "the trenches" compared to the selective fancy schools. When I emailed my colleagues that I was leaving Cobble Hill several wrote back saying, "You did your time." Therefore I guess this feeling of survivor's guilt that I am having right now fits right in.

Although I will be working with the same student population (just one year later in their educational trajectory), there is a part of me that feels I deserted my people when I left my school; I deserted the profession that I had so zealously advocated for throughout the years. I feel like public education of the poor right now is a sinking ship, and somehow I jumped and survived. And I feel guilty.

I know they will all be fine without me, that they will keep working and crying and laughing and drinking and teaching and thinking and making the best of the broken system they are a part of. I know it was definitely my time to go. What I don't know is when I will stop feeling like somehow I escaped and left them behind.

Struggle

2011-09-07T21:51:00.004-04:00

I taught my first college class today. Freshman Composition at Kingsborough Community College, a charming little campus facing the water at the end of Brooklyn. I have had a lot of anxiety about my new job and the switch to teaching college even though I know I am very qualified and capable of doing so. Transitions simply do not come easy for me, and I have been trying to process why I have felt slightly weepy all week. Today I figured it out.

Today went like this:

In the hour before class I ran into FIVE students from Cobble Hill (the high school where I had taught for the last 10 years). That was reassuring--like I was still home in some way--and made me feel grounded. Good start.

Then I went to my classroom to set up. The smartboard worked. The kids came (mostly) on time. They were sweet, engaged, and responded to my sense of humor. I could not believe how diverse they were; it was a Noah's Ark slice of New York City: a few Black kids, a few White kids, a few Asian kids, one kid back from Bangladesh, some tan supermodel-looking girl who went to a female military school (what?), a girl in hijab...It was like the United Nations in my classroom. They were all lovely. And intriguing. I am so excited to teach them.

I taught for 2 hours. Easily.

Then I got in my car and cried.

Why?

Because it was easy. Because I felt so appreciated, respected, and given the benefit that I knew what I was doing by these students. And I realized that I have been on the verge of tears all week while starting this new job because everyone--students, colleagues, the IT guy--just expect that I am competent. I have received more compliments on my resume, my interviewing process, and my work in the last couple of weeks than I had ever heard in my ten years of teaching. I have been told how certain individuals at the New Community College fought to get me an interview because they knew I was the "perfect" fit for the job although others doubted me due to my lack of college teaching experience. I was given a computer of choice, a bag of office supplies (although I had my own, which all have my name on them written hugely in white-out in case anyone ever tried to steal them from my classroom), and a warm welcome. It has been mind-blowing.

And it's so hard to explain how much these gestures hurt me. I didn't realize how much I had been broken by the lack of appreciation I was constantly fed while teaching in such a hard school for so many years. You simply get used to being treated like shit, even when you are considered one of the "good" teachers by the administration, the Network, and other higher-up individuals. There's such a deficit approach to teachers right now--they are seen as all lacking in myriad ways and that's why kids are failing--but I hadn't realized how much I had internalized it and how much it had really destroyed me as a person. I feel like I have been grieving all week in some strange way.

The struggles that teachers in inner city schools face are impossible to describe to anyone who hasn't walked in their shoes. Every small thing becomes a struggle in that environment, and while the successes feel even greater when they are surrounded by such insurmountable struggle, they day-to-day of the system that created that environment does eat away at you. I am only just realizing that.

Which makes this new job very bittersweet.

Hopefully Back

2011-09-04T20:25:00.003-04:00

I have missed my blog.

I don't know how and/or why life suddenly got too busy, crazy, chaotic to jot down my thoughts in this space, but between finishing my dissertation, graduating, job hunting, staying at home with two kids all of July & August, taking one job, quitting it to take another job, leaving the Department of Education, joining the faculty of the City University of New York system I have just not had the mental space or energy to put my thoughts down in this space.

But I have had thoughts.

And it sounds almost tragic, but sometimes when I don't get my small and large realizations down in my blog it's like they don't happen. Or, they lose some sense of tangibility, even if I have told them to friends, Adam, and any Joe at the grocery store who will listen over the cachophony of my wailing whining children.

But I am hoping and praying to the universe that all will settle down now. It's September. There's a new normal about to happen here: Alexandra is going to pre-Kindergarten at a new school, Nico is starting a new daycare, and I'm starting a new job as Assistant Professor of Developmental English for the New Community College, a branch of the City University of New York system. Now that all has been thrown up in the air and has resettled, I want to come back to here. I have missed it.

stay-at-home mom

2011-07-07T15:19:00.002-04:00

My gawd...Where have two+ months gone?

I will make posts of past life events as the month goes by, but suffice to say I have been crazy busy and haven't had time to think. Most busy-ness is due to my desire to go out and drink post- doctoral work with my bad influence coworkers (you know who you are, and how much i love you), but now that the school year is over and I'm summering (I love using summer as a verb), I'm back to a somewhat constrained routine. Why? Because I'm a mother freakin' stay-at-home mom.

Okay, you gals who do this all the time, let me crown you. You are both insane and goddesses in my book. I mean, I have been at this for one week and I'm about to sell myself on the street corner or barter my too old ovaries or call some illegal organ trade folks in Jersey to sell a kidney to put these animals (my children) back in daycare.

Yes, I am prone to hyberbole.

But the upside of my 11 hours straight a day with my kids is that they do get the best of me. When I see them at 5pm, I am spent. I have struggled with this since I had kids--how do I save any goodness and patience for them at the end of the day, because, sometimes, I literally have none and my love for them just can't cultivate anything from the dried up well of me. But when it's just me and them, they get all of me. The love, patience, frustration, anger, teachable moments, quiet moments of adoration, kisses, sarcasm...blah blah blah.

I am such a bougie yuppie that I have literally NEVER watched both my children before this summer. A day here and there, a weekend when Adam's out of town--yep. But two whole months? Nope. So, wish me luck folks. I need it.

Photographer Magic

2011-04-22T13:04:00.006-04:00

My good friend Julia has a part-time business of photographing families, pregnant ladies, and weddings when she's not a full-time photo editor at Backpacker Magazine or mama. I have been watching her take photos of others for years, and I have always been amazed at how beautiful she makes everyone look. What I find amazing about her work is that everyone in her images just looks so lovely--and I don't mean, "Man, those are some attractive people!" (although they are), but it seems that she's able to get their spirits to shine through in the photos and you can see who they truly are. And, of course, since my friend Julia is an amazing person she just attracts more awesome people.

I have been wanting her to photograph us for years, and a couple of weeks ago she came to NYC and my wish came true. Of course, I was nervous. Would I look old, fat, tired, icky? I must admit, my husband--as much as I love him more than anything--takes the absolute WORST photos of me. Don't know what it is, but each time he captures me in a photo I look g-r-o-s-s. I faced Julia's photo shoot with some trepidation. Then I tried the whole get-over-yourself approach and thought that my kids would look adorable, so who cares about me.

Well, I must say, she's got some photographer magic.

I don't even remember the last time I liked photos of myself, and I love these. LOVE. I look at the family in the photos and am like, "Who is that wonderful family? Oh my god, that's us!"

Thanks, Hools. You truly have an amazing talent. Love you.
For her edited view of our session, please go to her blog here.

And, for those of you in NYC, hopefully she'll come back annually and get a base of folks here to shoot. Interested? Lemme know and I'll make a list of us.

(Btw, my kids just plain don't smile for pictures--such surly New Yorkers!)

22

2011-04-22T12:56:00.002-04:00

Anyone out there believe in numerology?

The number 22 has been resonating in my life for years now. It started with my dad's death on May 22--that's when the number 22 entered my life. Since then, it keeps seeming to be days of momentous events. Let me make a list:

May 22, 1996: My dad died.
February 22, 1997: My long-term college boyfriend dumped me out of the blue.
June 22, 1998: My first day of solo travel in West Africa.
June 22, 1999: Moved to NYC--drove up in my Toyota to start a new life.
June 22, 2001: Adam & I had our first date.
November 22, 2006: Our first due date of the pregnancy we lost.
September 22, 2009: Nicholas Acer (Nico) our son was born.
April 22, 2010: My freakin' dissertation is officially finished!

Strange, no?

Hopefully, due to the last bit of news, I'll be back to blogging more regularly. Have missed this creative outlet.

Burka Princess

2011-03-20T11:06:00.004-04:00

One of the reasons I love New York is for the diversity. Now don't get me wrong--I'm not delusional and/or ignorant. I know I live in a White suburb of New York City by living in Park Slope, but even my White suburb of the City is more diverse than a White suburb of say Washington, DC or Raleigh, NC. I know this because I grew up in those suburbs, and you'd never see the diversity of races and ethnicities there that I see here. I love that my kids are growing up thinking that exposure to all sorts of people is the norm. Honestly, this is a huge reason why we continue to stay here even when a nice little house in Carborro, the college town outside of Chapel Hill, continues to haunt my dreams, pregnant with possibility.

Alexandra is in her princess stage. I guess it was inevitable; everyone told me that no matter how much you try to keep her from the Disney mania that the princess phase sneaks up on you and swallows your daughter whole around this age (she will be four in June). They were right. We have never watched a Disney movie, have NO Disney paraphenalia in our home, nor do we speak of princesses, but she is obsessed with all things pink, wearing dresses 24/7, and wearing a veil (which is more bride than princess, but whatever....). It's pretty sick.

She has a few criteria that define princess-hood. One: you must have a dress that touches the ground (which she has been endlessly begging me to buy her) and Two: you must be wearing some sort of head jewelry or scarf. So, naturally, as we walked home from daycare the other day when she saw a group of Muslim women wearing full burka (albeit, faces showing, but long black dresses/cover ups and black hijabs) strolling past the playground she screamed and pointed:

"Mo0000mmmmmmmmmy! Look at the princesses!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I guess there's still some hope for her afterall.

Baby Ego

2011-02-23T09:52:00.003-05:00

When I had Alexandra, folks used to say the rudest things to me. Statements like, "Are you sure that's your baby?" and "She looks NOTHING like you!" and "Maybe they gave you the wrong kid at the hospital!"--all sorts of crummy things that break a mom's heart.

Of course, I'm not blind. I know Alexandra looks nothing like me; she is a carbon copy of Adam, his mom, and her grandmother (strangely, she doesn't look like her namesake, Osa, but like Osa's mom). I comforted myself with saying that she was Adam on the outside but me on the inside, but the older she's gotten the more I have realized that the inside of these little people is nothing but uniquely them. They might have picked up some of our qualities or neuroses along the way, but they are--from birth--simply themselves.

When I had Nico I had hope that he'd look--at least a little bit--like me, and he does. Thank freakin' god. Nico is a blend of Adam and I, but he has my eyes, and the eyes are what folks notice first. Alexandra has Adam's almond eyes; Nico has my round eyes. I get comments all the time on how much he looks like me, and, honestly, they thrill me. They resonate in my core. They make me happy.

And having Nico, having a kid that resembles me, has made me like myself more. Not that I have low self-esteem or anything, but I have never been one to like my looks. Since my teen years I have taken refuge in the fact that I have a solid and likable personality--I'm funny, kind, and have a good soul, but I'd never describe myself as physically attractive. I remember looking at myself in the mirror when I was a little girl and thinking I was pretty, but somewhere in adolescence I lost that feeling. I also remember the guy I lost my virginity to telling me (in a disgustingly cliche line), "I think you're beautiful, not on the outside, but on the inside" and thinking, in my head, "F**k the inside, I know I'm pretty there! Tell me I'm pretty on the outside!" I didn't even realize how "meh" I thought my looks were until I had Nico.

But when I look at Nico, I see myself as a little girl and I remember that feeling of being pretty again. In some twisted way, he has bolstered my feeling of self-worth in terms of my looks. When I look at Nico, and I see myself, I see beauty. My baby has boosted by ego in a way that continuously surprises me. One more perk of motherhood noted.

Freudian Smell

2011-01-29T21:28:00.003-05:00

The other day while curriculum mapping some of my co-English teachers and I got on the discussion of smell, who has what kind of smell, if we find those smells attractive, strong, correct for that individual, and so forth. I was told I smell "spicy." I'm okay with that.

But the conversation was somewhat serendipitious in timing as the night before Adam had gone to bed before me. He closed the bedroom doors and when I opened them to go to bed a couple of hours later the room was filled with the smell of my DAD. Adam, when in a contained space, emits a smell that is uncannily like my father's smell. Now my dad has been dead since I was 22 years old, and I don't really know his smell nor could I really describe it in words, but when Adam sleeps in a closed room his body makes my dad's smell.

How Freudian is that?

Teacher Effectiveness

2011-01-27T13:47:00.004-05:00

I have been getting irritated to bordering on rage lately with this entire discussion of teacher effectiveness. Let me premise this post by saying that I *do* think that teachers should be held accountable for being effective in their classrooms. I do think less-than-effective teachers should be given professional development, and I do think that some should be counseled out of the profession. But, this has been happening! Not like this is some new idea in the education sector.

By and large, most educators don't go into teaching in order to coast for 25+ years until retirement. The teachers I work with work HARD. And yes, some are more effective in delivering instruction than others, but as mentors/substitute parents/caring adults they are all 100% effective. Unfortunately, we are never be rated on the hours of social work we do as educators.

The vilifying language used to describe the teaching profession is infuriating and the idea that our country's students are failing b/c teachers are ineffective is ridiculous. Our students are falling behind globally for myriad reasons, none of which have to do with the quality of their teachers. The country itself has fallen behind economically, technologically, and scientifically for the past several decades. Anyone remember the "Nation at Risk" report that came out in the early 80's with these same fears? Same shit, decades later.

Coming down hard on teachers is NOT going to solve any of the educational conundrums we are facing at this moment in history. What it will do is drive the best and brightest out of the profession. And it most certainly will drive the strong teachers out of the struggling schools. And yes, I *am* indirectly talking about myself. I have taught in a Title I, academically struggling school of all Black, Hispanic, and Arab kids for 10 years by choice. I could have left many times, but I chose to stay. But, this spring I will be getting my doctorate in education. At this point in my teaching career, I have had myriad leadership positions in my school, including being a Lead English teacher, the school's literacy coach, and currently the school's Master Teacher for English. As much as our school has struggled in other subject, our English scores have been solid. I have options--even in this economy. I could go elsewhere.

But teaching this student population is truly where my heart is. It will break me to either leave my students to go teach at a celebrated high school (like Brooklyn Tech, or Stuy, read: White and Asian kids) or to leave the classroom overall. But I am not sure how long I can handle this pendulum swing that has all fingers pointing at me as the root cause for my students' failure to pass. I am not.

The semester just ended. I had 14 kids fail my 6th/7th period English class that has 34 kids in it. And I don't mean fail by a couple of points, I mean FAIL b/c they had a 17 average. I will be asked for call logs that document the millions of times I called their homes to question their lack of attendance (do you know how many parents asked me to stop calling?), my gradebook will be scrutinized, and my documentation of letters sent home will be checked as will those students' empty work portfolios. Of course, they are all in order b/c I *am* an effective teacher. But I will be questioned nonetheless.

And it didn't use to be like this. One, I never had so many kids outright fail--students are not coming to school for various reasons, and in 2011 I think it has a great deal to do with the economy, the lack of value in a high school diploma, and the easy access to making money illegally. Two, in the past, the administration didn't every question me when I did fail a kid (and I did), but now each kid = a statistic, and each statistic = our school's progress, and our school's progress = Race to the Top funding...

I honestly just don't know how much longer I can be held responsible when 18 year old juniors decide they want to sell weed or work at McDonald's instead of coming to class. You seriously think that an engaging lesson on "The Crucible" will pull them away from immediate monetary gain? Bullshit.

Nobody is discussing the real issues in education: both poverty and entitlement, the economy, the increasing divide between the rich and poor and the disappearing middle class, the lack of jobs, the institutional racism in public schooling....Teachers can't be the scapegoat for all the issues our government refuses to address. If they fire all of us and rehired a new crop of teachers, it wouldn't change a thing.

Classroom Management

2011-01-25T21:04:00.003-05:00

I have been teaching ten years, this is my 11th. Classroom management has never been my forte in this profession. I have never had serious problems, but when given a difficult group of kids that I can't immediately win over with my charming wit, my hilarity of performance, and my illuminating content knowledge, combined with my amazing lesson planning & effective instruction of course, I struggle.

Which is why today's anecdote about Alexandra made me laugh.

Adam came home to report that Alexandra's teacher told him this morning that Alexandra now reads the classroom story to the daycare class before naptime. Let me preface this by saying that Alexandra cannot read, but she makes up very descriptive and mostly accurate stories based on the pictures in the book. She creates different characters' voices, and oftentimes the dialogue emulates what she's heard at home or at school (i.e.: and the lion said, "If you don't stay in your chair through all of dinner you will get NO dessert!"). Having caught myself listening to her storytelling instead of doing the dishes, folding laundry, or making dinner, I can attest that she has quite a talent and is captivating. No exaggeration b/c I'm her mama.

BUT, the best part of the story--according to her teachers--is that when one of the teachers at daycare reads the pre-nap story, she always has to tell the kids to sit criss-cross-applesauce (the new politically correct term for indian style) and to stay seated and focus about a dozen times. But when Alexandra reads, the kids sit still and listen. Perfectly. Every. Time.

Man, my 3 1/2 year old already has better classroom management than I do.

the f bomb

2011-01-23T21:24:00.002-05:00

I'm blaming this on on the Department of Sanitation. They're an easy scapegoat, as everyone has been all up on them since the lack of plowing during the blizzard of 201o and the complete lack of garbage/recycling pickup still, one month later, due to the snow that won't/can't freakin' melt b/c it's colder than a witch's tit outside. But seriously, I think the conundrum I have gotten myself into right now with Alexandra's new and frequent usage of the f-bomb stems from one night in particular.

I went to get the kids and I took the jogging stroller, since I thought I'd be schlepping through some snow/ice. It was on the day that all us teachers thought for sure would be a snow day--problem was--it wasn't. I got a call from Alexandra's daycare that she was sick so I made a doctor's appt. I got the kids, hung out at the Tribeca Peds office and played with wooden toys while over-protective parents scorned their kids for playing with wooden toys (I personally could give a rip), and headed home.

Well, seemed that the Dept of Sanitation decided to plow while I was out, and in one place on my block they plowed a MOUNTAIN of snow/ice/dirt/dog pee & feces RIGHT UP TO THE STAIRS OF AN APARTMENT BUILDING. This = no sidewalk at all but a mountain of snow/ice/dirt/dog pee & feces to summit with my jog stroller. I could have walked around the block, but it was cold, after 6pm (when I"m usually feeding the kids, not on the street still getting home), and shoot--I'm in shape. I strapped Nico in nice and tight and began the climb.

After my extreme toddler sledding post you have probably been questioning my parenting overall, and, let me tell you, you should.

So, I'm hauling Nico over the mountain of snow/ice/dirt/dog pee & feces and cursing like a sailor. Alexandra has scaled it lightly like all kids do, and was walking up the street. I thought she was out of hearing range, until I heard her start yelling, "You f**ker! F**ker! F**king snow!" Uh-oh. I shut up, almost catapulted Nico out of the job stroller by tossing it over the last leg of snow mountain from hell, and had a conversation with her about not using the word. Didn't hear it again until...

...Wednesday. I was still sleeping b/c of previously mentioned UTI and Adam was getting the kids ready and I was trying to sleep which is impossible in our house from 7-8am during a school day. Adam was trying to get the kids' coats on, and suddenly Alexandra just started saying, "F**ker!" like she had turrets. Poor Adam tried to squash the language, and was somewhat successful.

But then I was walking her home the next day. She was telling me about her day and she said, "Daddy gave Nico the mail, and Nico ate it, and daddy said, 'Nico, you little f**ker!'" (which Adam swears he didn't say and I do believe him, he really doesn't use the f-bomb).

Ahhhhh!

Any tips on subtracting Alexandra's amazing ability to appropriately use the f-bomb?

