Category Archive

I don’t take the daily paper anymore, so I’m not up on the comic page controversies.  Apparently there was a mild kerfuffle when Scott Adams introduced a new character named Jesus (pronounced “Hay-Soos) in his Dilbert strip the week before the Holy Week.  I say “mild kerfuffle” because it was apparently a genuine controversy among a certain segment of the population, but I would never have known about it if I hadn’t followed a link on a sidebar of a Mormon blog that told me that the Daily Universe, BYU’s student newspaper, had opted not to run the strips.  Apparently some students were horrified that the Daily Universe would censor a comic strip.  Personally, I was horrified at some of the grammar in the DU’s editorial explaining its position, but that’s neither here nor there.  All of this reminds me of a story.

I didn’t get my higher education at BYU.  I went to a small Baptist college in southern Virginia that no one has ever heard of unless they live in that town and/or attended that school themselves.  (Don’t bother guessing which school it is, because you’ll only guess some school somebody’s heard of, and you’ll be wrong.)  It’s a good little school, and I enjoyed my four years there.  It was not Baptist school in the same sense that BYU is a Mormon school.  It was affiliated with the Virginia Baptist General Board, which I believe gave it some of its funding, or at least provided scholarships, or something–really, I didn’t and don’t know the particulars, but it sufficeth me to say that the affiliation was mostly a historical one.  Baptists being what Baptists are, the school enjoyed much more sovereignty than BYU ever has. 

However, the trappings of its religious affiliation were still present.  They held (non-compulsory) chapel services and six credits of religion classes (including one on the Old or New Testament–quelle horreur!) were required for graduation.  All dorms were single-sex, and no one of the opposite sex was allowed in the dorm after 11:30 p.m. (2 a.m. on weekends).  It was also a dry campus (absolutely no alcohol allowed on the premises).  Lots of students, unfamiliar with the meaning of the term ”private school,” complained about the religion requirement and the draconian visiting hours (hey, they never said you couldn’t have sex in your dorm room, just not after 11:30 p.m., 2 a.m. on weekends).  But mostly they complained about the no-alcohol policy.  Ostensibly there was this Puritan vibe emanating from the trustees’ office or something, but in practice, aside from the alcohol thing, the students had the freedom to engage in a fair amount of debauchery, so long as the old ladies from the alumni association didn’t find out about it.  And there was academic freedom on a scale that BYU professors can only dream of.  But more on that later.

I think it was my sophomore year that Residence Life began sponsoring Movie Night on Fridays (maybe to make up for the fact that there was nothing to do in town and also no alcohol to drink).  Among the first movies they decided to show was Henry & June, which you might recall was a NC-17-rated romp for people who wanted to pretend they’d read Anais Nin (or Henry Miller, for that matter).  Anyway, they had posters for it up all over campus and the dorms, until one student, who happened to be majoring in religion so she could go on to study at a seminary, complained that this film didn’t strike her as consistent with the school’s Christian mission.   Bottom line:  Henry & June was summarily cancelled.  I think they replaced it with The Lion King.  I don’t really recall.

This was a disappointing turn of events.  (Damn straight my friends and I were planning on going–what did you think?)  But oh well, what are you going to do, right?  Wrong.  A bunch of students rose up and swore they were not going to take it.  They put up posters about free speech and censorship and blah blah de blah, and there was a story in the student newspaper, which quoted some English professors saying it was really so silly, as they discussed things in classes that were much more shocking and revolutionary than Henry & June and that this whole incident made the school look like a Mickey Mouse organization–or something.  One professor–the History department chair, actually–was so distressed by the school’s Gestapo tactics that he walked into class with a TV and VCR and showed the offending movie to his Western Civ class, just to “prove a point.”

When I heard about this, I thought a couple things.  First, it wasn’t really fair to those students who paid their tuition on the assumption that they would be learning about Western Civ in their Western Civ class.  Sure, a bunch of them probably thought, “Excellent!  No Greeks and Romans today!”  But others may not have been pleased that they hauled themselves down to the lecture hall just to get an eyeful of Anais Nin’s goodies.  (And not even the real Anais Nin, but someone pretending to be Anais Nin.  And who was Anais Nin, anyway?)  The second thing I thought was, if we regularly discussed shocking and revolutionary things in class, why was it such a big deal that we show Henry & June, which was, after all, so much less consequential than the shocking and revolutionary things we ordinarily preoccupied ourselves with?  It wasn’t as though Henry Miller or Anais Nin appeared anywhere on any of our professors’ syllabi, so how important could it have been for us to know them intimately? 