One liners

2011-01-19T21:55:00.003-05:00

Today was a day of pure frustration. TMI here, but I once again have a series of chronic UTIs. When I get a UTI, they seem to come in bouts of 5-6. I got one last week, did 5 days of antibiotics, took my last antibiotic yesterday morning and by last night had the raging symptoms all over again, but worse. For anyone who has had one you know--NOT fun.

So, I spent the morning trying to get in to a dr. My doctor closed. My midwife at a birth and not returning calls. The midwives in the neighborhood closed. Seriously, wtf to all the doctors' offices closed on Wednesday? Walk in clinic stopped taking patients at 11 and I got there at 11:15, so I rushed to work to teach two of my four classes so I wouldn't be marked absent for the day. Ugh.

After I taught my class, a student of mine from the morning class I missed came in and said, "Miss, where were you? I missed you a little bit." This girl is a HARD nut to crack. She's mean, and every time I ask her to do anything she sucks her teeth at me and rolls her eyes and says something nasty under her breath. I tried calling the mom about her sass, but no luck. Her and her mom are BFFs--she has her mom's name tattooed on her wrist and she's 16 years old! So, I have been chipping away at her mean girl facade and today's one liner was evidence that I. have. won. Woot! I told her that her comment made coming to work today worthwhile and she paused. "Really?" she asked. "Yep," I said, "It's not everyday you say something nice." Tender teaching moment.

One liner #2: Go back to walk in clinic at 2:30 and get seen at 4:30. Thank god for a good book from a coworker in my bag. As the doctor and I chatted about my chronic UTIs, he said, and I quote, "In a woman YOUR AGE...." What? A woman MY AGE? Lord, he made me sound like an artifact or something. I don't think I have ever heard that expression before, but I'm sure I'll hear it again.

Oy.

Extreme Toddler Sledding

2011-01-17T14:31:00.005-05:00

Over the Christmas Holiday, we visited my dear friend Lisa at her parents house in New Hampshire. Unlike NYC, where there was 24 inches of snow, NH only had about a foot or so, which was the perfect amount for snow play with the three year olds. Her son Finn and my daughter Alexandra played in the backyard until they were near frozen. They sledded, hiked, used the swing, made a snow fort....It was all idyllic until (insert horror movie music here): extreme toddler sledding happened.

Our second day of snow bliss, Lisa and I took Finn and Alexandra out into the backyard alone. Actually, Lisa might have been wearing Zeo, their 12 week old baby in the Ergo carrier. The day before, we had found through extended experimentation the perfect sledding conditions. First, it was quickly noted that when our fat adult assess were in the sleds with the 3 year olds, they didn't go too fast (shocker). Then we found that two wiggly three year olds in one sled usually resulted in one tipping over and derailing the whole ride about 1/3 of the way down the small hill. We decided that each of them sledding separate was best for performance, but when they went downhill sitting up they usually tipped over. Lastly, we concluded that on the tummy was the best way to go. See above picture.

Until they sled head first into a running stream. Which is what Alexandra did.

Also note, the first day of sledding had SIX adults outside, and day two of sledding--during which extreme toddler sledding occurred--had two adults only, one at the top of the small hill & one at the bottom. I was at the bottom.

Both Finn & Alexandra left the top of the hill together & then went in opposite directions. Finn headed right first, towards the patio drop off of about 3 or so feet, then Alexandra veered left, towards the stream. Finn was a bit ahead, so I went to move towards him, envisioning his neck breaking as he launched off the patio ledge, but then I saw Alexandra heading towards the water. I couldn't get to her. I started screaming. It was probably one of the more helpless moments of my life.

She went over the bank of the stream, a rocky 4 foot drop that was covered with snow, slid less than an inch next to a tree, and her sled stopped with its tip dangling over the now running stream that had just unfrozen. I couldn't see her as I raced after her b/c the embankment was well below the yard level. I envisioned her skull split open and bloody, her face mangled, her body limp....but as I reached the lip of the bank I saw her on the sled, dangling over the stream, her hands gripping the sides of the sled tightly and heard her crying. It was a tiny stream, she would have just gotten freezing wet, but I yelled, "Don't move!" and tumbled down the slope to get her. She was crying, and a tad hysterical, but completely unharmed (minus the therapy bills that will probably emerge in 10+ years).

Due to my screaming, Adam and Ross (Lisa's brother) and Uros (Lisa's husband) ran outside and across the yard to the stream where Lisa was pointing, somewhat hysterical, too. I passed Alexandra up to Adam and the sled up to Ross and climbed back up to the yard. I was practically crying but I felt in shock, my heart was racing a million miles per hour, and I felt like the worst parent on earth. Seriously. She could have easily been badly hurt or worse. I was traumatized for at least a week after. I'd look at her and get teary, or just give her a squeeze out of nowhere. I felt like we had escaped some sort of horror.

After she stopped crying, the first words she said were, " I want to tell my teachers!" and she did. In fact, she told anyone who would listen for about a week that she went sledding so so so fast and "my face went over the water." Of course, that makes sense to nobody except those of us who were there.

Extreme toddler sledding--not recommended.

The Death Talk

2011-01-16T14:53:00.003-05:00

So, it happened last night. Alexandra and I were walking home from the train, and she asked me, "Mama, who's Luca's daddy?"

For any of you who have been reading my blog for a while, you know that right before Alexandra was born, in May of 2007, our close friend and neighbor Eric died suddenly of a heart attack. He was healthy, a vegetarian, and 34 years old. Two weeks later his wife, also our good friend, Kat, found out she was pregnant. Luca is their miracle son--no exaggeration on the word miracle.

When Alexandra asked me who Luca's daddy was, I didn't know where to begin. I told her that his daddy was our close friend Eric, whom we loved very very much, but he died right before she was born so she never got to meet him. Then she went on to ask some difficult questions, like HOW did he die, HOW does anyone die, WHEN do people die....It was an intense conversation, all within a two block walk until we bumped into our neighbors Jess & JP and the conversation got interrupted and she forgot what we were talking about.

The one thing that she did know, though, was that once someone dies they don't come back. And that, my friends, she learned from Sesame Street. We have the 40 Years of Sunny Days DVD and they have the skit where Big Bird is told that Mr. Hooper's dead and won't be coming back. The first ten times I watched this with her I started tearing up, but now I can watch it without crying (mostly). But as Alexandra matter-of-factly told me that once people die they don't come back, I was so thankful that Sesame Street had taught that to her. Hands down, it's the best children's television out there.

At the conclusion of our conversation, Alexandra said, "Well, sometimes when your daddy gets really old, like 19, they might die. And then other people share their daddies with you." I asked her if she'd share her daddy with Luca, and she bluntly replied, "I think that'd be okay." (In order to fully appreciate her end of the conversation, you have to picture her little head weaving back and forth and her hands gesticulating every statement like a little old Italian lady.)

As always, she lightly entered and exited this conversation, but it's still weighing heavy on me.

Firework

2011-01-14T21:49:00.003-05:00

I had about five students tell me this week that I look like the woman giving birth in the new Katy Perry "Firework" video, so tonight, since Adam's in CT and I have ample time to procrastinate on my own, I found it and just watched it about five times. And yes, I do kinda look like her in that we're both White women with brown hair, bangs, and a decent-sized nose, so I'm kinda flattered that they actually thought of me. I love getting my pop culture references from them.

But something about this song really moved me. The video just seemed so powerful. And yes, before you crucify me as a pop music addict and refuse to take me seriously--watch it.

First, I don't think there's really a more perfect comparison to giving birth than to feeling like a firework is exploding out of you in the most amazing and terrifying feeling that that might bring. So, the woman giving birth--my doppelganger--really spoke to me. Especially since I birthed both my babies on my back and probably had a similar look of terror/exhaustion on my face as my firework babies emerged. Doesn't every woman? Really impressive metaphor there.

Secondly, the little girl with cancer just ripped me apart. Yes, because she was a little girl with cancer and if that doesn't just make you fall to pieces you are obviously not human, but also because of a story I heard on NPR probably 13 or so years ago. The story went over creative ways to celebrate the end of life, and one way was to get cremated and use your ashes in the creation of some fireworks and then to set them off in your honor. I LOVE that idea. No lie. I want to be a firework when I die. Every time Adam and I have seen fireworks together I point out the colors and shapes and sounds I like for future reference. So, when I saw that little girl my mind traipsed over the the death zone and I got all emotional.

And lastly, I freakin' love this vein of pop songs that celebrates being DIFFERENT and, as an educator, I can't say enough what a desperately needed mantra that is for youth today. I could make a whole post on that, but I'll save that for another day. Pink's "Raise A Glass" is another song like this that came out recently.

Maybe I am just a pop music aficionado, but watch the video. Am I wrong? It's spectacular.

febrile virus

2010-11-30T23:32:00.004-05:00

So Nico has a virus. A febrile virus, characterized by a high fever. 103 yesterday. 102 today. Yesterday, he had a little febrile seizure. I was holding him and putting him down for a nap after having picked him up at daycare early b/c of said fever. I had just motrin-ed him b/c we couldn't get into the doctor until 3:30, and as I was putting him in the crib he started shaking a little and his long legs went straight and he started looking from right to left like he'd suddenly been transported to another planet and had no idea what the eff just happened--it was scary.

Well, it was scary after I realized what it was. While he was doing it I was more like, "Dude! I"m right here! Whatcha lookin' at?" Until I realized later that that'd been a fever-induced seizure. Then I stared at him on the video monitor all last night, afraid something bad would happen. Repeat that vigilance today. And right now, at midnight, video monitor next to me on the couch as entire family sleeps but me.

All day he's been kinda weird and crazy, the way we all feel with a high fever. The last time I had a fever like this was in February of 2008. Alexandra was 8 months old. I had a fever so high I couldn't walk myself to the doctor; Adam had to take me. They just told me it was a virus and gave me some mask to wear while breastfeeding. I laid in bed delirious while our nanny kept Alexandra out of our germ-y apartment all day. The worst part was Kat, my downstairs neighbor, had just had her son Luca, and our floors were so thin they might as well have not existed. Luca kept crying that tiny but powerful newborn wail, and each time he'd cry I'd lactate, but I was too feverish to get up and pump, so then I got clogged ducts in both breasts. Awesome.

But I digress.....

When one of the kids gets sick like this I go into panic mode. There's that horrible part of me that's just waiting for them to evaporate out of our lives like little clouds of steam. They both seem so fragile, still, and so dependent on us. And when there's something like this--a virus--and you can't do anything except wait it out I'm in agony. I don't sleep well, I have dreams of the kids dying. I recall every horror story I have heard of someone losing a child. Suddenly, our entire family seems so delicate...I mean, I guess it's delicate all the time, but at times like this I realize it.

I'm even afraid to post this. But if I post it, it's like Murphy's Law, right, and then nothing bad can happen?

Am I the only mother out there who goes bonkers like this?

THIS, world, is why all our mothers are nuts.

Is it possible...

2010-11-29T21:09:00.002-05:00

...to get fat in one weekend?

Swear to god.

I have been so stressed between work and my dissertation that I have actually dropped weight this fall even though my unhealthy self has not set foot in the Y on a regular basis since early August. Yes, you read that correctly: EARLY AUGUST.

But, as bad as it is, stress does work some metabolic magic. So, in spite of my lack of aerobic activity, I'd been feeling kinda slim. I am even back in the 130's--closet to my pre-pregnancy #1 weight that I've ever been.

Well, today I felt fat. Like, my-lovehandles-are-buldging-out-of-my-jeans-that-are-my-"fat"-jeans fat. WTF?

Honestly, I ate a bit more than normal on Thanksgiving, but after that I went on a three day writing hibernation at my friend Amy and James's house (I love them so much) during which I mainly drank copious amounts of tea and ate a few too many cookies, but nothing totally crazy in terms of diet. Yes, I sat on my ass for three days straight staring at a computer screen with no bodily movement minus trips to the bathroom and minor dance parties in their kitchen, but today I feel like I haven't hit the gym since August. Just soft...in all the wrong places.

So, I guess I should start the New Year's Resolutions early. I was going to go to the gym tonight, but Nico got a fever and I had to leave work early and......(you see how well this is going to work?).

Meh.

The Next Wes Craven

2010-11-26T15:34:00.004-05:00

As you all know from prior blog posts I used to be obsessed with horror movies, but, ever since I had kids, I can't watch them for some reason. I can't even hear someone talking about them or I lay awake at night envisioning the demon from "Paranormal Activity" dragging some guy out by his pajama pants and it being caught on video tape while Adam snoozes next to me. I can literally work myself up into a full-blown anxiety attack over stupid shit like that. I have issues.

So, the other morning as Alexandra followed me from bedroom to bathroom and back again while I was hurriedly getting ready for work, she started telling me this story and I had to pause and look at her with a "WTF?" look on my face.

Alexandra's story:

The little girl was sleeping in her bed and she heard a noise outside. She went outside to see what it was because it sounded like her daddy talking, but it wasn't her daddy, it was a strange man. He was outside; it wasn't her daddy. But then the noise was coming from a bush and it was birds in the bush making the noise. And the girl went back inside and the strange man stayed in the yard because it was the birds making the noise in the bush...it wasn't her daddy.

(You have to understand that Alexandra has dramatic hand gestures when she tells stories that will rival any old Italian grandmother.)

Okay, what the hell is that? Freakin' scary! She's composing mini-children's horror movies in her small head. Terrifying. Freaky. Absurd.

Thankful for Slips

2010-11-25T13:14:00.005-05:00

The past two Thanksgivings I have blogged about the small, random things I am thankful for (those posts are here and here). These small things are the items that make life more sane for me. Of course I am thankful for my health, my beautiful family, and my amazing friends. I am honestly thankful for them everyday. But it's the small things that go unnoticed in the daily grind of work, daycare pick up, my dissertation, & life. I don't have the brain power to think of six things this year, so here's the one thing that has rocked my world recently:

SLIPS!

Oh my god, where have slips been all my life? I haven't worn once since my First Communion (and I still have that slip & dress!), but this fall brought out the rebirth of the slip in my life. I ordered this tshirt a-line dress and when I went to put it on there was just too much VPL for my liking (that's Visible Panty Line for those of you not in the know). I mean, I teach high school kids all day long, and they'll notice your panty line and comment on it to their friends loud enough for you to hear--the joys of my job. So, I tried with dress with a thong. Well, you could TELL I was wearing a thong. That's NO better with the 16-18 crowd. I was at a total loss when I found this old half slip that I have had since the beginning of time and slipped it on (haha) and it was m-a-g-i-c! Not only did it disguise the VPL, but it smoothed down some unwanted baby love that has taken up residence on my ass.

I rocked my little half slip and few times and then I upgraded and got a full body slip. OMG. It's pure poetry. It smooths down the belly flab that's hanging out since the birth of our two kids and the advent of this academic year which has prohibited me from setting foot in a gym. I'm sold.

But I warn you: I got a Spanx slip (just getting a little overzealous on the magic a slip might be able to do for me) and it sucked. It rode up and didn't really pull anything in that drastically. And it was too expensive. So, don't go there. Stick with the old school version.

I am currently obsessed with the new HBO show Boardwalk Empire during which many fancy and pretty slips are featured. That has definitely helped fuel my new love. And, isn't "slip" a great word? It just slides off the tongue. So pretty.

Advice to all of all you mamas out there with evidence of your childbearing years lingering in your lovehandles, you belly, your derriere, or your extended derriere I highly recommend a good slip. They're not your grandmother's underwear anymore.

(Above image is a "Freudian slip"--couldn't resist.)

Outta Here

2010-11-11T10:19:00.006-05:00

I just wanted for formally announce that I'm outta here. Where? The public school classroom.

I'm just going to up and go into a completely new sector of employment where I have no formal education, training, or experience. Why? Because I'm a pretty damn superstar teacher and I have shown exemplary success in getting kids who are stubborn, defiant, low-leveled, and downright nasty how to write an essay to pass the New York State Regents Exam, how to act and enjoy a play, and how to analyze literature. I know how to differentiate content, process, and product. I know how to work with multiple learning modalities. I am trained in the new National Core Curriculum Standards. I also know how to deal with a kid who calls me a "Fucking White bitch" in class and I know how to gently talk to a student whose grandmother--who raised him after his dad abandoned the family when he was five--is dying of cancer. I know more about the Bloods and Crips than your average White person; I know the neighborhoods of Brooklyn and how gangs and neighborhoods affect the in's and out's of daily school life. Oh yeah, and I have a Masters in English Education and almost a doctorate in Education. I have eleven years of teaching experience in low-performing urban schools with students who are socio-economically struggling. So, why the hell shouldn't I be able to do anything?! Right?

That seems to be the logic of our mayor, Mr. Michael Bloomberg, who has once again demonstrated that he believes educators are unfit to run the education system.

Bloomberg's appointment of Cathie Black, Hearst Magazines chairwoman, to become the Chancellor the New York City Public Schools is illustrative of how he feels about educators. The New York City Department of Education has over 100,000 employees--classroom teachers, assistant principals, principals, regional employees, city employees--and out of ALL of these individuals who have classroom experience, formal education IN education, and management experience he could not find a single person to fill Klein's position as Chancellor? Forget the City and look outside the system, too. But the problem isn't that there are not qualified people; the problem is that he didn't look for anyone with experience in education.

Like any shamelessly self-promoting zealot, Bloomberg believes that his business model that has effectively made him ridiculously rich is the only model for education. The students are clients. The teachers are worker bees. The administration is middle management. Honestly, I don't take issue with this business-like hierarchy. What I do find problematic is that the new Queen Bee for our educational hive--the largest public school system in the nation--is not an educator, is not trained in education, nor has ever personally experienced life in any public school as a student or a parent. How is that even possible?

Along those lines, I'm going to go run my husband's well-established and respected architecture firm. Sure, I don't know anything about city codes, the politics of developing urban spaces, building budgets, or even how a building gets built from the ground up without falling over, but I manage about 80 students a day and am responsible for the professional development of my 80 fellow co-workers (as their Master Teacher), so, shoot, I'm qualified enough. Right? The same goes for any profession. Maybe I'll skip over architecture (not really enough money) and run an investment firm, or car manufacturing plant, or decide to perform some surgeries at a hospital...The options are endless when your education and experience in no way determine your employment trajectory.

Education needs to be run by educators. Any chancellor needs to have spent time in a classroom. Even if s/he spent five years in a classroom, then got her/his MBA and ran Citibank for 15 years and then returns to education--that's legitimate. But hiring someone from publishing, for god's sake, who has no education experience is ludicrous. And it's disrespectful to those of us who have spent our lives both working in and studying about education, poverty, immigration, curriculum, policy, race, literacy, and the history of education in order to make ourselves better teachers and leaders in schools.

Cathie Black, a reluctant welcome to the jungle to you. May you all prove of us wrong, but somehow I doubt you will.

Apocalypse Now

2010-10-17T21:22:00.002-04:00

Last Monday was an evening of note. Besides the fact that I exercised for the first time since the school year began, we had a CRAZY hail storm. It had been lightening throughout my 45 minute spin class and when I came outside the ground was wet, so I figured the storm had passed. But then, out of nowhere (just like the Brooklyn tornado of 2010 a month ago) it was torrentially raining, thundering like death was upon us, and quarter-sized hail started pouring out of the sky.

Adam and I went to the front window to get a better view of the circumstances against the streetlights and it was pure madness. It looked like a river was running down our street and I worried that it would overflow the curb height and seep into our ground floor apt. The ground was pure white with hail. The rain was sideways. Right as we questioned as to if it was tornado #2 and if we should grab the kids and get into the cellar, Alexandra stumbled into the room, woken by the booming thunder. She quickly became fascinated with the hail and Adam opened the window and grabbed her a few pieces. She cross-referenced the hail storm the next morning in her Eyewitness book on weather. Smart girl.

But the hail storm brought me back to my childhood and the time we had a crazy hail storm in Sterling, Virginia and my religious mother thought it was the beginning of the apocalypse. She was on our mustard yellow phone that matched our kitchen appliances, staring out into the backyard with her free arm waving in the air praising Christ and speaking in tongues, praying with a fellow born-again Christian over the phone lines. Christ didn't appear on a cloud that day to whisk them off to heaven and the end of ages did not start, but the hail storm (it was golfball-sized hail and quite impressive) did dent the aluminum siding on all the houses in our suburban subdivision and everyone got vinyl siding after that. Our house went from green to yellow.