In other words, I thought it was a whole bunch of silly.  And the silliest part was that these kids were crying “censorship!” when they had no idea how easy they had it.  I confess I waxed a little Grumpy Old Man and told them that this was nothing compared to the oppression my people suffered at BYU, where watching Henry & June in the privacy of your own apartment (which must be university-approved) would probably get you called up on an Honor Code violation–and I never even got to the part where BYU students weren’t allowed to drink ANYWHERE, EVER.  Their heads might have exploded. 

See, I think censorship sucks and all, but what frosts my cupcakes is when people waste moral outrage on issues that are essentially trivial.  If you wanted to go to a college where Residence Life would sponsor screenings of arty sex flicks, maybe you should have gone to a non-religious school.  That you are entitled to watch a particular movie–any movie–as part of your educational experience makes about as much sense as being entitled to play ice hockey in P.E.  Nothing against ice hockey, but did your college have ice hockey and if not, did you protest?  Even if you went to school in Florida?

Moreover, it was not possible to escape the irony of the fact that cancelling Henry & June–which, I reiterate, was a movie sponsored by Residence Life as a recreational activity–at the request of a student (on the basis of it being an inappropriate event for a nice Baptist college to sponsor) resulted in this huge uproar, but when the college incurred the wrath of the VBGB for sponsoring a female minister’s lecture on God and gender, there were crickets chirping.  Probably because she didn’t use any pictures in her presentation.  But also because academic freedom doesn’t inspire the same passion as recreational license. 

Now, probably the BYU students who were upset about missing their Dilbert that week also get upset about some other, consequential stuff that goes on at BYU–stuff actually related to the quality of their educations.  At the same time, lots of people go to BYU so they can live and learn in a Mormon environment and not be bombarded with stuff that offends their religious sensibilities.  These students have a hard enough time with Nietzche and Faulkner.  How crucial is it that they pick up a paper to relax with the news of the day and have their eyeballs seared by a Dilbert Jesus cartoon? 

Perhaps I’m just sympathetic to the editors of the Daily Universe, as I used to work for a newspaper, where my job description entailed fielding calls from readers irate about something they’d read in the funnies.  Those calls were unpleasant and frustrating.  People have strong feelings about the comics.  Also crossword puzzles.  And don’t you dare take away their bridge column.  Oh, no–but I digress.  My point is that I understand why the DU folks decided to just pre-empt the whole controversy, even if they did follow up with a self-serving editorial justifying their decision.  (Hey, I do self-serving stuff myself all the time, so who am I to throw stones?) 

On the other hand, talking about my newspaper experience reminds me that we had a janitor there named Jesus.  Yes, it was pronounced “Hay-Soos,” but let’s be honest–who doesn’t see the name Jesus and read it as “Jesus (not Hay-Soos)”?  Not me.  Which is why it used to amuse me to no end when we’d get messages on the network computers telling us that Jesus would be cleaning the bathrooms between 4 and 5 p.m.  Because that was comedy gold.  I like to think Jesus himself would have appreciated it.  (Either of them.)  But then, I look at these Dilbert comics and I don’t see what the big deal is.  I imagine if Jesus were to pick up the Daily Universe and see these comics, he wouldn’t just stand there somberly with a tear rolling down his face.  He might chuckle at a couple of them, even–in a “heh heh, very well, Scott Adams, touche” kind of way.  But no outright guffawing because eh, they’re just not that funny.  Definitely not worth protesting over, in any respect.

We’re back from the school carnival.  We spent the first hour and a half in the cafeteria, eating overpriced junk food.  Pizza, chips, hot dogs, soda.  It wasn’t that the kids ate so much food, but they took their sweet time with it.  Especially Elvis, who nursed that 12 oz. can of soda so long, I thought the whole shindig would be over before the last drop touched his lips. 

The problem was that we couldn’t have food or drink outside the cafeteria, so we were effectively quarantined there until Elvis decided he was all done.  Of course I understand why they don’t want any food or drink outside the cafeteria on Carnival Day–would you want to clean up after 3,000 people tromped through the building with foodstuffs and little children?–but it was still annoying, especially because Mister Bubby started whining about wanting to go play games, but he refused to go by himself (Princess Zurg having tromped off with a friend about twenty minutes earlier), so we were all stuck there in the cafeteria and I really wanted to scream and/or punch someone.  Not the kids.  Maybe the principal I might have punched, had he walked by, but lucky for him, he did not.

Anyway, my babysitter happened to be at the carnival today.  Her son doesn’t go to MB’s school, but his cub scout troop had a booth at the carnival, so they were working it and decided to stay for fun and games and overpriced junk food.  Her son was the friend PZ had just tromped off with, and she said she’d take MB around to play games while I played the Waiting For Elvis To Finish Drinking His @#&$ Soda game.  Fifteen minutes later Elvis finally agreed to give up the can, and we were allowed to leave the cafeteria.

We walked into the gymnasium, which was full of folks playing various carnival games–you know, the kind that don’t interest any of my children–and when we’d reached the center of the room, Elvis threw up.

Well.  So much for keeping things tidy. 

This is when the principal did show up, but I didn’t punch him because, well, he’s really a pretty nice man, and I was mostly over all that anger over being trapped in the cafeteria with the Slowest Drinker On Earth, and also, I was so freaking happy that Elvis threw up someplace where I didn’t have to clean it up. 

I mean, imagine if he’d gotten sick in my car.  That would have been the worst!  My car’s disgusting to begin with, but adding vomit to the mix, I don’t know, I might have just intentionally driven us into a brick wall, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with it.  If he’d waited until we got home, that wouldn’t have been quite so bad, but he probably wouldn’t have done me the favor of losing it on the linoleum.  He always has to throw up on the carpet.  And this time he probably would have gone all the way upstairs just so he could throw up on the new carpet!  That would have really depressed me. 

So yeah, that was awesome.

The principal assured me that Elvis was not the only child to throw up today.  Which was kind of disappointing, as I rather enjoy the distinction.  Everyone step aside for the Traveling Vomit Show.  Thank you verrah much.

So Elvis and the baby and I went outside for some fresh air.  Elvis immediately spied the bouncers and proceeded to move to the front of the line, but of course I pulled him away.  I am a woman of little shame, but I seem to have just enough to prevent me from putting my kid in an inflatable bouncer thirty seconds after he’s lost his lunch in the most public of places.  He took it surprisingly well.  We played on the jungle gym instead.  Eventually we made our way to the swings.  He seemed to be feeling much better, but I figured if he did get sick again, well, throw-up flying from a swingset would be a new experience for all of us.  And again, it’s not like it was my car.

I could have sworn that trip to the carnival lasted four hours, but we were really only there for two and a half.  I can’t complain, though.  Seriously, he threw up in the school gymnasium.  How lucky can I be?

So yesterday’s visit to the School for Incorrigible Girls went very well.  We visited.  I don’t know if its official description is a “clinical program in an educational setting” or an “educational program in a clinical setting,” but either way, it is what it is.  When you walk in, it just looks like a regular doctor’s office.  That’s because the school is downstairs.  In the basement.  MWAHAHAHAHAHA!  No, it’s not that bad.  There are windows and natural light coming in.  No bars on the windows. 

There is a long corridor with lots of therapists’ offices.  There are two classrooms and there is a common area for full-group activities and a half-gym for PE-type stuff.  The gym looks like a converted chapel, what with its vaulted ceilings and high windows letting in the light from heaven.  The acoustics are…amazing.  I do not want to be there for dodgeball without ear plugs.  They have an art room with a kiln.  A freaking kiln!  No iron maiden, as my husband noted.