I hadn't thought of that hail storm of my childhood and my mother's constant insistence that the Christ was coming back *NOW* lately. Since I lost my religion around the age of 18 most conversations regarding the apocalypse revolve around how I'm going to endure the seven years of trial and tribulation since I no longer believe in Christ as my personal Lord and savior. My last conversation with my mom on this topic was when I was home several years ago and she told me the combination to the garage and where she stashes her mad money and jewelry. She also mentioned that Jim (my step-dad's) grandfather clock was worth a few thousand dollars in case I had to barter with Satan for my life at any point. She was not kidding.

My mom still lives in that state of constant waiting; she fully believes that Christ will come back and she hopes that it will be in her lifetime. I, on the other hand, just enjoy a good display of extreme weather. But, in case the next hail storm is accompanied by a surprise disappearance of all Christian peoples from the planet Earth, someone give me a ring. I have a stash of cash and diamonds awaiting us in NC, along with a badass grandfather clock that I'm sure Satan has his eye on.

Strange Sadness

2010-10-11T11:05:00.002-04:00

I'm up at Teachers College today, desperately trying to work on my dissertation revisions that have been hiding in my closet (no lie) since the school year started. I'm sitting in the library, a place I never visit since having two kids, and pretending that I'm an academic when my brain just keeps traipsing into thoughtful digressions wondering what my kids are doing right now with the babysitter we hired for the day because their daycare is closed.

Caffeinated as usual, a trip to the bathroom just hit me and when I walked into the ladies restroom I got this overwhelming sense of sadness like I do every time I have walked into this bathroom since May of 2006. It was in that bathroom that I noticed the blood that had started the day I turned 12 weeks pregnant with our first pregnancy. As I stared at the reddish/brown on my underwear in the middle bathroom stall (I still remember which one it was) that evening, I tried to convince myself that it was okay, but I knew inside that something was very, very wrong.

For some strange reason, that bathroom still makes me super sad. I now have two healthy, beautiful children after two uncomplicated pregnancies and wonderful births, but there is something about walking through that bathroom door that brings back the emotions of fear, loss, and disappointment that that miscarriage brought into my life. It seems silly to feel that sense of longing and loss still, four years later, especially after having had two babies, but for some reason it's still there. And palpable. I don't know why.

My days at Teachers College are hopefully limited. I was told this morning that I'm using my last semester of personal exemption this Fall and that if I don't defend this Spring then I'll have to start paying the ongoing fee to be matriculated but not graduated. That's not going to happen. My days revisiting this bathroom that remind me of my miscarriage are limited, then, too. In some ways it's a sacred space to me, but it's one I'll be happy never to visit again.

Our Big Fat Gay Wedding

2010-10-04T21:26:00.003-04:00

We attended our first gay wedding this weekend. This was Alexandra's second wedding this summer, and she looked forward to both Jen & Mary's and Sam & Maddy's with great anticipation. She was excited to wear a dress, to dance, to eat cake, and to go on "vacation" with us and have adventures. All week leading up to the wedding she kept asking, "Are we going to the wedding today?" and making statements like "Jen & Mary are going to be so so so pretty in their dresses!" Never once did it even occur to her that Jen & Mary's desire to marry each other was anything to bat an eyelash about.

There is something so amazing about that innocence and her lack of understanding that many folks do not think that Jen & Mary should have the rights and benefits that come with the legalization of their union. To Alexandra, the fact that our neighbors and friends were in love and wanted to get married was no different than mommy or daddy getting married or from the wedding she attended in August. She just wanted details on the car we were renting to get there, what type of cake there would be, and the color of Jen's dress and Mary's suit (after I explained to her that I had never seen Mary in a dress and that some girls didn't like/want to wear dresses, she easily accepted that Mary would wear a suit). The fact that Jen & Mary are both girls? No big deal.

The wedding was beautiful and, no surprise here, just like every union of two wonderful people that we have ever attended. I cried during their vows, got chills during their super cute choreographed first dance, and saw so many parts of their wedding that I wish we had done (great idea: a big picture frame hung between trees as a "photo booth" for all the guests to go pose in as wedding documentation--brilliant!). We danced until Alexandra started to fade (Nico had passed out in the Ergo despite my booty shaking), and we slowly traipsed back to our hotel room looking at the stars that elude us here in Brooklyn.

We didn't bring any books in from the car, so I told Alexandra a story as she fell asleep. I told her that one day, she'd have a wedding and we would all come. That we would eat cake and dance all night and be happy with all her friends and our friends. I told her that she could marry whomever she wanted and we would support her choices and love her (I decided to save the "as long as s/he isn't a total douche" addendum for later), and that she'd always be our baby girl. As she looked at me with her dark chocolate eyes, I don't think she realized the layers of meaning in my story of her future, but it would be just lovely if some of it would sink in and, in her mind, she would never feel the need to question the validity of Jen & Mary's wedding versus anyone else's.

Nico is One

2010-09-29T21:26:00.004-04:00

My baby boy turned one on September 22nd.

The births of my children punctuate the school year. Alexandra's birthday falls on one of my last days of work before summer break; Nico's birthday is nestled into the first three weeks of back to school/work insanity. I guess I could have planned that better, knowing that both of those times are professional moments when I'm pretty stressed out, but the one thing having kids has taught me is that while I am forming the most beautiful and best-laid plans in my head (and often, even in illustrated spreadsheets on paper) their little bodies have plans of their own that will, inevitably, overthrow my plans in a skinny minute. But that's not always a bad thing.

Nothing speaks more loudly to this than my accidental/surprise pregnancy that produced Nico. When I peed on the stick that told me I was pregnant, I wept. I was NOT happy. When I found out we were having a boy, I was NOT happy. For about half of my pregnancy with him I was feeling nothing in terms of bonding with the baby. Actually, that was probably more than half of my pregnancy. Even when I was in labor, I was wishing Nico would come out as a girl. And while I, of course, took exquisite care of myself and Nico internally while pregnant, I could not help but constantly think about how this child had derailed my plans for my doctorate work, my job, our finances, etc.

And then he came out, and none of that mattered.

As corny as it sounds, the minute I met Nico all those feelings instantly evaporated. I was so happy he was a boy, and I continue to feel that way every minute of every day. I love having a son; it's different than having a daughter in ways I can't even explain that are so beautiful and intense and powerful. Nico's radiant personality and easy going self and infectious smile have made our small hill of debt because of double daycare more than worthwhile. He has brought such a richness and balance to our family that he'd be worth any unforeseen challenge or change we'd have to make b/c of life with 2 kids 2 years apart. I look at him and just think of how lucky we are to have him in our lives.

I still have moments of maternal guilt over the lack of enthusiasm I had for his creation and gestation; I'm not sure I'll ever fully forgive myself for those feelings. But Nico is the best unplanned event in my life, and, in a lot of ways, his arrival showed me that planning isn't always the best way to go.

Brooklyn Tornado

2010-09-25T20:55:00.005-04:00

In addition to the total stress of returning to work at a school with a new principal and a new job title for myself, there was a freakin' tornado the first week of work. Yes, you read that correctly--a TORNADO here in Brooklyn. Yep.

It was Thursday, September 9th. I decided to pick the kids up early b/c I had finished at work and was missing them big time. I walked to Alexandra's daycare, got her, and we noticed that the sky was getting stormy looking, but just gray, moving clouds and a breeze. We walked the 12 blocks to Nico's daycare, got a snack along the way, picked up Nico, and headed up our street. We stopped and chatted with Miss Gertrude, the old lady who lives on our block who loves Alexandra and Nico. After catching up for a bit, it started to thunder and lighting right on top of us. Thunder, then lightening, one after the other really fast. I said to Alexandra, "Let's run home so we don't get wet!" and we ran up the street. Me wearing Nico and my backpack, Alexandra and her backpack.

We made it into our apartment just as the rain started. I took Nico out of the Ergo carrier, got our shoes off and we were in the apartment when it really started looking strange out. Thing is, our windows were closed b/c our landlords were having work done on their deck and there had been a lot of dirt/dust blowing into our apt, so I couldn't hear the raging storm outside. But when I looked out the kitchen window upon entering our apartment from the hallway it was pitch black. I said to Alexandra, "Wow, it's really dark out there, let's go see!" (I love a good thunderstorm and so does she) and I picked Nico back up, we ran to her window which faces our backyard, she climbed her radiator to see outside better, and I stood there in shock by what I saw.

Outside was now a pea green color. I couldn't see the apartment building behind us (it's only 60 feet away). Everything was going SIDEWAYS and there were branches, leaves, and dirt just twisting around so fast you couldn't tell what was what. After looking at it transfixed for about half a second, my brain registered a huge "What the f*ck is that?!" and I grabbed Alexandra off the radiator, told her to go to the hallway, grabbed our transistor radio, and shut us out of our apartment into our windowless hallway. Alexandra said, "Mommy, I'm a little scary...."

I tuned the radio to 1010 Wins (the local news radio)--nothing. I tuned to NPR--nothing. WTH? I was pretty sure there was a tornado raging outside my window but nobody was saying anything. I felt like a crazy person. I kept waiting for someone to say something--nothing. After about 5 minutes the doors to the hallway stopped rattling and we ventured back into the apartment. Only then did the radio announce a tornado warning for Brooklyn and Queens. Duh. Thanks for the heads up.

I called my next door neighbor and coworker Jess and she confirmed that she thought it was a tornado. It wasn't until a day later that official weather folks declared, based on their data, that there had been two separate tornados--one in Brooklyn, one in Queens. Brooklyn winds around 95 mph, Queens around 115.

We went for a walk after dinner to see the destroyed neighborhood. Huge beautiful trees (why I love Park Slope) laid all over like corpses. Branches had been ripped off and thrown 30 feet from the tree. Cars smashed. Store windows blown out. One block from our house a Saab was left in the middle of the road after a tree fell both behind it and in front of it--abandoned by the terrified driver. It was like a movie set here.

But the strange thing is that the tornado didn't really touch the ground. Heavy pots still stood on stoops, our yard toys got pushed around by the wind but weren't hanging from the trees. The tornado seemed to dance over the rooftops and treetops, ripping trees and roofs off, but thankfully leaving the ground fairly unscathed all things considered.

While I have a more than shaky relationship with my belief in God, I'm so thankful that for some unknown reason I decided to grab my kids early that day. We walked in the door less than 5 minutes before the tornado hit. Stuff like that just gets you thinking...

First Day. Dammit.

2010-09-09T22:07:00.005-04:00

Back to work this week. Got up on Tuesday and Alexandra was particularly peeved with my sense of purpose to the morning, especially that I didn't have time read to her or put her baby's diaper on, or dance with her to Michael Jackson. The world knows I am not, nor have I EVER been, a morning person. My mom says that I used to sleep so late as a baby that she'd come in to make sure I was still breathing (why neither of my children inherited that gene is plain sad). Therefore, when I have to wake early, I am not to be bothered. I am cranky, focused, and my mind is already in the classroom.

So, this week was hard for her As much as I tried to pull myself out of my myopic "Must get to work on time" mode, it wasn't enough for her. And the fact that I leave between 7:15-7:30 (they leave right before 8) got her all upset. Each day I left to her crying for me. As all mothers know--NOT the best way to start a day.

I have been trying to spend more time with her in the evenings to compensate. Nico just stopped his morning nap and only takes an afternoon nap, therefore he's exhausted and in bed by 7, leaving Alexandra to me & daddy for an hour. That's good for her. She's not happy with our new schedule in the morning, as evidenced by this conversation:

Setting: me tucking her into bed.

Alexandra: I missed you this morning, Mommy.
Me: I missed you, too, honey. But Mommy has to go to work now. School started and mommy's a teacher, so I have to go teach.

Pause.

Alexandra: Dammit.
Me: What?
Alexandra: Dammit.
Me: You mean, slam it?
Alexandra: No, I said "dammit" and I mean "dammit."
Me: Goodnight, honey.

Dammit pretty much summarizes how I feel about the summer being over, too, but sheesh. I guess a mommy with a salty mouth = a baby girl with one, too. Crazy thing is, I don't really say "dammit." Go figure.

My Hour of Bliss

2010-09-02T12:02:00.004-04:00

This summer has been both lovely and hell. I am so excited to return to work to simply get away from this freakin' computer that I have been glued to all day, every day. I am tired of sitting in a chair all day and look forward to running around rabid at school. This is why teachers need summers, folks.

Of course, not going to work is wonderful in so many ways. I can work out in the morning instead of at night, I can poop in my own bathroom, I can grab small amounts of groceries easily, I can fold laundry without Alexandra around to destroy my piles...They are small things, but they really do improve my quality of life.

But my favorite part of the whole summer has been this routine Adam and I have going. The kids have been waking at 5:50/6am, so I'll get up, get Nico's bottle, chat with Alexandra and then, when Adam gets up at 6:15 I hand the kids over, go back into our air conditioned room, turn on the white noise machine, and sleep for one hour.

I don't know why, but that one hour is sleep is pure bliss. It's deep, I dream crazy dreams, and often I have a hard time waking from it. I have been wondering why I sleep so soundly for that hour when I sleep lightly and fitfully most of the night. Is it because I know the kids are up with Adam? Is it pure exhaustion that knocks me out? Who knows....but it's heavenly.

I'll miss that hour when I go back to work next Tuesday. In fact, tomorrow will be my last hour of bliss of the summer b/c our weekends have a different schedule to them. Next week, when I wake at 6am with the kids I'll hop in the shower, have a new aura of stress around me, and will have teaching on my mind.

Goodbye summer and your tiny, beautiful surprises.

Done

2010-08-31T09:30:00.003-04:00

Since March of 2006, I have either been pregnant or nursing with a three month break between pregnancy #1 (miscarriage) and Alexandra's pregnancy and a three month break between weaning Alexandra and getting pregnant with Nico.

As of this week, two major things have happened:

1. Nico is fully weaned (although my boobs are still readjusting)
2. Adam had a vasectomy yesterday (although he's still going to be shooting swimmers for about 20 more shots, according to the doctor)

These are monumental steps in my life. Not only am I physically done with childbearing and nursing, but we have also taken a serious step to ensure that we won't have any more kids. There is a teeny, tiny part of me that mourns this. Yesterday I was super emotional about it all. Although the logical me knows the million and one reasons we are stopping at two kids, the emotional side of me is feeling sad, a sick maternal longing for another baby in my belly, the flutters of first feeling it move, the massive kicks that make your skin undulate, the power of giving birth, those first precious moments of meeting your baby, the sweet sucking sounds a newborn makes on your breast....the list goes on.

But we are done. And, once the emotional side of me calms down (I'm also PMS-ing which is no help. God, having your period again SUCKS after being menstruation-free for 20 months), I'm sure I'll find immeasurable relief in knowing that we no longer have to worry about another* surprise pregnancy.

(* Two of our three pregnancies were surprises. We are not model condom users, that's for sure)

(Photo of my last day of pumping breastmilk in the gross teacher's lounge bathroom. I WON'T miss that.)

Spanking

2010-08-29T20:59:00.002-04:00

I was spanked. Even writing that seems like an understatement. I was spanked A LOT. As the child of a born again Christian who firmly believed in "spare the rod, spoil the child" and as a willful, smart-mouthed little girl (whom karma has paid me back with an identical one), I got spanked a lot. Also, I had a lying snitch of a sister who framed me for everything. No joke. I got spanked so many times for her lies that it's no wonder we're not really friends today, even just based on years 3-10 of my life. But...

...here I am with children, and I don't spank. I don't believe in it. I feel that hitting a child is a reckless use of power. I'm the adult. I should have control. It's a philosophy that I carry into teaching, too. Sure, call me a "F*cking white b*tch, blah blah blah" but I'm not going to curse at you because I'm the adult.

Right? Great in theory, harder in practice.

I hit Alexandra last week.

She had hit Nico in the face. I was carrying her to timeout in her bedroom, holding her by the arms with her face facing my chest. She was screaming like a banshee and then she lunged at my chest (braless, as it was 7:30 am) and chomped down and bit my left breast. Hard. I was stunned, let go of her, and wollopped her on the right arm. Then I threw her into timeout, shut her door, and ignored her screaming.

Not my best parenting moment.

Yes, it hurt. It hurt a lot as last week I weaned Nico off his morning nursing and my boobs were adjusting back to their normal milkless selves and were particularly tender. But I still should not have hit her. Literally, there was not a second between action and reaction. I felt bad.

When I went into her room after her 3 minutes of timeout, I immediately apologized for hitting her. I said I was sorry, that when she bit me it hurt so bad that I hit her without thinking, but that hitting was not right, which is why she was in timeout in the first place (for hitting Nico). Believe me, the irony of the whole situation was not lost on me.

A friend Denise Galang, who is an amazing poet and teacher, wrote this sonnet about hitting on her blog. I love it.

Friday, May 7, 2010
Striking Sonnet 1

To hit or not to; is there a question?
When she scratches her baby brother’s skull
with her sharpest nail while I breastfeed him?
Spits in my face when I give her a time-out?
Smacks my cheek in the backseat of the car?
Bites my arm at the end of music class?
Throws a magnet at me when I say “Please,
be gentle. Pulling his arm is not nice.”
Don’t know how else to bear this insolence.
A lightning pulse commands my arms to strike:
I drag her off the baby to her room.
I smack her in the face and say, “Don’t hit.”
Then my quake dies down. In the aftermath,
wails, quivering words: “No! You no hitting.”

R.I.P. Miriam Perez

2010-08-26T08:46:00.007-04:00

While I loathe all the teaching metaphors that relate to war (the trenches, the battleground, educational ground zero, the troops, etc.), there is something about teaching together that makes people close. The emotional job of teaching is exhausting. We literally raise these students while trying to get them to learn to read, write, and become life long learners; we encourage them to say please/thank you, not to scream "F*ck you" whenever they feel like it, and to have positive and respectful relationships with one another. Anyone who is a parent knows how difficult these goals are with your own children. Now multiply that by 150, subtract the fact that you do have some parental power & unconditional love with your own children, and that equals teaching.

With this in mind, teaching brings people together. I have cried, laughed, listened, talked, whined, worried, and gotten pissed (as in mad and drunk!)with my coworkers. We laugh when our principal says we're family, but we are. I have worked there for NINE years. My coworkers have guided me through engagement, marriage, miscarriage, masters work, doctorate work, the pregnancies and births of my two children, the death of a very close friend, marital conflicts, family issues, and many an existential crisis. I love them dearly--they truly are my family on so many levels.

(my coworkers: (L to R) Causha Vann-Innis, Miriam Perez, Mr. Cuthbert our principal, Akua Henderson-Brown--all these ladies are kick ass English teachers at Cobble Hill)

Which is why I couldn't catch my breath when Thai (whom I have worked with since she was a wee student teacher at our school) called me yesterday afternoon to tell me of the passing of Miriam Perez. Literally. My heart was racing--it was as if my brain could not process the information. I stood in front of Nico's daycare stunned.

Miriam and I have worked together for a long time; I can't remember my life at school without her. She had a dazzling smile, a love for poetry and poetry slams, documentary films (and made awesome Brooklyn tshirts!) and a hearty laugh that could warm a room. Over the years we had gotten closer and my gregarious self began to understand Miriam's more reserved personality. We began to laugh together, share stories of kids and our students, and be friends. I'll miss her presence in 212, our Humanities Teacher's Lounge. I can picture her there so clearly: at the end of the table, eating her healthy lunch and wearing her copper hoop earrings, maybe with her ipod on, trying to catch a moment of peace before teaching again.

I'll never forget the first time I saw Miriam outside of school--eight years ago?--at Prospect Park with a beautiful little girl at her side. Being me, I ran up to them and introduced myself and met her daughter, Afiya. She must have been 8 or 9 years old. She was lanky, had big, curious eyes, and a shy smile. Afiya has come to school many days with Miriam, and we have all be lucky to watch her grow into an amazing, grounded, confident, and intelligent similar-but-of-course-unique version of Miriam. I know Miriam's greatest love and focus in life was Afiya. I can't stop thinking of her and aching for her.