Actually, the creepiest thing we saw was the “quiet room,” which, actually, when I think on it, is exactly what a quiet room should be:  a totally blank space where kids can go to de-escalate, without any external stimulation.  There’s no door–and by this, I mean there’s no door, the thing that goes open and shut.  When I mentioned this to a friend of mine, she wondered how the kids got in and out, if they were supposed to climb through a window or something.  No.  There is a doorway, but no door.  So the children are free to come and go; it’s not a check-out-any-time-you-like-but-you-can-never-leave situation.  The walls are totally bare, the carpet an indescript gray, and there’s no furniture.  The walls aren’t padded, but they are reinforced, to keep the kids from kicking holes in them.  (Oh, you look horrified, but that’s exactly what I’d recommend for any quiet room that was housing my child.)  Plexiglass on the windows.  Yes, again, there are windows.  It’s perfectly serene.  No reason it should have given me the willies.  Maybe I just long for a room like that in my own house.  Maybe someday, when we put the addition over the garage.  Ah, dreams.

So the program currently has ten kids total, ages 8-12.  Most of the kids are in the 11-12 range.  Princess Zurg would be one of two nine-year-olds; everyone else is older, including the two girls presently in the program, who are both 12.  (Quoth the director, “One of them is nice.”  Awesome.)  Two or maybe three students have Asperger’s or something similar.  They have a “Rainbow” group for kids on the spectrum.  (PZ likes rainbows–and who doesn’t?)  They have a ridiculously huge staff.  There are more adults than children.  Which I guess isn’t hard to do when you have two teachers, a staff psychiatrist, a clinical psychologist, the program director, and seven interns.  And that’s just for starters.  The academics are very basic–three R’s, not much else.  Maybe an occasional science lesson.  Sugar Daddy asked if they had art, and the director laughed.  They actually have three art therapists on staff, so some kids have art twice a day.  Yes, they have art.  They have a freaking kiln! 

So they have to do an intake evaluation, to see if PZ qualifies for the program.  They have to see just how crazy she is.  Not that these children are crazy, mind you.  Hey, I have a mental illness myself.  I’m being insensitive and tacky, but in that self-consciously ironic way, so don’t judge me, people.  I’m ready to put my child in a psychiatric facility.  I’m just trying to keep it real.

Or maybe I’m trying to keep it unreal.  This is a program for children with “serious psychiatric problems,” which means something different in the educational system than it does in the vernacular.  Apparently.  For the most part this feels like just another alternative placement.  On the other hand, it’s a 45-minute bus ride and we have to account for her whereabouts and goings-on 24/7 and attend family therapy once a week (in freaking Tigard–gaaaah!–am I even capable of saying “Tigard” without the “freaking” prefix?) and the average stay is 18 months.  In 18 months PZ will be in middle school.  I could cry.  That’s what I feel like doing. 

But my mind is not closed.  If anything, after yesterday’s visit, my mind is more open.  Assuming she qualifies, this program is the equivalent of literally tens of thousands of dollars of therapy, all paid for by the school district.  Your tax dollars at work, fellow citizens.  My husband thanks you.  My daughter thanks you.  Her siblings thank you.  And I thank you.

So yeah, that’s where it stands.  We started the paperwork.  We’ll see.  We’ll see.

School started Tuesday.  Today was my first morning getting all three of my school-going kids ready for school by myself.  Mister Bubby’s ride comes at 7:25 a.m.  Elvis’s bus comes at 7:55 a.m.  Princess Zurg’s bus comes at 7:58 a.m.  Tuesday and Wednesday PZ’s bus was running 25-30 minutes late.  Today it showed up on time, which threw me because Elvis’s bus had not shown up yet, nor would it for ten more minutes–not a bad wait, but it’s just that Elvis was ready to go when his sister’s bus got here, but PZ didn’t have her shoes on yet.  To her credit, she was able to get out the door quickly.  She didn’t insist on finishing her breakfast or brushing her teeth.  Ahem.  Of course, her hair was uncombed and she probably had jelly on her face, for all I know, but hey, that stopped being my problem at about 7:59. 

Now it’s just me and the baby, and I can’t believe there aren’t ten things I have to get done in the next five minutes.  We can eat breakfast at a leisurely pace.  I have plenty of time to brush my teeth and comb my own hair, which happens less often than you might think.  Okay, maybe you expect me to have my hair combed less often than I do.  The point is, I fully expect to have combed hair at some point this morning, and that’s a treat.  Yay for basic grooming.