One of the things that has been touching about Miriam's passing is the response from her old students on Facebook. Teaching is such a thankless job; you never really know how the students feel about you until maybe--years later--you get a random email or friend request from a student who tells you how much you changed their lives. Those moments are rare and beautiful. Reading the students' comments about Miriam this morning demonstrated the love they had for her and the importance of her role as their teacher. Some have changed their profile pictures to her face. They are spreading the word and they, too, are shocked, sad, and aching.

Miriam--we all loved you at Cobble Hill, students and teachers alike. Thank you for staying at the school, year after year, amid many upheavals of teachers and administration; thank you for being so constant and consistent in your demeanor amid the craziness of our building; and thank you for being our friend and part of our family. We will all miss you deeply.

(my lovely coworkers at another coworker's wedding: (L to R) Suzane Thomas, my Assistant Principal; Causha Vann-Innis, the bride; Miriam Perez; Katika Moore (we're still waiting for you to come back, Tika!); Thai Sanders; Akua Henderson-Brown. I was 2 weeks post-partum from Alexandra and not sadly there, but I got many texts from all of them during it!)

Happy?

2010-08-25T10:33:00.001-04:00

I love both the simplicity and the message of this poster.
Food for thought today!

Sam & Maddy

2010-08-24T08:39:00.008-04:00

I have got to post about our vacation before my mind decomposes into all dissertation and work talk.

Our vacation! It was lovely! I was in shock that we did it, made it, and enjoyed it after our first attempt at a vacation in early July, but it worked and restored my faith that we CAN do things with two kids and actually have a good time. In fact, while the idea of vacation has totally changed, in some ways it was even more wonderful to experience all these things with Alexandra, who remembers so much and has a constant running dialogue about all we do. I'm going to start at the end of our vacation and move backwards:

Our last leg of vacation was in New Paltz, New York. I had never been there, but it was gorgeous. Soft mountains, green lush surroundings, the smells....yum. We had an epic 11 hour car ride from Cape Cod to New Paltz which was a challenge, and we arrived in New Paltz in the dark, me driving like a grandma on the windy mountain roads to our rented cabin, but we made it. We walked into the red cabin, got the kids in bed, and I immediately passed out. It was chilly! You can't imagine how wonderful it felt to be a little cold at night.

We were in New Paltz for Sam & Maddy's wedding celebration. Well, they didn't officially get married, but it was a joining of the souls in ways that I found touching, genuine, and simply beautiful in its intentions. They had transformed a retreat center into a wedding venue; it was nestled in the mountainous terrain, fields and woods around it. So beautiful. I never realize how much I am practically starving for nature due to our urban existence until I am plopped in the middle of it.

They officiated their own ceremony with help from their families. The love they had for each other and that their families demonstrated for them was moving. The evening was full of group gatherings--the ceremony, a blessing before dinner, eating, dancing--all orchestrated by Sam & Maddy to bring together everyone they loved. Unlike any wedding I had ever attended, but perfect.

My favorite parts of the night were when Maddy's cousins toasted them and explained how Maddy was the type of person who constantly encouraged you to have a "critical pedagogy." So perfectly on spot! And Maddy's sister then did an interpretative dance/performance toast which was hilarious and heart-warming. I want to marry into Maddy's family!

Alexandra asked about a dozen times, "When are we going to dance?" We have been practicing our dancing each night after dinner for the two weddings we're attending this year. When the band came on she went BONKERS. Too cute. And she loved watching the old hippies (the parent generation) get down in the dance floor. Sometimes she'd stop dancing and just stare. I don't think she'd ever seen adults dance or seen men and women dance closely...You could see her mind taking it all in.

We stayed in colorful little cabins with some friends and the kids ran around wild, eating cherry tomatoes, visiting the two llamas the cabin owners used to mow the grass, and hiking on woodsy trails. Had me wishing we lived in a cabin commune where the kids could just run free and the parents could pop over to each others' houses at will.

We snuck back into the city before the Sunday traffic hit. It was great to get home, mainly for all the baby accoutrements that we enjoy in our apartment, but for about a week I found myself thinking Brooklyn was gross and craving a quieter, greener environment. But now I'm back into my city grind and happy. Although my mind is curious about life outside of New York...Maybe one day.

Congrats and love to you, Sam & Maddy. We look forward to sharing all the next phases of partnership with you both! Bring on those babies (wink, wink)!

(ps: Adam wore an ironic moustache to the wedding in cahoots with Brian. That's why, if you click on the kissing both photo, he looks like a child molester.)

Teenage Dream

2010-08-19T13:06:00.005-04:00

My high school boyfriend, Trey, used to make fun of my propensity to determine a successful pop song. Give me any newly released album and I'll inevitably be drawn to the most unoriginal, peppy song that will be loved by the masses. It was true then, and I still love me a good pop song.

Which was why I wasn't surprised but still kinda embarassed when I caught Katy Perry's new song "Teenage Dream" and the video while watching VH1 on the elliptical machine yesterday morning. I watched the video longingly, like it was my past life (Ha--I wish!), but there is something about it that draws me back to my younger years that I tend to over-romanticize in my head.

Maybe it's just me trying to ignore the fact that I have spent another summer mostly staring at my computer (3rd in a row), writing a dissertation, wearing my underwear inside out half the time, and am currently wearing two different flip flops b/c I am too lazy to find the mate to either one. Wishful dreaming of a mythical youth long past...Don't know. But I felt justified when New York Magazine's Approval Matrix (I freakin' love the Approval Matrix) referenced the Katy Perry video as "nostalgic, oddly moving." See! I'm not alone here.

Can't embed the video, so click here to watch it.

Experience Necessary

2010-08-18T11:25:00.003-04:00

Blah blah blah money blah blah blah.

I feel like that's been my life lately.

But last Sunday, in our cute little cabin in New Paltz, we listened to a NPR show about how money can make you happy, but it depends on WHAT and HOW you spend it as to how much happiness you experience. Fascinating story, and the same woman from the NPR show is featured in this article in the Times that my friend Julia posted on Facebook last night.

The main point I took away from this article is that you should spend you money on planned experiences and things that bolster human relationships rather than material items (a new couch, for example) because those things foster long term happiness mainly through memories. Such simple words, but so true. Some things you can't put a price on.

For example: The undergraduate debt that I am so close to paying off (I think I have about $3000 left) is mainly from my year abroad in France. That year cost triple or more than a regular year at UNC, but it formed me into the person I am today on so many levels I can and cannot measure. It birthed my love for travel, alone and with others and my love for cities, which led me to NYC and my life today. The friends and memories I have from that year pretty much define my adult life. I'd probably pay $200/month the rest of my life if I had to to have had that experience.

See also Kat & Eric's wedding in Mexico, my solo trip to India post-miscarriage, my summer in West Africa, and even last week's vacation--all of which I/we couldn't really afford to take but did anyways.

For some reason that article provided me with a moment of peace about our life. I'd rather live in an 800 square foot 1 bedroom apartment and have these city experiences and mini-vacations than live in a huge house with a gigantic mortgage and two name-brand cars, even if that means we have no solid long term investments. I hope to look back on my life and see a richness of people and places; I feel we're doing a good job at that right now.

(Photo of fishing net in cochi, india--where I was four years ago this month. How awesome is that?)

Manscaping

2010-08-16T14:45:00.003-04:00

We're back from vacay and I'll post about it throughout this week, but I wanted to sneak in a quick post today about manscaping which was bought up hilariously on last week's "Entourage" in a conversation between Vince, Johnny Drama, and Turtle.

FYI: Manscaping is the act of keeping male body hair under control. It could mean a back wax or it could mean trimming/waxing/shaving/maintaining the hair down there. There are various degrees of manscaping, from those who get the BBB wax (balls/back/butt) to those who just go for a trimmy-trim to the various regions of male hair growth. Regardless, as Johnny Drama said, "It's 2010--you've got to manscape."

There are so many male:female double standards in this world, but I stand firm on the belief that men need to manscape. Why must I subject myself to getting my nether-regions waxed by my monosyllabic Russian lady when my partner can grow a chia pet? Why is an errant hair growing out of my armpit disgusting when he can have three inches of armpit hair caked with deodorant clumps? Seriously, world. I may still make 80 something cents to every dollar my husband makes (and that's pretty much true as we compared Social Security statements last night), but if I'm going to groom so is he.

And my opinions were justified by the brief but illuminating discussion on "Entourage" (August 8th episode). I have never really had a fondness for the LA area and its obsession with celebrity, cars, and plastic surgery, but if LA is where it's at for the manscaping movement, then LA, I love you.

Vacation?

2010-08-05T11:24:00.003-04:00

In July we went to Black Point, the beach on the Long Island Sound that Adam grew up going to, with Adam's parents. It was a far cry from a vacation.

Alexandra threw about three tantrums a day. The beach was way too hot to go down to during any regular human being hours, there was NO shade, and it was 100 degrees even at the water. The beach house had no AC. Nico would wake at 5am and we couldn't let him cry until 6am b/c it would have woken up the whole house, so we were up at 5am. We had to eat out every night b/c it was too hot to cook, and, for any of you with a tantrum-y toddler and a 10 month old with ninja arms, you know that eating out isn't really much fun. As much as my in-laws were overly gracious, it just was not a good time.

We were thrown. Was THAT a vacation? We called our daycare to see if the kids could come back early, drove home during the night to sleep in our ACed apt, and eagerly tossed them in daycare the next morning. Then we went to brunch, came home and napped, and looked at each other with that, "What the eff have we done to our lives?!" look of parental desperation. Never again, we vowed.

And then our dear friends Brian and Susannah invited us to join them at the Cape this coming week. We honestly thought we'd just say no and staycation: keep the kids in daycare, hit some museums, nap, make out, drink beer with lunch, etc. But then we got sucked back into the idea of leaving town, a geographical shift from the melting city streets, and next thing you know we're going.

Our whirlwind vacation starts in CT, onto Cape Cod, and finishes with a wedding in New Paltz. Wish us luck. I must admit, my expectations aren't too high. If I can have a drink with Susla each night and shoot the sh*t for an hour before we all pass out at 10 (b/c Nico will inevitably wake at 5am, esp w/o his darkening shades) I'm going to call it a good trip.

Back August 15th. I'm sure I'll have much to write about.
(Photo of Alexandra & I at the Cape, 2008)

Mama's Speedball

2010-08-03T11:16:00.003-04:00

I'll admit, that I have never done heavy drugs. Some light dabbling in college and in my twenties, but that's about the extent of my drug use. Goody goody two shoes for the most part.

Lately Alexandra has started offering me beer. No, I'm not like Betty Draper on Mad Men with my 3 year old daughter running to the fridge, grabbing a brewski and our pink parrot beer opener (a mother's day present from my friend/coworker/neighbor Jess who must have known of my need for a bottle opener that would be attractive to children), and handing me a cold one as I lounge on our crappy barf-stained couch eating bonbons. Unfortunately we're not at that literal level of play yet.

But whenever she's making pretend drinks at the beach, in the tub, in her kitchen, or with Nico she always runs over to me and either offers me a pretend coffee or a pretend beer. Obviously, that's all she thinks I drink.

And, you know, besides one cup of juice with breakfast and copious amounts of water, that is pretty much all a drink. It's mama's speedball. I get my high off my cup of coffee in the morning and another around 3pm and come down with a beer at night (usually only on weekends and I can barely finish one for those of you about to send me a link to AA). Some folks opt for the original speedball (cocaine then heroin), but I am fully addicted to the mama interpretation of one.

I'm sure I'm not alone in this one.

Alexandra has also said, "When I'm a grown up, I can drink coffee and beer!" Yeah, sweetie--you can. But until then, mama's speedball is only for mama.

Pushing Art

2010-07-31T22:26:00.007-04:00

The lovely old school Brooklyn Jewish lady who was our principal's secretary informed me that when you push a baby out of your vag that your husband then has to get you a pushing present. She showed me every piece of jewelry on her hands/wrists/neck and said, "This was baby #1, this was baby #2, this was baby #3" and so on. I wasn't too sure about that, but then I pushed out Alexandra and her 10lbs of huge baby body out and said, "Hell, yeah. Get me a pushing present."

For Alexandra I got pearls (stud earrings and single strand necklace). You can't imagine the jokes that Adam made for weeks about giving me a pearl necklace (get it?), but he finally got over his hilarity and got the goods. I hope to pass the pearls down to Alexandra one day. But with Nico, I have been at a loss. And then I decided: I want a piece of art that Nico can have one day.

After racking my brain, I cyber-stalked an old college friend Casey Burns who made the most amazing rock concert posters for the Cat's Cradle (Chapel Hill's musical epicenter, for those not in the know), and I was thrown to find him still making posters and fully employed by his work. Amazing! He beyond talented, and his stuff is beautiful but kinda macho, too. It reminds me of loud music, and sweaty packed concerts, and hot bass players, and beer breath, and all that testosterone-y stuff that I like about men and loved about undergrad concert going.

And, if I can get a print/poster for my sweet Nico, maybe one day he will grow up and be a rock star or a bad ass artist (or both!) all b/c a Casey Burns print hung over his crib. That'd be pretty cool.

(Spoon poster of of Casey's off his website. Gorgeous, no?)

Goodbye Medela

2010-07-30T11:53:00.003-04:00

I just pumped breastmilk for the last time.

I decided it would be the last time b/c nothing came out. Each Medela bottle has some milk spattered inside it, but neither bottle has any real accumulation on the bottom.

And I feel sad. I don't know why, but when I looked at the empty bottles I got this terrible urge to cry. Eyes welled up, the whole deal. Out of nowhere.

Big sigh.

Weaning Woes

2010-07-28T12:07:00.006-04:00

I am weaning my sweet Nico. He is 10 1/2 months old now and, according to our pediatrician, can have cow's milk. I just wanted to avoid the whole formula thing b/c I think formula smells gross (there's something about the smell of it that makes me gag), and each time I gave Nico formula his poop turned black and he was super constipated. But the time has come.

Let me say that I am ready to wean. One, I am NOT going to pump breastmilk in the disgusting bathroom of our teacher's lounge ever again. I had to do it for six months with each kid, and it was gross. Two, I am very ready to have my body fully back. I have been pregnant or breastfeeding since February 2006 (this includes my miscarriage) with only two 3 month breaks; I am ready to be done. Lastly, Nico won't really nurse during the day anymore. As much as breasts are much easier to tote around than milk and bottles, he is simply not getting any milk from me during the day b/c he's too interested to everyone else and moving. Did I mention he finally started crawling last week? Yep. The boy is inchworming at lightening speed.

I am gradually stopping pumping. Last week I stopped the 11pm pump. This week I stopped one daytime pump. Next week I'm going to try not to pump during the day. This is all pretty painful. My breasts get full (which is just ironic b/c I was barely producing any milk--why do they feel so full?), it feels like I can't breathe, if Alexandra or Nico bump one of my breasts I want to cry, and I'm depressed. Yep, depressed.

I'm not depressed b/c I'm weaning or that Nico is growing up. I love that baby boy so much and I will miss the intimacy of nursing, but he is such a hugger that I think he'll always cuddle with me. Also, I'm so excited to see him develop into a toddler, then a boy. But I am literally physiologically depressed. My hormones are going bonkers, my thicker, curly hair is all falling out (Cathleen--it's like you said!), and I feel crampy and period-y (Haven't had my period in 19 months--glorious). I'm melancholy for no reason. I'm whiny. I'm bitchy. I'm just fun in female form.

Thank god for the internet to justify my insanity. This is from kellymom.com, the best breastfeeding website in the world:

It's not unusual to feel tearful, sad or mildly depressed after weaning; some moms also experience mood swings. These feelings are usually short-term and should go away in a few weeks. This is caused, in part, by hormonal changes. One of the changes that occurs with weaning is a drop in prolactin levels. Prolactin, the hormone that stimulates milk production, also brings with it a feeling of well-being, calmness and relaxation. The faster the weaning process the more abrupt the shift in hormone levels, and the more likely that you will experience adverse effects.

So please excuse any crazy, blue, or nasty blog posts--it's my hormones. I'm having weaning woes.

(Photo of Alexandra nursing tiny baby right when Nico came home. I wonder if she'll continue to nurse her babies when I'm done?)

No (more) Exit

2010-07-27T10:31:00.003-04:00

When I was pregnant with Nico, Alexandra thrilled at pulling me out of bed in the morning. She would approach the side of the bed, inform me that it was time to get up,and I'd moan "Oh, I need help, can you pull me out of bed?" and she'd giggle and grab my hand, helping (?) me hoist my enormousness out of bed. It was supercute.

She still comes in to wake me, and today I asked her to pull me out of bed. I said, "Remember when Nico was in my belly and you would pull me up out of bed?" to which she replied, "Nico was in your belly, but he came out. I was in your belly, too, and I came out. Now EVERYONE (emphasis here) is out of mommy's belly!"

As much as her statement makes my belly sound like a clown car, how true she is. Adam's scheduled for vasectomy on August 31st. Nobody else is exiting this body. Everyone is out of my belly.

An Open Letter...

2010-07-26T11:50:00.005-04:00

...to everyone who tells me that I wouldn't be so broke if I didn't live in NYC.

Hi Guys,
Let me preface this by saying that I realize I have been very whiny lately about our finances (or lack thereof). Both Adam and I are continuously appalled that we have such a ridiculous amount of education, are both firmly established in our respective professions, make decent salaries compared to the rest of the nation/world (although they seem somewhat paltry compared to our peers here in the City), and we are broke broke broke. And I'm not talking broke like, "Man, think we're going to have to skip the Opera this year." I'm talking broke like need to budget to buy Adam a new pair of Camper shoes. Yep. But, our biggest monthly expense is daycare, so we take solace in the fact that this financial crisis is finite. Bring on the public schools, baby.

But I am here to clarify the fallibility of everyone's asinine idea that if we left our glorious City we would suddenly have a surplus of money. Let me explain why you are wrong, so you can all stop suggesting that we relocate to NC, CT, Philly, etc.

1. We would have to buy TWO CARS and then insure TWO CARS. We have no car payments now, no car insurance. Yes, renting is a killer when we have to do it, but it's nothing compared to car payments/insurance. Nothing. And multiply that by two. That would be CRAZY.

2. Our rent is wicked cheap here. Believe it or not, our rent is at least $500 less than most of our friends. We live in an awesome neighborhood, our apt is small but the layout is good and it works for now, and if we were to go elsewhere there is NO WAY we'd have rent and/or a mortgage this cheap. So nix that idea.

3. Yes, childcare might be cheaper. I'll give you that. Right now we pay $2600/month for full-time (40 hours/week) childcare for both kids, Nico's childcare includes his food/milk for the day and music class once a week. Alexandra's childcare does not include food, but she gets yoga class, music class, and Spanish and Italian classes very week. Some say if we moved near family they could watch the kids. Nah. Neither family would take on full-time daycare of our kids, and I can't blame them--it's beyond exhausting. I can barely do it, why would I expect someone twice my age to?

And, adding this later here, do y'all know how much teachers make in the Southern states? JACKSH*T. So if I were to move South and teach, my salary would be less than half of what it is now. With no union. No thank you. Don't even mention academic jobs. There aren't any!

4. Our college loan payments, a nice chunk of our income each month, would not disappear if we left New York. Those suckers will follow us forever until 2017. Again, a finite expense--only 7 more years to go!

So all of you who keep hinting or demanding that our financial struggles are because we live in NYC, you are wrong. They are due to childcare costs and college loans, two variables we can't change right now. Believe me. Adam and I have examined this closely. Multiple times. We appreciate your concern, but your solution is not a solution. And, honestly, why would we chose to be broke anywhere else but in the greatest city in our country?

Love, Lori

(ps: I imagine this dollar sign is saying, "See you--a bit--in two years when Alexandra goes to kindergarten, and then a bit more in two more years when Nico goes to kindergarten, and then in full in 2017 when you've paid off those graduate degrees!")

Mini Me

2010-07-23T08:36:00.002-04:00

I have been getting lots of comments lately that Nico looks like me. I can't explain how happy that makes me. After having Alexandra, who is a mini-Adam, it is strangely justifying to have a child who resembles me. A validation of sorts.