Usually I’m apprehensive at the start of a new school year.  In a way, summer is less stressful because a) I don’t have to wake kids up or have anyone’s hair combed before 8 a.m., and b) I don’t have to field calls from the principal about any “incidents” that may have occurred that day.  Any and all “incidents” happen right before my very eyes in the privacy of my home.  Okay, and occasionally in the grocery store.  This year my major anxiety was finding MB a ride to school, and my husband ended up taking care of that one.  (Thanks, honey.)

I am strangely unworried about PZ this year.  Part of it is that she seems to be responding well to the Zoloft–still crazy, but less volatile.  The other part is I just feel like it’s about stinking time she hit her stride.  This is a ridiculous expectation, of course–kids don’t “hit their stride” just because it’s about stinking time and this foolishness has gone on long enough, missy–they grow and develop at their own pace and of their own free will.  I suppose, technically, that should be “their own paces” and “their own free wills,” but that sounds stupid.  You know, I studied this language in college–English, in case you couldn’t tell–and I even got paid to write in it at one point in my life, but lately I have difficulty stringing more than two words together.  I guess it’s not so much the stringing as what George (H.W.) Bush used to call the “vision thing.”  I have a vision of my words making sense and not sounding stupid, but I have difficulty conveying this vision to the American people.  Also the Canadians.  But I digress.

Where was I?  Oh, yes–I know that this expectation is ridiculous, but it’s there, nonetheless.  It’s deep in me.  I can’t seem to purge myself of it.  I must be tired.  How much longer can this stage of life go on?  We had an IEP meeting for her last week.  I realized as I was going to it that I had no idea what this meeting was supposed to be about.  We don’t usually have IEP meetings before school begins.  Well, it turned out that the meeting was to discuss the possibility of alternative placement for PZ, who had an extremely rough fourth quarter in third grade, and the rest of the team was wondering if maybe the Social Communication Center classroom was not the best place for her after all.  The SCC is basically the end of the line for autistic students in our district, so what did they have in mind?  A clinical day program in freaking Tigard.  They would have bused her, but still–Tigard!  (Have you gathered yet that Tigard is a little removed from our neighborhood?  Does it seem strange that my first reaction was “Tigard!” and not “Clinical day program!”?) 

You know, we’d discussed the possibility at May’s IEP meeting–in very general terms–of considering alternate placements outside the district, should things not “work out” (I’m giggling here) in her current placement.  The district liason told me at the time that she’d like to start researching the possibilities, and I said she could knock herself out because what else could I say?  I’d learned not to close my mind to anything, and anyway, I figured we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.  I really didn’t expect that the bridge would come to be on August 29, a week before school started.  I kind of expected that we’d begin the school year by giving the current placement the old college try and hoping for the best.  I didn’t think we’d be discussing clinical day programs in Tigard–or anywhere.  Not to worry, she’d be able to stay in her current placement for the two or three weeks it took to process the paperwork.  Well, that’s nice.  If they were serious, why didn’t they research this possibility before the meeting in May and have us file the paperwork then?  Does it really seem like a bright idea to put her back in school in a familiar environment with her friends and then rip her out of it after two or three weeks to send her to freaking Tigard?

Fortunately, I was sleepy that day and didn’t have the energy to respond with what I was thinking, which was, “AAAAAAUUUUUUUGHHHHH!”  Instead, I calmly stated that I would prefer to hold off on that decision and give PZ another chance to succeed in her current placement.  I didn’t say it in such a coherent fashion, no, but I was calm, and that was the important thing.  They said, “Okey-dokey” (I’m paraphrasing), and we all signed the IEP and scheduled a meeting for September 27, at which time we’d revisit the proposal.  I should have felt relieved–or rather, I thought I should feel relieved–but I actually just felt sick.  Sure, in my hours of deepest despair I’d considered all kinds of “alternative placements” for PZ, but it didn’t seem possible that it would come to this.  Is my child really that out of control?  Is she really one of those children?  Am I that much in denial?  Are things this much out of my control?

Unfortunately, I don’t have time for introspection because the baby has opened the box of tampons and is disassembling them.  Gentle reader, adieu.

From the Associated Press:

COLORADO SPRINGS, Colo. -

An elementary school has banned tag on its playground after some children complained they were harassed or chased against their will.

“It causes a lot of conflict on the playground,” said Cindy Fesgen, assistant principal of the Discovery Canyon Campus school.

Running games are still allowed as long as students don’t chase each other, she said.

Fesgen said two parents complained to her about the ban but most parents and children didn’t object.

In 2005, two elementary schools in the nearby Falcon School District did away with tag and similar games in favor of alternatives with less physical contact. School officials said the move encouraged more students to play games and helped reduce playground squabbles.

This story reminds me of something I’ve been wanting to write about for a long time, except that other issues–such as the upcoming presidential election, Mormon movies, and the weather–have been preoccupying me. 

OUR neighborhood school banned tag.  Princess Zurg came home from first grade and informed us that there was a rule against “chasing.”  I thought she must mean that there was a rule against unwanted chasing.  Because surely they still let children play games, like tag.  No, she said, all chasing games were against the rules.  This really bothered me at the time, but I never complained about it because I was too busy complaining about their inadequate accommodations for disabled students.  I just had to shrug my shoulders and say, “Oh well, paranoid public schools,” and make a mental note to find other opportunities for my children to engage in such innocuous activities. 

Then Mister Bubby came home from kindergarten and said there was a “no running” rule.  Even Princess Zurg–who didn’t have much of a problem with the “no chasing” rule because it was, after all, a safety issue (you can never be too careful)–was incredulous.  “You mean there’s no chasing,” she said.  “You can run, just not chase.”

“No,” MB said, “you can’t run OR chase.”

“Maybe that’s a rule just for kindergarteners,” she said. 

“No, it’s a rule for the whole school,” he insisted.

I was incredulous myself.  But again, I was preoccupied with other issues, so while I was certainly upset in the philosophical sense, I could not spare any moral outrage on behalf of tag, especially since MB seemed to be taking the whole thing in stride.  But even if it doesn’t bother my kids, it still bothers me, for one simple reason:

IT’S TAG!

I understand that some children don’t like to be chased.  Some kids are okay with being chased at some times and not at other times.  Some kids are a little too aggressive with their chasing.  Sometimes when you “tag” someone, you might be overzealous and maybe hit them.  You might trip.  You might trip someone else.  I understand all the risks.  I just don’t understand the remedy.

Just how often children have to be hospitalized for tag injuries?  I’m sure there are freak occurrences, like two kids run into each other head on and one of them gets a concussion, maybe even sustains some brain damage.  I would not put that outside the realm of possibility.  Someone could trip over a tree root and break a bone, maybe.  Someone with a heart condition maybe shouldn’t play tag.  I don’t know.

But safety concerns apparently aren’t the issue in Colorado Springs, where they banned tagged after some students complained about being chased against their will.

Here’s an idea:  why don’t you make a rule about not playing tag with people who don’t want to play tag?  “Only willing participants may play tag.”  That sounds like a good rule to me.  A little more complicated than “no running.”  A little more nuance than some school-age children are prepared to deal with.  But here’s another idea:  why don’t we stop micromanaging children’s games altogether?  Not that recess should be some Lord of the Flies free-for-all.  But would a tiny step in that direction be such a bad thing?

I’m totally against bullying and harassment.  When I was in grade school, one of the boys in my class and his buddy used to throw rocks at me on the way home from school.  That was uncool.  Okay, they weren’t big rocks, and they weren’t aiming at my head, but still, it was annoying.  That’s what I recall thinking at the time.  “This is annoying.  I’d like to walk home without having rocks thrown at me.  I wish they’d go do something else and leave me alone.”  And yes, I was ignoring them.  I’ve always been good at ignoring people, or at least pretending to ignore them.  But they still kept throwing rocks at me, and I was still annoyed.  So I told my mother, and since we didn’t know the boys’ parents, my mother talked to the principal.  The principal talked to the boys’ parents, and the parents punished the boys.  (I’d like to point out that at no time were the police or the district attorney’s office involved.  Shocking, I know.)  The boys were reasonably annoyed with me for getting them in trouble, but they didn’t throw any more rocks at me.  I wish I could say we all became good friends and that I eventually married one of them, but that would be a fiction.  (I’m sure SD threw some rocks at girls in his youth, too, but that’s neither here nor there.)  We didn’t stay enemies, either.  We lived happily ever after in mutual indifference to one another, which was just fine with me.