But while Nico is my doppelganger in male form, Alexandra is me in spirit. My mom tells anyone that'll listen the story of me exerting my independence right before kindergarten started. My mom had arranged for a car pool, and when she told me about it I told her, "No, I'm going to walk to school with the big kids. I am going to meet them and walk." And, sure enough, I did. I have never taken a car pool to school in my life. I always walked and arranged my own transportation.

Alexandra is currently obsessed with crossing the street without holding our hands. Of course, there's no way in Hades that is happening anytime soon, but she is obsessed with it. It comes up daily. Right now she's riding her new scooter (thanks grandma and grandpa!) to daycare daily. When we cross the street on the walk home, I use one hand to push Nico's stroller, one hand to hold one handle of the scooter, and she holds the other scooter handle (the scooter in between us). She thinks she is all grown doing this and beams at me while we inch across the crosswalk.

Last Friday, as we shared a mango Italian ice, she said:

"If I eat all this icee, I'll grow up and be big and I can cross the street all by myself. And I'll walk to daycare all by myself. And then, I'll go home from daycare all by myself and I'll pick up Nico and bring him home."

I just had to look at her and smile. Miss Independent already.

And, oh how I wish she could just stroll home from daycare AND grab Nico on the way!

NYC sometimes sucks

2010-07-20T10:05:00.005-04:00

There are some things in this city that just plain suck. Example A: the NYC Office of Vital Records.

There were TWO mistakes on Nico's birth certificate. They listed my birth city as Washington, CA (instead of Washington, DC) and they made Adam's birth year 1974 when it's 1975 (yep, he's a year younger than me. meow!). Not big things, but I figured they needed to be corrected. We sent in the corrections forms in October. They came back b/c Adam had not signed the photocopy of his driver's license. Ugh. Sent them back in January. Still NO birth certificate.

So, I decided to get on it this summer. Called July 1st. Said they'd call back after looking into it. Of course, that didn't happen. Called yesterday. Estimated wait time was 48 minutes. Eff that. Called this morning. Estimated wait time 11 minutes. Got a woman on the line, she put me on hold for about 4 minutes after I told her my situation, and then she hung up on me! Dammit! Just called back. Estimated wait time is now 60 minutes. Mother effers.

Nico has not had a birth certificate since he was born. We have a xeroxed copy of his original, but that a cup of coffee won't get you anything. Guess I'll have to go down there and stand in line. Cheese is Christ.

Found this link appropriate today. I'm going to be sure to take a photo of the Dept of Vital Records with my long middle finger in front of it when my sorry self spends a day in line there.

And seriously, cabbies, could you NOT go to BP at this particular moment in history, please?

Bummed

2010-07-19T14:21:00.004-04:00

Just found out that the playground that we go to about 5 times a week both to play and for our Farmer's Market (JJ Byrne Playground on 5th Ave) will be under construction from September 2010 until Spring 2012. That. Totally. Blows.

Add that to the public library that's across the street from us that closed in Fall of 2009 and will be closed for two years.

I know both these places need to be renovated, but for the love of my sanity do you have to close both at the same freakin' time? And can't you wait until my kids are no longer so small and go to daycare right en route to the playground? Seriously, once JJ Byrne will reopen exactly when Nico no longer goes to daycare on 5th Ave. Perfect.

Sooooooooooooooooo bummed. If our rent wasn't so ridiculously reasonable I'd seriously consider moving. Ugh.

The Boxing Ring of Motherhood

2010-07-18T21:58:00.004-04:00

Motherhood is like boxing, and the mom is the one always getting beat up on. Now I'm not talking about the metaphorical boxing that pregnancy and nursing have on one's body, like the sagging boobs, broken vaginas, and abs that simply refuse to resume their original form. I am talking LITERAL blood and stitches and broken bones, etc.

This first occurred to me at the end of Alexandra's nursing, when she was almost one year old, when one morning while nursing her in bed she stood up and then fell over like a giant tree, her skull coming into direct contact with the bridge of my nose. For those who know me, my nose was broken when I was six-ish by my dad when he threw a softball and my uncoordinated self (or was it is lack of athleticism?) caught it with my nose. Hence the huge a** hump on my already sizable schnoz. Never fixed. So when Alexandra came falling down on me, after the stars cleared and the throbbing in my head slightly subsided, I fantasized of my long overdue nose job but I'm too chicken. I had two lightly blackened eyes after her fall and had to ice my nose all day at work.

Today, again, she struck. I took her to the playground to frolic in the fountain and she was so happy. The mist was blowing off the fountain, she ran over to hug me, I leaned down to kiss her and BAM! She jumped up. My entire lip split open, my eyes welled over with tears, I grabbed my mouth fearing it was going to gush blood (it didn't gush, but did bleed quite a bit) and a super nice dad behind me offered me his frozen water bottle saying, "That sucks...." OUCH. Now I have a half-inch split on the inside of my lip where my teeth cut it in half and my outer lip is pretty swollen on the left size, making me look like a lip plumping gone bad. But it's healing fast. Like strange vampire fast. Go figure.

Motherhood is not for wimps, I tell ya.

(Took a pix of my lip but it was too gross to post)

Miracle

2010-07-16T21:09:00.007-04:00

Wowza. I think Alexandra was in time out about five times tonight between the hours of 5 and 7pm. New record? Probably not, but it was exhausting for both of us. She just has no control of herself lately. I was commenting on this to our wonderful daycare teacher as I desperately asked her if four years old was better than three, and she kindly told me that at four they regress back to being babyish. But I thought that was what she was doing now! I guess there is just no way out of this. When folks say they don't know how I teach high school, nah...I don't know how ANYONE teaches early childhood or early elementary. No way, Jose.

I was thinking of the one last great photos of regression--Alexandra demanding to be swaddled what was then Nico's Miracle Blanket. Today, while she was thrashing around having a tantrum I thought a toddler-sized Miracle Blanket might be handy. Too bad that would pretty much be a straight jacket.

But as much as Alexandra is giving me more gray hair by the millisecond, when I look at this photo of her in the Miracle Blanket from the summer of 2007, I get all mushy inside and so full of love that my heart might burst and I mostly forget that she has been acting like a rabid squirrel lately. These children are certainly bewitching; she's still my little miracle.

The Little Things

2010-07-16T14:49:00.004-04:00

I am on a mission to get in shape--tired of the "baby fat" lingering when the baby is now 10 months old (!!!!!). So today I went to spin class. There was this skinny, uber hot girl in front of me. She was tan, had on a cute workout outfit that matched well, had cute jewelry on, hair in a pretty bun and I was set to stare at her perfectness for a 45 minute class. I was betting her butt wouldn't even jiggle a tad during sprints.

But then she lifted up her tank top to tuck it into her sportbra (of course, to show off her gorgeous muscular lower back that didn't have an ounce of backfat on it) and her lower back had a HUGE patch of hair on it! HAIR! BLACK HAIR! It looked like it had been waxed and was growing out, but it was gross. And hairy. And suddenly she looked a bit like a transvestite.

Now there's something to be thankful for. I might have a muffin top at present, but it is a naturally hairless one. Praise the Lord and pass that girl some Nair. Nobody's perfect.

Mom of the Year

2010-07-15T10:41:00.004-04:00

As I have lamented, Alexandra got the memo that three equals being an emotional roller-coaster of a child. She went through a phase like this around Christmas, too, when she was simply intolerable. It lasted about 4 weeks, and just when I was about to ship her off to live with the gypsies (she actually does have gypsy blood in her, so I figured it would make a small bit of sense) she settled. Right now I am waiting for that settling.

But it is hard. The only solace I get is that my other friends of three year olds are miserable, too. All of them. Misery does love company. It makes me feel like maybe I'm not that bad of a parent after all. I mean, if everyone's kid is freaking out, then it can't be something that I have done, right?

Parenting is one constant question of performance. Some days I am an awesome mom--full of patience, compassion, and the right thing to say. Some days I am not. The other night when Alexandra threw two tantrums at 3am and 4am I was not. Well, I was good then bad then good during tantrum #1, but during tantrum #2 (when she woke Nico up) I was ready to throw her into the backyard until dawn. Thankfully Adam took over, as I had to go nurse Nico.

During tantrum #1 when I was getting her back in bed she said her ear hurt. This was after she said she had to go pee pee (didn't go), that she was hungry (we don't let her eat in the middle of the night), and that she was scared (maybe?). I told her if it still hurt in the morning we'd go to Dr. Gold, our peditrican whom Alexandra adores. I figured she just wanted a lollipop. But the next morning she mentioned going to see Dr. Gold again. And again. So, I figured to appease her I'd take her. I mean, that's what we have health insurance for, right? $15 for lollipops and 1/2 hour playing with the cool toys in the office were a small price for my sanity.

Well, turns out she has a double ear infection. Not one that warrants antibiotics, but two mildly infected ears that would especially cause pain upon laying down. Nothing that motrin can't help (generic, of course, due to the recall), but as Dr. Gold said when she looked over Alexandra's head, her ear ache was "R-E-A-L."

Go, Lori. Although we poo-poo-ed her tantrums the night before as 3-year-old insanity, we at least took her to the doctor. Motrin-ed her up last night and all was peaceful.

(Photo of me "watching" the kids around 6:30am after getting up at 5am. Not too criminal, except that it was on Alexandra's birthday...busted.)

Get Over It

2010-07-14T08:26:00.004-04:00

I love my nabe, but every so often the folks here just drive me bonkers with their "Oh, I'm so liberal and loving and that's just wrong!" (gasp, sob, snot) and then they go treat the checkout person at Barnes and Noble like they're chopped liver. I swear, the hypcrocy is out. of. control.

Example 1: A month or so ago a woman posted on Park Slope Parents that their new nanny, who had been employed for four weeks, had been found sleeping on the job five times. When confronted as to why she was sleeping the nanny replied, "I'm bored." The woman posted that she didn't know what to do. I replied to her (and the listserv) to fire that nanny and get one who doesn't sleep/find watching a child a bore. You would have think I told her to sew the nanny's eyelids open--the responses were enraged and accusatory. "I am appalled at your callousness! I find my own children boring! I'm tired." Whatever. Maybe I am callous, but in any other job if you were caught sleeping five times in one month and told your employer you were asleep b/c you were bored, you would be fired. Period. Grow and pair and fire that nanny.

Example 2: The oil spill. I am still in such shock that the oil spill/eruption in the Gulf has provided the world with a platform for whining about the environment without doing anything real about it. The cost of gas has not gone up, SUVs still dominate the road,and nothing has changed. All I have to say to those sitting around whining about the birds and the wetlands is shut the f*ck up if you're whining and you have an SUV which you drive around a city that has excellent public transportation. Seriously. I saw a LandRover the size of a tank in my 'hood yesterday with one person in it. Just plain wrong. Go jump in the Gulf and cover yourself with tarballs. I'm sick of you.

Example 3 (and what sparked this tirade): The geese in Prospect Park. There's been lots of moaning over the mass euthanization of 400 geese in Prospect Park last week. The neighborhood is up in arms over it. But I bet if you compared the folks in Park Slope to say the folks in Brownsville (or any less affluent neighborhood) that people here fly about 100x more (the geese were killed to avoid goose/plane collisions like the plane that landed in the Husdon). I don't want the senseless killing of animals any more than the next guy, but I also don't want my plane to crash b/c of some geese. You can't have it all--nature, an urban environment, and two of the largest airports in the country. Suck it up.

Man, I am pissy today. And I haven't even had my coffee! Guess those two tantrums Alexandra threw at 3am and 4am have already gotten to me. ROAR!

Pro Soccer Players & Three-Year Olds

2010-07-11T21:25:00.004-04:00

I decided today, while watching the World Cup final game, that professional soccer players are pretty much the emotional equivalent of a three year old. Alexandra has completely changed since she turned three. I know she has only been three for three weeks and there was some build up to this change, but honestly--on her birthday--she morphed into an emotional, whiny, baby-ish child who is completely intolerable at times because her responses to situations make. no. sense. She is just like a World Cup Soccer Player. Let me illustrate:

1. FALLING & WHINING/CRYING LIKE A BABY: When she was two, Alexandra could take a fall like a professional stuntman. Seriously, she'd have trips and spills that would make the bottom of my feet tingle with fear and she's buck up, brush it off, and walk/run away. But not now. The smallest bump, tumble, or tap elicits a full-blown freak out of tears, snot, and screams. I must kiss the boo-boo and often band-aid it. It's ridiculous.

These soccer players are big ol' babies. I know they're acting to get a foul called on the opposing team, but Jesus Christo guys, you've got shin guards on. If someone kicks your shin, don't lay on the ground moaning like he just ripped your man parts from your body. It is so annoying to watch. Seriously. I fully understand why folks think soccer is a game for punks. They look like three year old crybabies out there.

2. LOOKING TO MOMMY/DADDY/REFEREE TO SEE IF THEY'LL GET IN TROUBLE: As soon as Alexandra does something she's not supposed to do--like rip a toy out of Nico's hands or directly defying me--she'll look over at me to see my response to gauge how she should respond. If I give her the teacher eye of "You're gonna get it" = immediate tears, throwing herself limp onto the ground, and full Oscar-winning hysterics. If I ignore her, she usually does it again later. Yes, it's just another day in paradise around here.

And yet not much has changed when you look at the soccer field. These players do insanely dirty things, and then they look at the ref to see if he saw it, and if he did then they throw a mantrum (man-tantrum) with their arms flailing, teammates holding back their testosterone-y player, and furrowed brows and yelling mouths. If they get away with dirty soccer, they just continue to play dirty soccer.

3. IMMEASURABLE ATTEMPTS TO GET AWAY WITH PLAYING DIRTY: And this leads me to my last point. Alexandra would put Nico in a headlock "hug," cover the couch with wet washcloths, and use yogurt as fingerpaint on the table all day long every day if she could. And she tries and tries again. That girl has the persistence of a worker ant when it comes to pushing the boundaries of what is legal/allowed in the house under the definition of good behavior.

And those soccer players, too. They are relentless when it comes to getting in that shove, kick, head-butt--you name it--on the other team. They are quite sneaky. And mean. It's pretty crazy once you start looking for it because it is always there. It is like they have no impulse control; they just have to be bad if they can.

In conclusion, professional soccer players are pretty much three year olds in the bodies of grown (very sexy) men (with unbelievable quad muscles and who look amazing all sweaty...). As annoying as they are, the World Cup is still my favorite spectator sporting event. Looking forward to those mantrums and dirty playing again in 2014--when I'm 40--holy sh*t!

I'm 36--A Photo Essay

2010-07-10T21:37:00.005-04:00

This Thursday, July 8th, I turned 36. Birthdays always give me pause in many ways. This year I felt this crazy sense of accomplishment in that I feel I'm done having kids. I look at my life and am more than often astonished that I have created a family. When the kids go to sleep, I sit around and stare at pictures of them on the fridge and am shocked that in the next room are two living, breathing little babes who came out of my body, were made from Adam and myself, and who are our children. I wonder if I'll be in awe of this my entire life.

I am also aware that I am getting older. The second kid really took a toll on my pre-baby body in many ways. One crazy way is that my hair is totally different. It's a different color (very brown with an increasing amount of gray) and it has gotten wavy, frizzy, kinda curly. Look that this photo I snapped on my birthday of a hair I pulled out of my head! Me--the girl who had pin straight hair her whole life. Crazy.

But I try to embrace aging. As said in the most recent Margaret Atwood book (one of my fave authors)--if you're not aging, you're dead. Amen sista. Bring on the wrinkles, and let me live to be a healthy, spry, sassy Betty White.

Here are a few pics of the kids. They were unbearably horrid that evening (both crying inconsolably all through daycare pickup) until Alexandra put on Michael Jackson's Greatest Hits album and her and Nico both starting dancing (Nico in the high chair) and we all got happy, ate cake, and put them promptly to bed.

Is he not the cutest thing? Kills me.

Alexandra sang to me. Tried to sing, "Are you 1? Are you 2?" but I had her skip and start at 30 instead. Or else we'd still be singing.

Lovely lemon cake. Ate half of it the next day during a dissertation anxiety attack. It was only a 4" cake, but still...

Pretty

2010-07-09T08:34:00.003-04:00

It takes a lot to make me feel pretty lately. With boobs that still leak (even though Nico is almost 10 months old), baby food smeared on my legs or my shoulder, a complete lack of time to maintain my eyebrows or shave, there are some days I glance in the mirror after the kids go to bed and am more than slightly appalled at my looks. Then I shrug it off, try not to get depressed about it, and fold laundry while listening to NPR. That's the glamorous life I lead.

But every so often one little thing can make me feel pretty, and this summer the prize for this goes to my Saltwater Sandals. As always, I am a summer or two too late to be wearing these sandals when they were all the rage (my fingers are no longer even close to the pulse of fashion...if they ever were), but I have finally nabbed a pair of these sandals and I am loving them. I got a pair in bright red and they make me feel cute. Red surprisingly goes with a lot of colors, and when I put them on I feel like I have an outfit--even if the rest of my attire is randomly selected, wornI , and covered in baby drool.

Another good thing is these sandals are cheap ($35) and waterproof! Great for daycare pickup in afternoon thunderstorms. I got Alexandra a silver pair and they are sooo cute.

If you have any one thing that makes you feel pretty, clue me in. I'm all about the quick fixes lately.

What is Mister Softee?!

2010-07-02T21:49:00.003-04:00

I don't know how, but Alexandra loves ice cream from the ice cream truck. We pass a lovely little local ice cream store/chain (Uncle Louie G's) on our route home from daycare, but she wants ice cream from the truck. Maybe she prefers soft serve--not sure--but each Friday (which is ice cream day) she insists that her ice cream be from the Mister Softee truck that parks right next to the playground. Mister Softee knows how to sell his goods.

I had never eaten ice cream off a Mister Softee truck in my life until I started sharing with her. Mister Softee was not the ice cream truck of my youth. Ours was a Good Humor truck and it sold pre-packaged ice cream delights such as ice cream sandwiches, push-ups, rocket pops, snow cones, etc. But here in New York Mister Softee has those treats as well as soft serve in chocolate and vanilla.

What goes into Mr. Softee? As someone who buys organic fruits/veggies, free range meat, organic milk and eggs, etc, I wondered, but then I decided ignorance is bliss. I mean, I can't control everything that my kids put in their bodies. Some things you have to let go, right? I thought I was so zen about it...until tonight.

Alexandra got her cone this afternoon and we came home to pack for our week in CT at the beach with Adam's family. Alexandra wanted her cone put into a bowl, got distracted and didn't finish it, and when I went to wash the bowl HOURS later that "ice cream" had not melted. It was a tad watery, but for the most part it retained its full form = a soft-serve serving. Then I put the bowl in the sink, with water in it, and it STILL DID NOT MELT/DISSOLVE. What the f*ck is it? Chemical? Alien?

I was grossed out, horrified, and seriously disturbed. It took raging hot water at full forge and a couple of prods of my fingers to make it dissolve. Goodbye Mr. Softee. Not sure how I'll break it to my daughter that our brief friendship is over, but man...What the heck are you?

Go Go Ghana!

2010-07-02T10:13:00.003-04:00

In 1998 I traveled to West Africa with a group of middle school/high school students. I went along as their photography and writing teacher; I coached them to take photographs and do subsequent writing on the photos once we got back to North Carolina. The kids were there for two weeks, but I stayed for two additional months and poked around Ghana, Cote d'Ivoire, and Burkina Faso by myself. As you can imagine, I learned a lot about myself, about Africa, and about travel during that summer. But the one thing I was really schooled on was the World Cup.

In these small African countries, soccer and the World Cup were the sun and the people revolved around the games. Small black and white TVs were dragged into public spaces using extension cords that could reach a city block, and dozens of folks would gather around these televisions to watch the games. People held babies up to see, they were deathly silent during crucial moments, they cheered rabidly when any African team scored a goal, they welcomed me into their soccer fanaticism as I watched my first World Cup games. The World Cup is the only sporting event that I get excited about. Yes, the sexy factor of the players does help, but I mainly think back to my time in West Africa and their passion for the sport.

Immediately after 9/11, there was a piece on NPR by a guy who had been traveling in the Middle East and Egypt the summer of 2001 with his two elementary-aged kids. They were back state-side when the events of September 11th transpired, but he had an interesting perspective on it: Having had visited these Middle Eastern countries weeks before 9/11, WITH their kids, they had made many real life connections with people and didn't have that gut-reaction "THOSE people are horrible" sentiment that many Americans had. He emphasized that their connections while traveling were exclusively because they had their children with them and, also important, that their children played soccer. He explained how soccer was a universal, global language and that wherever they went his kids could go play soccer with other local kids, opening the door to friendly conversation and exchanges between him & his wife with other adults. His kids and their soccer skills were their gateway into a culture very different from their own.

My own travels and this story have resonated in me for years. You can bet that Alexandra and Nico will both play soccer (it's also helpful that Adam was a big soccer player as was his sister) and we will travel internationally with them.

But until we have some cash flow to do that (and they can carry their own bags!), I'll continue to pull for the African teams in the World Cup. Go Ghana!

Really?

2010-07-01T10:30:00.003-04:00

Nothing says white trash to me more than diapers made to look like Daisy Dukes. But, according to Marketplace on NPR last night, these diapers are flying off the shelf, regardless of the fact that they cost much more than a normal pack of diapers.

The world is full of STRANGE people.

You know you're a New Yorker when...

2010-06-30T15:20:00.004-04:00

...you've had your first nightmare about bedbugs.

For those of you who don't live here, there is a current bedbug epidemic. Bedbugs are tiny, horrid, vampires that lodge in your mattress, emerge at night, and suck your blood. They will leave you with horrid bites that resemble welts and they will make you broke. Exterminators have dogs that can sniff them out, extermination can cost thousands of dollars, and many a family has literally gone bankrupt because of a bedbug invasion. I am terrified of them: I don't let students put their coats anywhere near mine during the winter, I don't sit between people on the subway during the winter (bedbugs can travel in coats easily b/c lots of folks put coats on beds), I am skeeved out by hotels now (another big bedbug home)...Oh, ick ick ick. bedbugs.

I have lived in New York 11 years now, and I had my first bedbug nightmare last night.

I dreamed that we were staying at a hotel on 5th Avenue in our neighborhood, literally right around the corner from our apartment (makes NO sense, but it is a dream). I was in the hotel bed pregnant and napping when Adam came into the room and turned on the lights and a million tiny bedbugs were ALL OVER THE MATTRESS. I screamed, got up, and realized I had been bitten all over. I then ran around freaked out asking others' opinions--I didn't want to go home b/c I was afraid I would bring the bedbugs into my apartment, but I obviously didn't want to stay in the hotel--what should I do? It was like I was banished from everywhere. It felt horrible.

I'm sure someone could say something profound about this dream and how it signifies that I'm in a state of transition or indecision or something in my life, but all day long I have only been able to think of those little bugs.

Photo of Alexandra showing Nico an enlarged image of a bedbug, from New York Magazine's story on bedbugs on the Upper East Side, the richest neighborhood in New York City. Bedbugs do not discriminate.

(Note: Ever since learning of and fearing bedbugs, I can't bring myself to say "Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite"--what my parents always said to me. Ewwww....Gawd forbid.)

Stats on the Kiddos

2010-06-29T21:52:00.004-04:00

Took both kids to the doctor today. Here are the stats:

Alexandra Osa: The Amazon
3 years old
40 inches tall (97th percentile)
37.5 lbs (93rd percentile)
Highlight of the visit: Was asked by doctor if Alexandra could draw a circle. Felt like a bad parent, but honestly replied, "Uh, I don't know." Doctor handed her the pen and Alexandra drew one right on the paper of the examination table. She said to me, "I just drew a little one." Awesome.

Nicholas (Nico) Acer: The String Bean
9 months old
30 inches tall (95th percentile)
20 lbs (35th percentile)
Highlight of the visit: Was told that crawling is an "optional milestone" and my anxieties immediately vanished. Was also told to toss food restrictions to the wind--give egg white, peanut butter, etc. and to watch. That it's the parent's responsibility to make food fun and watch for allergies, but to go for it. Nico ate a scrambled egg for dinner and a bit of Alexandra's mac & cheese. He was so happy.

So thankful for our healthy kids.

Graduation Hater

2010-06-29T14:31:00.004-04:00

'Tis the season....or 'tis has been the season since about mid-May until present for graduations.

When I first started teaching I taught 8th grade. At the end of that school year we had an 8th grade graduation. And I don't mean a 8th grade awards ceremony, I mean a full-fledged graduation with caps and gowns, "Pomp & Circumstance" playing, tassles on the caps turned at the end of the ceremony, caps tossed in the air, names called and diplomas handed out--THAT kind of graduation.

And it really irked me.

YES, I understand the argument that a fellow teacher made to me when I complained that they were making too big of a deal out finishing middle school. He said to me, "This will be the only graduation these kids get; they won't make it out of high school." After having taught ten years now (!!!!!), nine of those years in high school, I understand that on a much deeper level, but I still have not changed my stance.

Now it seems everyone graduates with a cap and gown, "Pomp and Circumstance," flowers, diploma presentation. Preschool, kindergarten, elementary school, middle school, and finally high school. And I think it's bullshit.

Not that we should not celebrate our children's accomplishments. We should. But does it have be a graduation ceremony? With all that that entails? I mean, it's great when you finish kindergarten, but you're SUPPOSED to finish kindergarten. Same with elementary school. Well, yeah, yay for you if you finished 5th grade, but YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO FINISH FIFTH GRADE. It is a milestone in life, but does it warrant a literal graduation ceremony?

I just remember high school graduation being a BIG DEAL. It was like a John Hughes movie come to fruition. Is it a big deal when you have already graduated four times prior? I don't know.

Cheese is Christ

2010-05-24T21:59:00.004-04:00

As many of you know, I was raised by a fairly religious mom (understatement).

While raised in the Catholic Church, not only was I made to do all the Holy Sacraments that occurred while living under my parents' roof, but I was also dragged to Aglow meetings where large groups of white middle class women spoke in tongues and I was sent to Awana Bible Meetings where Leslie Trotter and I competed to see who could memorize Bible verses more quickly. All that said, I left all religion when I left my parents' roof at age 18 and have never looked back. I figured I had had enough crammed into me by 18 that I could live to 90 and still have gone to church more than most and would still know more Bible verses than most, so I could take the next 3/4 of my life off and then reassess.

By the way, did you know I had to answer the phone "Praise the Lord, Lori speaking" until I was about 14? Yep.

Anyhoo, I have been working diligently to clean up my potty mouth. There is something that happens when your work environment = students saying "f*ck" "p*ssy" etc etc all day long. The words do really lose their shock value. Next thing you know, you can curse like a 14 year old from the worst projects in Brooklyn and YOU DO. Pretty funny when you're single and out drinking beer on a Friday night; not so funny when you have a parrot for a child.

While I have extracted many a bad word from my mouth, I still tend to take the Lord's name in vain (my poor mom...). "Jesus Christ!" is obviously still in my repetoire b/c this happened last night:

Alexandra was on the couch, and out of nowhere said, "Cheese is Christ!" I was bathing Nico and heard this and asked her to repeat it. Again, she said, "Cheese is Christ!" Adam and I were trying not to laugh, but it was hard. She has no idea who Jesus or Christ is, or that he's a person/prophet/messiah, or anything. Obviously, she thinks he's a type of cheese. And while we are big cheese people in this house, cheese has not yet reached messiah status (bacon is definitely above cheese in the running).

I stare at Adam in horror (as my mom is about to visit in one month) and say to Alexandra, "You mean, cheese and rice?" Oh no, she is not to be fooled. For the rest of the night she ran around screaming "Cheese is Christ!" over and over and over.

Guess I have some more work to do on that mouth of mine. Sigh.

A First

2010-05-11T21:32:00.002-04:00

I wrote my last blog post in my classroom on Friday. Adam picked up the kids so I could work late--I was drowning under a pile of grading and it was the last day of the marking period. I only worked until about 5, as Adam wasn't feeling well and I felt guilty for staying late. I went to move my time card out, checked my mailbox, and found this:

Memorandum

To: Ms. U (me), Mr. D, Ms. R, Mr. P, and Mr. L

From: Ms. J, Guidance Counselor

Re: Female student name

Last week Tuesday, April 27th, female student name's brother was murdered. Please assist her with the classwork and homework assignments. Thank you.

That was a first.

Mother's Day

2010-05-07T15:43:00.003-04:00

I had a hard week at work. Hard. Totally lost my sh*t and cried in my classroom, my Assistant Principal's office, and at home over these kids. Sometimes I think becoming a parent has been the worst thing for my teaching career. Before I was a parent, I'd have students with dead parents and I'd sympathize, listen to them, and tell them that they just needed to push through and make themselves into the remarkable people that their parents believed them to be. I mean, I had a sick dad my whole life, and while he didn't die until I was 22, there was always that threat. I thought I knew (kinda) what they were going through. But now, as a parent, I realize I don't know jack.

I have a ridiculous amount of students with dead parents. Both parents. And then there are the kids with one dead and one absent/incarcerated parent. These children are being cared for by older siblings, some who are only 21 years old and open gang members, who fight like rabid dogs over the orphaned children for the social security check that accompanies them. Rarely is the welfare of the child taken into consideration.

My complete emotional breakdown this week happened when I had to call home for a student whom I knew was living with his grandmother. I hadn't called since March b/c his grandmother was raising 8 grandkids and was losing her mind; she told me that she was about to sign my student and his twin off to foster care. We all know the foster care system is--at best--mediocre and at worst a nightmare. Although this kid has skipped my class, come to class high, inappropriately touches another girl in here (who lets him), and does no work and disturbs my class, I haven't called. Well, this week I had to. And his grandmother told me that she was going to family court today and giving him and his brother up. I got off the phone and cried. Wept.

I don't understand why I have so many kids with dead parents. I don't understand how they all died, when most of them were my age or younger. But I am beginning to understand the gigantic hole it leaves in these young people's lives. ENORMOUS. A mohterless child has to be the saddest thing ever. I just look at them and ache. I want to hug them, bake them cookies, etc, but it's not the same.

A student of mine lost him mom unexpectedly this fall while I was on maternity leave. He wrote a poem for our poetry unit that pretty much sums it up:

Ode

Ode to my mom for years of joy and fun.
I see many kids with their moms and I say to myself
"Wow, those kids are lucky."
So many people in my family try to take care of me
But none of them do it the correct way...
The Mommy way.

Mothers out there--love your kids like crazy. And all of us who still have our moms, be thankful....so so thankful.

Haus Frau

2010-05-03T22:35:00.002-04:00

Years ago I bought a linen dress from Old Navy. It was olive green (my favorite color for clothes) and fit me at the time, then I lost a bunch of weight and it was too big and tent like to wear in public so I made it my house dress. Much like the little old ladies who wear house dresses, I wore my linen dress around the house when it was too hot to wear clothes that touched me. I wore it bra-less, panty-less, and just sweat in it until it stank and then I would toss it in the wash, hang it back on my closet like a robe, and wear it again until it became rancid.

Fast forward about five years. The house dress (which became lovingly referred to as my haus frau dress) is tucked into my bin of SKINNY clothes. It's stored in a bin in the basement of my neighbor's apartment b/c they are kind and generous folks with a finished basement space not dank and dusty and buggy like our unfinished storage. But it hit 90 degrees this weekend in NYC (WTHades?) and clothes were too much. I had to christen a new haus frau dress.

It's a nursing dress by the company Boob (great stuff). It was adorable when I was pregnant, but now I look like a lumpy sausage in it. But shoot, it can be a haus frau dress. It has the ability for my boobs to come out to nurse, it's long enough not to flash too much leg or girl parts to my family, and it is a dark enough color to wear sans underclothes.

Ahhhh, sweet relief. Those little old ladies got something going on with their haus frau dresses. Try it--you'll like it.

Overheard in the Classroom

2010-04-20T00:28:00.002-04:00

I have to write this before I forget it:

Last Friday, the bell was about to ring and the lesson was over. The students were chatting by the window and I was getting a standardized test ready for the next period when I overheard a tidbit of incorrect sex info. Of course, I pounced on it. I asked the students (9th grade girls) what they were talking about. One brazen one said,

"Miss, if your boyfriend comes in you and you stand up immediately and go to take a pee, then you won't get pregnant."

And THIS is why we have six. pregnant. freshmen. S-I-X.

I stopped the whole class and clarified that your urethra, where your pee comes out of, is a DIFFERENT hole from your vagina, where you have sex. Therefore peeing does NOTHING to "wash away the sperm" (as another student mentioned) and prevent pregnancy.

Their response: "No, Miss, you're wrong."

God help the children of those children.

Doctorate Irony

2010-04-19T22:29:00.004-04:00

A friend on facebook posted this article entitled "The Long-Haul Degree," a lamentation about the worthlessness of doctorate degrees, particularly in this economy. Word.

Any of you who know me know that I am constantly wrestling with my doctorate--and not even in the "Oh sh*t, I have to finish this!" type of freak out but more in the vein of "This has been an exercise in futility and now we're hopelessly in debt...." kind of agony.

As much as everyone claims my doctorate, once earned, will open doors for me, blah blah blah, I just don't see it. If I could go back in time and erase it (and the 40 grand of debt I accumulated getting it) I would in a HEARTBEAT. That said, I am a much smarter person and a better teacher because of it, but when folks say you can't put a price on education I beg to differ. You can. And it's expensive. And it keeps you from buying a place to live, and saving for your kids' college, and vacationing until, um, the year 2017 when you will have paid it all off. Oh, and did I mention that as a doctoral student in Education (or another Humanities area of study) that you're never really going to make any money. I am truly hoping that my doctorate work does not end up being what financially f*cks us (my now family of four) for all eternity. No joke.

Bitter much?

But the best part of this diatribe sparked tonight was that in reading the above mentioned article in the New York Times, who should advertise their overpriced institution but Teachers College, Columbia University, the school that will one day (hopefully a year from now) be my alma mater from which I will have received my Doctorate in Education and all this additional stress. I had to take a screen shot of it b/c the irony was too too thick not to share with the world.

Sometimes you just have to laugh at it all to keep from crying.

Freaky Friday

2010-04-16T23:11:00.004-04:00

Alexandra is very much into dressing herself lately. She is also prone to throwing herself on the floor in a demonstration of sheer frustration with heaping sighs, singing along to her new CityStomp CD at top volume,and "reading" her books with various character voices...She is a riot. All drama, all the time. That's my girl.

Above was her outfit today. Nico's truck pants (made by Bethany), one leg warmer on leg, one leg warmer on arm, owl shirt, and her cat hat from Halloween. Freaky Friday indeed.

Love that baby girl!

Girl Fights, Sex, & Homelessness

2010-04-08T22:06:00.003-04:00

Now if that title doesn't get pique your interest, than I don't know what will. If read this blog then you probably know that those three topics pretty much summarize my school year this year. The ninth grade girls fight like feral cats. If they aren't beating the bejesus out of each other, they're either having sex in the stairwell (no lie), getting pregnant (we have six pregnant freshmen), or talking about sex. And, lastly, there are a large number of students who are currently homeless, or, also orphaned and being fought over by siblings for the social security check that comes with a minor who has lost a parent. It's intense.

I have never worked so closely with a guidance counselor as I have this year, and thankfully our ninth graders have the best guidance counselor our school can offer. But, one woman is not enough.

With all these issues in mind, I have created a unit around the book pictured above that deals with all these situations of adolescence in a forthright manner. I keep getting asked questions that pertain to sex, fighting, loyal friends, bad friends, dead parents, etc, and it takes up class time. While I'm not a stickler to sticking to the curriculum when I feel the students need a topic addressed, it would be nice to have a few books that deal with these issues.

So I wrote a Donors Choose grant here. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE give money so I can get these books for my students and conclude their final year with a unit that will hopefully give them a forum to discuss, read, and write about some serious topics young people face.

Many thanks.

My New Horror Movie Genre

2010-03-31T11:51:00.004-04:00

When I was a kid, I LOVED horror movies. My mom wouldn't let me watch them, but my dad was sick a lot and my sister and I stayed at Dawn Amaismeier's house many weekends while my mom was at the hospital. Louise, Dawn's mom, would take us to Erol's Video and we would rent two movies: a horror movie and a funny movie. We would watch the horror one first, get scared to death, and then watch a Mr. Bill movie or a comedy of sorts to mellow us out before bed. That was elementary school.

In middle school, my friend Jen Osborne and I watched the "Nightmare of Elm Street" movies repeatedly. We would then hang a Freddy Kreugar poster over her bed and go to sleep under it, scared to death and giggling singing "One, two, Freddy's coming for you." Why? No idea. What is it in us that loves to be scared?

Then something happened: Right around the time that I had Alexandra I stopped being able to watch horror movies. I can't do it. I get too freaked out. Maybe it has something to do with being a mother, having these two little lives to protect, and all that, but I cannot for the life of me watch a horror movie. But I can and do read/watch dystopic/apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic books/movies. In fact, I'm pretty addicted to them.

Name a dystopic novel and I have read it--most likely twice: all Margaret Atwood books (The Handmaid's Take, Oryx and Crake, The Year of the Flood), George Orwell's 1984, Huxley's Brave New World, Cormac McCarthy's The Road...the list goes on. And movies? Fuggetaboutit. I watch them all: The Day After Tomorrow, 2012, any stupid thing about a meteor hitting planet earth and we're all swallowed up by a tsunami and I'm on it like white on rice.

And then I go bonkers with fear. I strategize on how to save my kids from the Cloverfield monster, lament that I have no survival skills (can't shoot a gun, find clean water, start a fire), and think of starting a canned food/bottled water secret stash in case of a pandemic that we just happen to survive. I am not exaggerating when I say that I lay in bed at night thinking of how to get my kids, who sleep on opposite ends of our 800 sq foot apartment, to safety if there were an earthquake.

So, although I have given up the original genre of horror flicks, I feel I have transplanted myself into a much scarier and more realistic genre of dyspotic/apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic film and fiction. And as much as Freddy Kruegar scared the bejesus out of me in 7th grade, the possibility of a the waterless flood that will wipe out humanity scares me even more.

Maybe I need some anti-anxiety meds, or is this just motherhood making me crazy?

(On my list of things to learn in case the world implodes and I survive with my kids: build a fire, skin and eat small animals, forage for non-poisonous foods, shoot multiple types of guns, find clean water, self-defense...Any other suggestions?)

The Trifecta of Gross

2010-03-29T15:39:00.002-04:00

My two oldest girlfriends, Kim and Robyn, were here for the weekend. We did the touristy stuff, talked so much that I think my laryngitis might come back, and ate lots of cupcakes and drank lots of wine. It wasn't as much a girls weekend as a weekend with them hanging with my family. Since Nico is still breastfed, he had to be along or I'd have to pump. Finding a place to pump in the city is even more challenging than finding a bathroom that doesn't make you want to retch, so Nico became a girl for the weekend. Well, you can't explain that to an almost 3 year old who is going on 13, so Alexandra and Adam tagged along, too. But, since Robyn and Kim are awesome and have families and get it, they were cool with it all.

We took on Top of the Rock at 8pm on Saturday night. Alexandra was being exceeding good, so instead of taking her home for bed Adam and her came along. While we stopped mid-level to pee, Alexandra was crawling around under some benches and came up with a circular piece of something. I thought it was a piece of veggie booty, but no, it was a piece of CHEWED GUM.

This gum had been chewed, rolled into a ball, dropped onto the ground, under a bench in a place where hundreds of people visit every day. It was gray in color, covered with dirt, and Alexandra immediately fell in love with it. She HAD to hold onto it with all her energy. It went in her pocket, out of her pocket, and then she started to KISS it. Yes, kiss it. I could not wrestle it from her hands without a full-blown tantrum occurring (keep in mind that she'd had only a 1/2 hour nap in the stroller that day and it was about 9pm at that time, her normal bedtime being 7:30-8).

And with that, I had to let the gross gum go. I had to let her snuggling up to it, whisper sweet nothings into it, and rub it all over her fingers. Eventually it got dropped and she forgot about it, but not until we were back on street level and I went to retrieve it from her coat pocket while Kim took her potty.

But that was the perfect trifecta of gross: chewed gum, found on a floor of an insanely public space, meeting the lips of my child. Ewwwwww.

Toddler Logic

2010-03-17T21:34:00.002-04:00

Alexandra is at the point where everything she says is just freakin' hilarious. I need to write more of these things down & make some more movies, but I just never have time to write them and as soon as the camera comes out that inhabited babble changes. It's just not quite the same.

She is full of logic and cause and effect statements lately. Yesterday, I rolled off my Dansko clog. Anyone out there who wears Danskos knows what I mean. I was walking along happily to work, stepped on a twig or something, and my entire foot flopped under me. It didn't feel bad at all at first, but then after pumping in the morning I went to stand up and couldn't. I was a total gimp. I limped around the rest of the day, had to come home early and have Nicole pick up Alexandra because I couldn't walk the 12 blocks to daycare, and I sat around trying to ice and elevate the rest of the day--while watching two kids all night because Adam had to work late.

I was icing my foot with green beans, and I told Alexandra I had a boo boo. A couple hours later I was nursing Nico and he bit me. Yes, the advent of his first tooth has also brought about a desire to gnaw on my boob. He bit me and I said, "Ouch Nico! No biting!" and Alexandra said, "Cause Mommy, if you get a boo boo on your boobie you'll have to put green beans on it!"

Okay--that's totally not as funny as it was when said. Humph.

Preschool Wars

2010-03-11T20:54:00.003-05:00

I am not sure how it works in the rest of our fine country, but preschool here in Park Slope Brooklyn is something you begin to talk about after you are safely out of your first trimester of pregnancy. Getting into a preschool in this neighborhood is akin to getting into Harvard--shoot, an Ivy might be easier (after all, I got into one...). But preschool in the Slope is full of ass-kissing, paying fees to apply, getting financially butt-raped IF you get in, and then still continuously second guessing your decision to send your kid to this or that preschool. It's discussed ad nauseam on the playground, over brunch, at the gym, in whispers between yoga mats...It's sick.

Alexandra is in daycare, and it's a wonderful. It's not the super chic daycare of the 'hood, but she loves it, is learning so much, and actually cries when I come to get her many days of the week b/c she doesn't want to leave her friends. We have never questioned our daycare's integrity, but living in this area makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, there's something better out there.

So we looked. We decided to go for the preschool that's literally 5 steps from our house. If we're going to pay so much more, convenience had better play a part. So I went on the tour. My response: "Meh." The classrooms looked like every elementary school I have been to, but elementary school is FREE. Then we went on the playdate interview and the woman in charge spelled Alexandra's name wrong. Seriously? Alexandra? I mean, it's not a challenging name. Oh, and btw, they misspelled a really simple word like "street" in their pamphlet. And one last thing--they used Comic Sans as the font in their pamphlet. Gag.

After all that, our $75 was already in (application fee, you know, preschool fee = same as college application fee) and we got the letter in the mail that we had been waitlisted. You know what you have to do if you're waitlisted? Call. Every. Day. And. Beg. Eff that.

So we're staying at our daycare one more year. Nico starts this summer. And I'm more than cool with that. If my kid doesn't get into Harvard b/c she didn't get into this preschool, I'm totally cool with that, too.

Hat Tip

2010-03-09T22:55:00.003-05:00

Walking to the train today, a much older gentleman tipped his hat and smiled at me. It was the most adorable and endearing thing anyone has done towards/for me in ages. Such a simple gesture, so lost in the decades that have followed this man's first hat-tip, probably as a spry young thing a long time ago and done with some awkwardness...or maybe he was a natural from day one--a rico suave of his time--who tipped his hat at the ladies and they swooned. God knows, if I hadn't been running late and pissed that I had left my coffee on the counter I might have paused to swoon a bit myself. Who cares that he was probably in his mid-70's?

Regardless, it made my day.
Wanted to share.

Little Oscar Diva

2010-03-08T00:17:00.003-05:00

I have been watching the Oscars annually since back in college. I have watched them with many different groups of friends, with various boys, and under the influence of several variables, but tonight was a first: I watched them with my two year old.

Alexandra goes to bed super easily, but tonight, around 9:15, she came out to the living room/kitchen and said she couldn't sleep and wanted to hang out with us. She sat on the couch, ate my very late dinner with me, and laughed at Ben Stiller's Avatar face and tail, said the girls were pretty had had pretty dresses, and commented when each guy had a beard like Grandpa. I LOVED having her there, giggling after I laughed and trying to be so grown up. But eventually I had to insist that she went back to bed, and she did so without a complaint.

But it was a precursor as to how much fun we'll have one day when she can chill with us on the couch.

Love that baby girl (and she really like the dresses with sparkles and the blue lights).

Calling Parents

2010-03-05T22:18:00.003-05:00

Adam took today off to write a eulogy for Grandpop, therefore he picked up the kids and I was able to work late. This is the first time I have done this all year and it was awesome. I guess most folks wouldn't consider working until 5:30 on a Friday their idea of a good time, but damn, I was able to get so much work done it was like I was moving at superhuman pace. Wow.

One thing I have a hard time doing is calling parents. We have been forewarned about letting the kids have our cell phone numbers--next thing you know a kid texts you a picture of them in their panties and you're getting framed for having intimate relations with them. And shoot, daytime cell phone minutes are expensive. I have three periods off a day, but two of them I pump breastmilk and that leaves one to do work, copies, talk with the guidance counselors about kids, etc. By the time I get the kids to bed at night, eat, and clean up to work it's around 10--too late to call home. With these factors, I'm not the best at calling.

So today I called parents. I learned a lot, and it was heartbreaking. Here's a few examples why:

1. Call #1: Student's grandmother had called asking for an update. I called her back. She's taking care of said student, his twin brother, their 18 yo brother, and a 10 year old sister b/c their mother died two years ago. This is the FOURTH 9th grade student of mine who has lost a mother in the past two years. She also has three other kids from someone else. She is overwhelmed. She tells me she's giving my student's twin brother over to the city (foster care, group home) b/c she's "lost him to the streets and ain't nothing you can do once that happens." She was trying to decide what to do about my student--should she give him up too? She asks my opinion. Man.

2. Call #2: Nice student, good skills and sweet as anything, but always late to 1st period. Tell her mom and her mom says, "We just moved to a shelter in the Bronx, it's a long ride." I say, "Oh, I didn't know, I'm so sorry, I had heard student lived near 14th Street in the City." She says, "We were moved to another shelter so now she has to commute." This girl commutes two hours each way to our high school. From a shelter and goes "home" to a shelter. Ugh.

3. Call #3: Student who's mom died unexpectedly while I was on maternity leave. Call his sister to give her an update, sister with custody isn't home, talk to other sister who says they're having a hard time with student and aren't sure what to do with him. They are trying to get dad to take him/keep him, but his dad doesn't want him. Sisters are at a loss. Insert heart breaking here.

I made about 20 calls, and many were just plain fine, but those resonate in me tonight as I sit on my couch.

Goodbye Grandpop

2010-03-04T22:58:00.003-05:00

Adam's Grandpop, Howard Jensen, passed away today. He was 89 years old and lived a long and successful life, but the loss of anyone still stings. I have been with Adam for nine years now, so I met Grandpop when he was around 80. He was a dapper old man who cruised the Hartford area in his Cadillac visiting friends and often wearing a classy hat. But the last few years were hard on his health and he gradually started slipping down that slope that many old folks do: broken hip, slight dementia, pneumonia, and so forth. But he is at peace now.

I am not sure what I believe about the afterlife. I REALLY want to believe that there is some place where we can be reunited with all those we lost across our lives. I can't explain how much I'd love to see my dad again, and seeing my friends Heidi and Eric would be just. . .I can't even put words to it. But I am not sure I believe that happens, even as much as I truly hope it is.

But tonight I was thinking about Grandpop's life and the end of it, and I thought that he could be, for the first time in over 30 years, with his wife again. Osa Jensen--from whom Alexandra received her middle name--passed away in her late 50's and Grandpop never remarried. It made me happy to think that perhaps, in some alternate plane of existence, Grandpop and Grandma Osa are happily reunited.

That lessened the sting a bit.

Rest in peace, Grandpop. You leave a legacy of wonderful people behind you.

Winter Olympics Blahs

2010-03-03T22:34:00.004-05:00

The Winter Olympics have come and gone, and I must say I was not impressed. I was trying to evaluate why I was so uninspired by it all as I ran on the treadmill last weekend and chose to watch "The Matrix" over watching the best athletes in the world compete.

One, is that there are just too many clothes on those folks. I like to see some muscle, some sweat, some gold chains and hairstyles. I like to see the whole person, and the Winter Olympics is just too shrouded in hats, layers, etc. Meh.

But what I really think turned me off was one of the first performances I accidently caught one night: ice dancing. First, I had no idea ice dancing was an Olympic sport. I kept waiting for the couple to do some complicated turns, jumps, something that wasn't so corny and theatrical--something demonstrating strong athleticism--and it just never happened. I turned to Adam and exclaimed, "What the heck was that? They didn't go anything!" And then I was introduced to ice dancing by the announcers. Already not a fan.

But then these whack Russians get out there practically dressed in blackface "dancing" to Australian Aboriginal music, doing things like man pulling the woman's hair, their facial expressions reeking of racist sentiments of Aboriginal peoples being primitive, etc. I felt like it had to be some sort of Saturday Night Live skit: How could this be for real? Oh, but it was. I was appalled that the Olympic committee let this happen. I mean, seriously, would they let someone do a routine in blackface? And the BEST thing about this whole scenario is that they had previously done this routine at the World Championships and offended everyone, so they LIGHTENED the skin tone in their outfits to improve the situation. WTH?!

And after that I was out. I mean, really, Olympics? Really?

School Limbo

2010-02-28T22:54:00.005-05:00

I have been meaning to post about this for a while, but haven't had time. But, for some ungodly reason I'm locked out of my online gradebook, so I might as well post b/c it's too early to pump before bed.

A few weeks ago we were called to an emergency UFT (United Federation of Teachers, the city's teacher union) meeting and were told that our school had been placed on some State-wide shit list and that one of four options would happen to us:

1. we would be closed down
2. we would be turned into a charter school
3. we would all stay, but next year we'd be under crazy surveillance and without UFT protection, therefore if those observing didn't like us or our test scores, we'd be fired. bye bye.
4. half the staff would be "replaced" to restructure the school.

The union representative who delivered the message said that they had no idea which option the city would choose, but that as soon as anyone knew, we would know.

Nice, huh?

Let me clarify that we are on this shit list for graduation rates below the city's average for 2006, 2007, 2008, although we had a graduation rate HIGHER than the city average for 2009. We are NOT on the the list for test scores, only graduation rate.

I have worked at my school for nine years. No, it is not a great school and no, I would not send my kids to it, BUT it is a functioning school. 80% of our students live below the poverty level, our special education population is edging towards 30%, and the majority of the 9th graders enter reading at a 4th grade level, having scored 2's and 1's on their 8th grade English Language Arts exams (out of a possible 4). And, in spite of our student population and the challenges they bring, we have many loving, dedicated, and hard working teachers who not only bust their butts teaching things they don't know (ahem, I am NOT trained to teach reading, but literature), but they also mentor these kids in many ways--buying prom dresses, taking them to movies when their house has burned down and they have nowhere to go after school, calling colleges and trying to explain that the kid shouldn't lose their scholarship b/c her stepfather is an asshole who refuses to file his taxes because he's afraid of the government...the list is long.

So this is what I don't get: In the meritocracy that is the NYC DOE (high school is an application process, students take a test in 8th grade to get into specialized schools like Stuyvesant, one of the best high schools in the nation. Stuy admitted 9 Black students into their 2010 freshmen class of 700. In NEW YORK CITY. It's a public school. Yeah.), what the hell does the City think is going to happen to these kids?

I can tell you one thing that's going to happen: These schools are going to lose the good teachers. Teachers get so much crap in general and it's exhausting. I honestly believe my mission as an educator is to teach the population I currently teach, and that I am a good teacher, but I can tell you that after 10 years in I am tired of the bologna that comes with working with my student population. I love them, but what would it be like to work in a school with grade level students, that had resources, and didn't freak out every year about test scores?

The kids and schools who need good teachers are going to lose them under the guise of "aggressive actions" towards "failing schools." And then who will teach these kids? Great work--Obama, Bloomberg, & Klein. A-freakin'-plus.

The Sh*t Hits the Diaper

2010-02-20T22:00:00.005-05:00

The amount of cliches used to describe parenting and having kids is long and overused, but until you are a parent yourself you have no idea of how true they all are. Especially those of the "kids grow up so fast" and "it goes by so fast" persuasion. I am in constant amazement of how quickly Alexandra has turned into a little girl who is 2 going on 13, and our wee babe, Nico, is no longer so wee. It really does go by at light speed, and those nights when both kids scream for over an hour at 2am on opposite ends of your 800 square foot apartment get lost in the love.

Nico just recently started eating solids. The joy of having two kids separately is that you faintly remember life with kid #1 and it can save you some pain with kid #2. I'd say about 75% of the time I don't have my flashback to Alexandra's babyhood until the current drama with Nico is over, but every so often I can see the writing on the wall and I am able to switch up the situation and come out on top.

For example: starting solid food. Alexandra started nursing about 100 times per night between the age of 4 and 5 months old. I wasn't sleeping at all b/c the kid was on my tit and hungry all the freakin' time. But, being the au natural mom I was/am, I was NOT about to give her solids. No solids until 6 months was my mantra. Breastmilk is all she needs. Blah blah blah. Why? No idea. No idea where I even got those ideas from. But after a month of wasting away b/c I couldn't keep up with her, I gave in and fed the darn girl. Total relief.

We sleep trained Nico around 3 1/2 months--crying it out, the whole nine yards--and he was awesome. After three nights he slept like a lamb...for about 2 weeks. Then he was waking, and screaming like a banshee, and my memory was jogged. Feed that boy! We started him on cereal, and sweet potatoes, and pears, and banana, and today some prunes. The first time I fed him he cried between spoonfulls because I couldn't get it in his mouth fast enough. Little piglet.

But now that watery not-so-smelly breastmilk poop is gone. He's got the real poop. It's sticky, it's clumpy, it's smelly, and it's messy. Our brief honeymoon with the less offensive poop type is over, and I'm sad. Sad because my boy is already making man poop (well, not quite--thank god--but he's on the way!) and sad because he's already left that tiny baby phase.

And it's these little things that make you realize that it really does go by so fast.

Slow Food

2010-02-18T23:20:00.004-05:00

The title of this post is misleading as it has nothing to do with the slow food movement, but it does have to do with eating your food slowly--a luxury that is simply no longer part of my life.

Monday through Friday, I eat one meal slowly. Friday night is take out Friday, when Adam and I peruse the orange folder of take out menus and order some kind of crap from a local venue, drink a beer, and catch up from the week. All other meals of the week look like this:

Breakfast: Eaten on the train ride to work. My commute is only four stops, so this eating is FAST. Last week I grabbed a couple leftover pancakes from the snow day (decided that snow day had to = pancakes), threw them on top of my packed lunch, and noshed them on the train practically choking on how dry they were. At least there was something in my stomach before teaching for 3 hours.

Lunch: Eaten while pumping breastmilk in the dirty, smelly, waterbug infested bathroom of the Humanities teacher's lounge. Horrible place to eat, no doubt, but by 11:00 not only are my boobs about to simultaneously explode and implode, but I am also starving. I inhale whatever lunch I have during my 12 or so minutes that the pump is on.

Dinner: Eaten while feeding Alexandra, who, although 2.5 insists "Mommy, feed me!" while pacifying Nico, who is pretty much fed up after being in the bouncy seat while I made dinner. I usually inhale my dinner so quickly that I scare myself and even wonder if I ever put any food on my plate in the first place. That's how fast I eat.

So this week of midwinter break, I have eaten slow and it. has. been. glorious.

Oops.

2010-02-17T23:26:00.002-05:00

Today Adam and I accidentally took each others phones.

Taking the opposite phone is not like romantically swapping ipods to see if you have compatible music tastes and are destined to be together. It's just plain annoying. And kinda surreal when you see "new text from lori!" and you're lori. It's like God or your subconscious is texting you or something totally weird happening to you like an out of body experience. Not like I have had any of those...recently.

But, it's only a day, right?

That's until I dropped his phone while trying to snap a pic of our cutie pie kids to send him. And I didn't have time to open it again b/c the evening was hell on wheels with cutie pie kid one disintegrating into a hot mess of emotions and pee. And then husband opened phone to find that his screen no longer works b/c wife dropped it. And wife had to be honest and admit that she dropped the phone, which hadn't seemed like a bad drop at the time but now phone was broken. Oops.

At least we got phone insurance this time.

The Penis Saga Continues

2010-02-16T23:07:00.004-05:00

If you read this post, you know that my daughter is going through what her peditrician aptly informed me was Freud's anal fixation. When I asked Dr. Gold, our amazing peditrician whom I want to give me a make-over (but that's the subject of another post) what was up with Alexandra talking about penises ALL. THE. TIME. she laughed and said that it was totally normal, that no, she was not a young pervert, and that it was just a phase.

She also told me about this hilarious little girl who had named her vagina Charmane and her bottom Bruce just out of nowhere to the amazement of her perplexed parents who knew nobody of either name. (!)

Well, this phase has been going on for months now, and it's getting old. Today we were eating dinner, having a grand time with Alexandra telling me all about panthers that live in the rainforest and the monkeys that are scared of them (unit on rainforests this week at daycare), and then she broke into an impromptu song of "The Farmer in the Dell." The following conversation ensued after the first verse of "The farmer takes Alexandra."

Me: And what do you take?
AOW: A penis!
Me: No, silly, what do you take?
AOW: I take a penis!
Me: That's silly. What would you do with it? (Meant to sound like, why would you do that? A cat, a dog, a nurse, the cheese would be so much more useful, but it didn't come off that way...)
AOW: I put it in my mouth!
Me: *Sigh*
AOW: Mommy takes a penis, mommy takes a penis, she puts it in her mouth and mommy takes a penis! (sang to the tune of The Farmer in the Dell)

As much as my spouse wishes this were true, I am so afraid that she's going to belt into song at daycare with these illicit lyrics and I'm going to get my kids taken away from me. She already staged a nurse-in at daycare (she had all the kids lined up against the wall breastfeeding the stuffed animals the other day), I can only imagine her conducting a toddler chorus of penis songs.

Help me!

Gangsta Gangsta!

2010-02-14T00:11:00.004-05:00

Professional development is the bane of my existence as a teacher. At no time do I loathe the teaching profession more than during yet another worthless day, afternoon, or hour of professional development. All professional development has done for me in the past few years is provide me with multiple opportunities to realize why nobody takes teaching--as a profession--seriously. Nine out of ten times it's ludicrous. As my old teaching friend Rhonda would say, "I'll cut my arm off--right here and right now--if you can give me something that will work tomorrow in my classroom that I don't already know." Let's just say that I live by Rhonda's creed and I still have both arms.

But I was super excited when my Assistant Principal told me she had booked a guy from the District Attorney's office to come give us the 101 on gangs for a department meeting, claiming it was professional development for us. Wow--it was.

I feel like I know more than most bougie While folk about gangs after my ten years of teaching in a NYC public high school, but the fascinating thing about gang culture is that it is constantly shifting. But Mr. DA's office came in with his PowerPoint presentation on gang signs, colors, graffiti, and a pretty comprehensive history of the big players in NYC: the Bloods, the Crips, and the Latin Kings.

Let me share some facts with you:

--Bloods wear red, but also light brown (brown as in dried blood). They'll often wear brown when in mourning. This was news to me b/c I have a light brown bandanna I wear to workout in all the time. Oops.
--Bloods do everything on the right (tattoos, roll up pant leg, half shirt off), Crips on the left.
--Various gangs frequent restaurants based on their colors and/or what they can spell out from the restaurant names. Crips go to Burger King, BK=Blood Killer. Bloods do KFC, KFC=Killing F*ckin' Crips. They also wear clothing that represent their gangs, Bloods will wear CK (Crip Killer) and Crips used to wear British Knight shoes (Blood Killer)
--the Center for Disease Control claims that the average lifespan for a young man/woman in a gang is 24 years old. Too damn young.

Seriously, I could not process all the stuff the DA guy was telling me. I wish I had taken notes. It was fascinating.

Of course, there's not much we can do if we recognize a student is in a gang. It is not illegal to join a gang. But they said if we start to recognize who is in what gang then we can try to keep their altercations to a minimum in the classroom or just be aware of whose allegiances lie where. Pretty wild shit.

I guess I'd be missing an arm, now, according to Rhonda.

Just Say No to generic...

2010-02-09T21:37:00.005-05:00

Let me put it out there that I'm a brand name girl. I must have watched too much TV in my developmental years and now I am warped for life. My mom tells me how she used to refill the Heinz ketchup bottle with generic and the Aunt Jemima syrup with generic for all of my childhood just to shut me up.

So, a couple weeks back when I had strange symptoms that mimicked last January's pregnancy symptoms, I freaked out. My gums were bleeding, my boobs had popped up in size again, and I was feeling bloated. Granted, our intimate life has been practically non-existent, but we all know it only takes one time to get yourself knocked up, and after getting pregnant twice on accident let's just say I'm a little gun shy.

Although I am a brand name freak, finances are tough. So I bought some CVS pregnancy tests b/c hey, they were $5 cheaper and at this point in my life $5 is actually a fun amount of extra cash to have. Coffee? Cookie? Pizza? Yeah, you can't buy much for $5 but it's something. That's what life of paying double daycare has done for me--I appreciate $5 again.

So I peed on the stick. No extra line, not pregnant. Whew. Got Alexandra from daycare, made dinner, and while giving her a bath decided to look at the pregnancy test again and BAM! there were definitely two lines. Let's just say that freaking out was an understatement for what happened next. I could barely breathe. I felt like my life was going to be a tragic Irish movie of me looking haggard with crying children all around me...

I took the other CVS test. Again, no double line then 2 hours later two lines. Freak out #2 commences. Adam goes to buy a brand name test. I waited until the fresh morning pee to take it (after not sleeping all night), and it was definitely negative.

The morale of the story is--DON'T use generic pregnancy tests. No. Nope. No way, Jose.

Second morale of the story: We DON'T want three kids.

Snow Day!!!!!!!!!??????????

2010-02-09T21:25:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow is my first day since having kids. I guess there was one last year, but I was on sabbatical and they didn't announce it until so late that our daycare didn't close. With the ominous winter storm on the day, the NYC DOE in an unlikely act of prudence announced that schools would be closed tomorrow around noon today.

This is how my brain processed the news, delivered by an ecstatic coworker:

First: WHOOOOOOO! Snow day! (insert jumping up & down here)

Second: Oh.....daycare is closed if public school is closed....Alexandra will be home.

Third: If my daycare's closed, our babysitter/nanny's daycare must be closed therefore I'm home alone with two kids....

Fourth: Oh my....

As crazy as this is to admit, tomorrow will be my first day home alone with both kids since Nico was born. I have both kids from 3:30 until 7ish every day since he was born, but not a whole day yet. Adam hasn't been out of town or anything.

So....looks like snow day has a new definition starting tomorrow! Let the wild rumpus start!

Overheard in the Classroom

2010-01-31T22:32:00.003-05:00

I hear the craziest stuff teaching, so I'm going to start a regular post called Overheard in the Classroom.

Last week (the last week of the semester):

Student: Miss, I have had so many testes today!

Me: Oh honey, I really hope you haven't. . .Do you know what testes are? The plural of testicles! You had many TESTS today.

Class erupts screaming "Balls!!!!" And various other combinations, cracking up. The girl, a good girl, is embarrassed.

This is my profession.

Lack of Sex Education

2010-01-19T21:06:00.004-05:00

So, my horrid 9th graders are growing on me slowly. But the one thing about 9th graders that's different from 11th & 12th graders is their curiosity and blatant obsession with sex. For example, last week while teaching a lesson on closing arguments for the play "Twelve Angry Men" that we just read, a girl raised her hand. Keep in mind that I have seen more of this young woman's breasts in the past two weeks than I have of my own mother's in my whole life--she is well endowed and wears low cut shirts quite often. But that's another issue.

So, hand raised, "Miss, I have a question!" Me, thinking she's got a question on closing arguments b/c *duh* that's what the lesson is about, was thrown when she posed this one to me:

"Okay, so, like, when you're having an orgasm, do you pee all over the place?"

After regaining my composure I told her that I could not answer her question during class time, but if she was seriously that confused she should come talk to me after class. She was relentless, "Miss--just tell me!" I told her to ask her health teacher, and she replied that they don't get health until TWELFTH GRADE! She begged me to just tell her "yes" or "no," and giving in I said, "No--and now back to rhetorical devices to use in your closing argument."

But that little awkward interlude got me thinking. Then today the same girl and a handful of her friends came to my room during their lunch period to do some make-up work. ALL they talked about was sex, which girls gave head in the stairwell, who puts out in the 9th grade, and then they told me they were all virgins and that was okay, wasn't it? YES, I said, followed by a conversation on the long term ramifications of having sex when you're young and horny and immature and--no offense,ladies--stupid.

Wowza. And we wonder why we keep getting pregnant 9th graders (I have one now). Nobody is talking to these girls about sex and it's just plain terrifying. If I get fired from the DOE one day, it'll be because I talked to girls about sex. Mark my words. Somebody's got to...

Let's Turn this B*tch into a 3 Bedroom!

2010-01-18T22:19:00.002-05:00

The title of this blog post is a direct quote from my husband to me, said at about midnight one night this week when I brought of rearranging our one bedroom apartment. He looked at me, said, "Let's turn this b*tch into a 3 bedroom!" and promptly rolled over and fell asleep within 10 seconds. This is how most of our conversations at bedtime roll. Me = thinking non-stop and tossing out answers to real and imaginary problems. Adam = sure, whatever babe, zzzzzzz....

So I was pleasantly surprised when he agreed to this project for our weekend. We thought it would be a minor shifting of furniture, but it took 10 hours of Sunday off and on. We had to disassemble our bed, the crib, unscrew the bookshelf from the wall and empty it 2/3 of the way to shimmy it 4 feet, move a rocking chair, etc. A seemingly small project turned into a day long event, but it worked.

We now have officially given Nico his own sleep space. We lost our work space, but it was in our bedroom and he now goes to sleep at around 8-9pm so we weren't using it anyway. He slept in his crib last night (out of our bed) for the first time. I kinda missed him and realized I don't know how to sleep without a baby in the bed after four months...His crib and the rocker occupy a space that's about 4 feet wide but it's his. We are separated from him by a massive bookshelf. Alexandra still has her own room for now until Nico can sleep through the night without fail.

I have to brag that we are pretty good at living in small spaces. This is the third manifestation that this 800 square foot apartment has seen since we moved in in July, and each works in its own way. Pretty good to know that we can do it, since I think that when we finally make a move to buy something in 3 years from now, it'll most likely be a 1 bedroom!

Maybe we can fund our future apartment by starting a consulting business on how to shift your 1 bedroom into a 2-3 bedroom. Any business name suggestions?

Penis Envy

2010-01-13T23:04:00.003-05:00

Alexandra won't stop talking about penises. I thought this was a phase that started after baby brother came home, but this "phase" as been going on now for MONTHS and it's starting to get a little embarrassing. Here are a few soundbites from a past few days:

"The bus has a penis!" (screamed repeatedly as I pushed her home in the stroller)
"Daddy, I can't eat your penis?" (mortifying)
"Boys have penis, girls have poo-cat!!!!" (all the time)
"Nico has a penis; it's small." (keen skills of observation)
"Daddy has a penis; it's big." (oh my...)
"I can touch your penis?" (the answer is always no followed by private part conversation)
"I have a penis?" (no darling, you don't)
"Look, I no have a penis!" (said, on the bus, as she pulled her pants and panties down)

And there are a million more examples that I can't think of at 11pm at night.

PLEASE tell me that others have experienced this and I don't have some pervert for a daughter. We try not to react to her statements, but I swear, if some people hear this they will call the Department of Child Services on us for sure. Especially when she yells, as Adam's putting her in time out or trying to get her dressed amid a tantrum,

"Daddy, your penis is hurting me!"

Oy vey.

Questioning

2010-01-12T22:13:00.004-05:00

Teaching 9th grade is quite a different kettle of fish than teaching 11th and 12th grade (what I have been doing the last 9 years). I like to think that I am a good teacher, a natural if you will. I love teaching, I love my students, and even when the sh*t hits the fan I can usually come out smiling or joking or drinking a beer to the absurdity results from the free public education of the masses. But man, these 9th graders are really pushing me.

Granted, the kids have had a permanent sub for 3+ months, they have had to transition back to me, and not to mention that they're 9th graders and therefore ridiculously immature, horny, compulsive, and pretty much have no impulse control over their mouths or bodies. Yeah, it's THAT bad. Now try teaching them for 90 minutes. It's literally like herding cats.

Now, I could find this all just a challenge if it weren't for the fact that I literally have to race out of the building and back home after school, nurse Nico, grab the stroller, pick up Alexandra by 4:30 from daycare, then haul them back home, make dinner, clean up, pack her lunch, nurse Nico again, and start a bath before Adam gets home at 7pm. Please be reminded that Alexandra is 2 1/2 and in full on challenging mode complied with some sibling jealousy that causes her to go buck wild as soon as I pick up Nico or put him on the tit.

So Monday night after work (and work, actually) just sucked. Alexandra was AWFUL and my temper with her was short. After she went to sleep, I felt guilty that I hadn't been more compassionate with her. She is, after all, only two. She is doing what a twos year old does, but the trouble is that my 9th graders are ALSO doing what two year old do therefore when I get home to my daughter I'm just sick of two year old sh*t. You know?

And for the first time in my 10 years of teaching, I questioned as to if this is a profession I should be in while I have small kids. I am not sure I have it in me to give my patience out all day long and have enough for my kids when I get home. I NEVER want to be one of those parents who brings their beef with work home with them...Today was better and I had a great day both at work and at home, but I feel shaken by my questioning.

soon

2010-01-07T22:27:00.001-05:00

I returned to work this week. Ugh. I will be back blogging soon, promise. Have lots to say, just no energy/time in which to say it.

Santa as a Conspiracy Theory

2009-12-24T09:35:00.004-05:00

Adam and I wrestled with the Santa concept and what to tell Alexandra. I wasn't told that Santa exists. Coming from a very religious house, Jesus was the only reason for the season and that was that. We got presents and all, but they were from mom and dad and there were no cookies for Santa, letters, blah blah blah. Overall, I don't feel this detracted from my childhood at all. Adam's family, on the other hand, was all about Santa. So, we had to sit down and decide what we wanted to do for our family. After much negotiation we decided that Santa will come, he will fill stockings only (we're trying to avoid the whole materialistic Santa angle), and we'll do the whole Santa myth. Alexandra is already on board. It's really quite amazing how quickly they pick up on a storyline.

It seems like we weren't the only ones trying to figure out what to do with Santa. A dialogue was posted on our local neighborhood listserv about what to tell kids about Santa. Lots of interfaith families (particularly Jewish/Christian) struggle with it as well, and the perspectives vary greatly. But one mom's post was my favorite. It reads:

My son (at age 10 or 11) logically explained,
"Santa Claus MUST be real. Otherwise, it would mean that there was
some GIANT conspiracy, and EVERYONE got together and agreed to lie to
all their children that there is a Santa Claus. And sing songs on
the radio about him, and decorate all the stores, and play movies on
TV, and put up a tree in your house. It's just not possible that
EVERYONE would be lying."

"What, and you become a grownup, they pull you aside, and say 'Oh,
also, Santa doesn't really exist, but don't tell the kids! Keep
playing along and pretend he's real!' It just doesn't make any sense
that a lie that big, that massive, could possibly be pulled off. So
there must really be a Santa Claus."

You're absolutely right, I told him.

This is killed me. Santa as a conspiracy! From the mouths of babes come words of wisdom, no doubt.

Merry Christmas everyone! May your night be filled with family, love, and a smidge of conspiracy!

A Year of Books

2009-12-22T21:54:00.005-05:00

"Chatting" with an old friend from middle school/high school about a year ago on Facebook revealed a couple of things I didn't know about her. One, she is a rabid Jane Austen fan. Two, she tries to read 50 books per year. I thought that seemed like a good idea (50 books per year, not Jane Austen rabidity), so I have kept a running list of all the books I read this year. I only made it through 30, but I figured that was pretty good. Here's my tally (* means reread for the 2nd time):

1. Netherland by: Joseph O'Neill (great NYC setting with cricket. love cricket.)

2. Unaccustomed Earth by: Jhumpa Lahiri (my fave of hers so far)

3. Pride & Prejudice by: Jane Austen (such a great soap opera of a novel)

4. Made in America: Immigrant Students in our Public Schools by: Laurie Olsen (a decent read for an academic book)

5. The Wind Up Bird Chronicle by: Haruki Murakami (LOVED this book. not sure why, but it was beautiful.)

6. The Road by: Cormac McCarthy (horrifying and realistic)

7. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close* by: Jonathan Safron Foer (best 9/11 novel; best child protagonist)

8. Sister of My Heart by: Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni (started slow, good middle, blah end)

9. The Blue Sweater by: Jacqueline Novogratz (see review here)

10. A Saint on Death Row by: Thomas Cahill (Texas: you suck)

11. My Antonia by: Willa Cather (don't think I could have been a pioneer, but those who were were bad a**es)

12. A Hope in the Unseen: An American Odyssey from the Inner City to the Ivy League by: Ron Suskind (amazing and illuminating)

13. The Ventriloquist's Tale* by: Pauline Melville (second read didn't like as much)

14. The Robber Bride by: Margaret Atwood (don't like her stuff unless it's about the end of the world and decided that during this novel)

15. Oral History by: Lee Smith (gothic and creepy and love the South!)

16. Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? by: Beverly Tatum (transformative stuff on racial identity formation)

17. Birth: The Surprising History of How We Are Born* by: Tina Cassidy (fascinating and amazing anthropological and historical look at birth)

18. My Brother by: Jamaica Kincaid (oh jamaica, we have the same family issues...)

19. The Skin I'm In by: Sharon Flake (Young Adult--YA--book)(not bad, abrupt end)

20. Monster by: Walter Dean Myers (YA book)(liked a lot, actually)

21. Annie John* by: Jamaica Kincaid (didn't like as much 2nd time)

22. Prospect Park West by: Amy Sohn (trashy book about Park Slope, my 'hood. fun read.)

23. The Outsiders by: S.E. Hinton (had never read before!)

24. Farenheit 451 by: Ray Bradbury (loved it)

25. Angela's Ashes by: Frank McCourt (wowza, wish this guy had taught me)

26. Flowers for Algernon by: Daniel Keyes (weird book, man.)

27. The Joy Luck Club by: Amy Tan (meh--didn't like)

28. The Year of the Flood by: Margaret Atwood (great, not excellent)

29. Oryx and Crake* by: Margaret Atwood (both books are better together)

30. Eclipse* by: Stephenie Meyer (after seeing New Moon I couldn't remember what happened next so I reread Eclipse. the writing is awful, but so much fun)

31. Every Time A Rainbow Dies by: Rita Williams-Garcia (YA book) (good)

32. Sisters on the Homefront by: Rita Williams-Garcia (YA book) (better)

33. Nurture Shock: New Thinking About Children by: Po Bronsen and Ashley Merryman (I think the writing is pretty awful, but good/interesting ideas)

Student Metrocards

2009-12-18T09:19:00.006-05:00

This week it was decided to slowly phase out the student metrocards here in New York City. For you guys unfamiliar with school transportation here, after elementary school there is really no such thing as zoned schools like in the suburbs. Well, there are, and if you're in a good zone you're psyched, but for a lot of this city if you're in a zone where the middle and high schools are less than appealing you try to get out and into schools in other parts of your borough or the city at large. You escape from your zone school by taking middle and high school entrance exams and your grades. These exams are no joke. There are cram schools, books, and tutors who specialize in getting your kid to pass the high school entrance exam (the Stuyvesant Exam) here in NYC. I swear, getting into Harvard might be easier.

But even for those kids who don't make it into the four top high schools of the city, getting out of your 'hood and into a different environment is important to them and their families. For example, the school where I teach. I work in Cobble Hill, at Cobble Hill School of American Studies. Cobble Hill is a very nice neighborhood. The two main streets are lined with expensive boutiques and restaurants, the brownstones (even ones in need of gut renovation) start at a million dollars, and the elementary schools are excellent. It's the safest precinct in Brooklyn as Cobble Hill was the first neighborhood to house the Italians when they left Little Italy in Manhattan, and all the mafioso grand-daddies are still there. It's beautiful--I can't afford to live there.

However the high school in Cobble Hill where I teach is less than okay. I would never let my kids go there. The test scores are low, the students enter reading at approximately a 4th grade level, and we have a lot of fights. We became a metal detector school this year. The students are lovely kids, and I work with some incredible educators, but we have no art teacher, few extracurriculars, and it's just not the environment I want my kids to have their high school experience in.

So who goes to this school? NOT the kids in Cobble Hill. The students come from Red Hook, Fort Greene, Clinton Hill, Bed-Stuy, East New York, Carnarsie, Sunset Park, Coney Island, and Bushwick. They commute to our school on multiple trains and buses, some for over an hour, just so they can escape their zone school and come to school in a safer neighborhood.

Keep in mind that over 80% of my students live below the poverty level.

Students currently receive free metrocards to come to school each day. They are assigned these metrocards in the beginning of the school year; they get three swipes each school day between the hours of 5:30am and 8:30pm which allows for them to get to an extracurricular activity or job afterschool. Currently the cost of a swipe to get on a bus or subway is $2.25, which make the metrocard valued at $6.75 per school day, about $34 a week, about $135 a month or $1280 for the school year (180 days of school).

Now you tell me, if a kid can't afford to eat lunch, wash his/her clothes, or is living in a shelter (common issues in my school) are they going to be able to pay that money to get to school? Hell, no.

Guess the city isn't THAT worried about their graduation rates after all.
(article in the Times on this situation)

(too) random

Love the Life You Live

Regift Boomerang

Parent Teacher Night

Occupy Wall Street

Reading

Happy Birthday to Nico?

Survivor's Guilt

Struggle

*Hopefully* Back

stay-at-home mom

Photographer Magic

22

Burka Princess

Baby Ego

Freudian Smell

Teacher Effectiveness

Classroom Management

the f bomb

One liners

Extreme Toddler Sledding

The Death Talk

Firework

febrile virus

Is it possible...

The Next Wes Craven

Thankful for Slips

Outta Here

Apocalypse Now

Strange Sadness

Our Big Fat Gay Wedding

Nico is One

Brooklyn Tornado

First Day. Dammit.

My Hour of Bliss

Done

Spanking

R.I.P. Miriam Perez

Happy?

Sam & Maddy

Teenage Dream

Experience Necessary

Manscaping

Vacation?

Mama's Speedball

Pushing Art

Goodbye Medela

Weaning Woes

No (more) Exit

An Open Letter...

Mini Me

NYC sometimes sucks

Bummed

The Boxing Ring of Motherhood

Miracle

The Little Things

Mom of the Year

Get Over It

Pro Soccer Players & Three-Year Olds

I'm 36--A Photo Essay

Pretty

What is Mister Softee?!

Go Go Ghana!

Really?

You know you're a New Yorker when...

Stats on the Kiddos

Graduation Hater

Cheese is Christ

A First

Mother's Day

Haus Frau

Overheard in the Classroom

Doctorate Irony

Freaky Friday

Girl Fights, Sex, & Homelessness

My New Horror Movie Genre

The Trifecta of Gross

Toddler Logic

Preschool Wars

Hat Tip

Hopefully Back