See, that’s an incident of harassment that didn’t even occur on school property, yet the school did, I think, play an appropriate role.  As far as I know, the boys never received any school discipline, which was fine, because none of this occurred during school hours or on school grounds.  If they were throwing rocks at me at recess, I would have expected them to get, I don’t know, detention or something.  Have to stand in a corner or clap erasers or something.  Write “I will not stone innocent bystanders” a thousand times.  How did they punish us in elementary school?  I don’t know, I was always a perfect angel.  But I digress.  That was then.  Nowadays I’d expect that maybe the whole student body would be barred from walking home without an adult escort.  Because nowadays the world is crazy.

At PZ’s school they are not allowed to pick up sticks.  I assume this is because they don’t want anyone hitting or poking others with sticks, or running and tripping and accidentally impaling themselves with sticks.  (As far as PZ knows, kids are still allowed to run at her school.)  That makes sense.  I can understand telling a youngster who’s running with a stick, “Hey, stop running with that stick!  You could trip and fall and impale yourself!”  I can also understand telling youngsters who appear to be engaging in a mock sword fight with sticks, “Hey, put down those sticks, you could poke each other’s eyes out!”  (I’m not saying that I would be so uptight, mind you, but a reasonable amount of uptightness is tolerable, I think.)  I definitely understand telling a youngster who’s beating another youngster with a stick, “Hey, stop beating that other kid with a stick!  And get thee to a principal’s office, go!”  That is all reasonable stuff.

Telling a kid that she can’t pick up a stick to write in the dirt or build a home for the ants or some other non-violent act seems a little…excessive. 

I don’t tell PZ this is a dumb rule, and I don’t complain about it, because I understand why these rules are made.  I do.  It’s the same reason I end up screaming at my kids, “Aaaughhhhh!  That’s it!  No more talking!  No more touching!  No sounds!  Only breathing!”  It’s simpler than saying, “No screaming, yelling, teasing, whining or threatening!” and “No hitting, kicking, poking, scraping, or smashing!” and “No fake flatulence!”  It’s also simpler to say, “No picking up sticks.”  “No fighting with sticks” and “no running with sticks” and “no striking menacing poses with sticks” is unnecessarily complex. 

Likewise, “No playing tag” is simple.  “No running” is even simpler.  But isn’t there a better way to deal with children’s conflicts?  Something that doesn’t suck all the fun out of childhood?

Just wondering.

In the old days–say, two or three weeks ago–I would chase Elvis around the house all day in a vain attempt to stop him from climbing on the stove, spraying all available kitchen surfaces with PAM, flooding the bathroom, turning off the pilot light on the furnace, hosing down the living room, playing shuffleboard with the DVD’s, dumping yogurt on the carpet, etc., until he finally got tired of me thwarting his master plan and settled down on the couch to watch Monsters, Inc. for the millionth time.  Today, I have been running around the house in a vain attempt to stop him from doing all these things, PLUS my vain attempts to stop him from filling and refilling (no emptying required) the little bottle of soy sauce with the contents of the big-industrial-sized bottle of soy sauce and also diluting aforementioned (big bottle of) soy sauce by holding it under a running sink faucet (it must be full, mother!  it must be full!), but so far he has not gotten tired enough to watch a movie.  Not even if I ask nicely.  You see, the good news is that Elvis isn’t into watching movies anymore. 

That’s also the bad news. 

Some other bad news is that he has replaced his Monsters, Inc. habit with a popsicle habit. 

It takes much less time to eat a popsicle than it does to watch Monsters, Inc.  Even those slow-melting kind.

I am tired and would like to watch a movie now.

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Tomorrow morning I have an IEP meeting, the purpose of which is a “manifestation determination” for Princess Zurg.  Sounds grandiose, doesn’t it?  It makes you think of Manifest Destiny, right?  It’s not like that at all.  What it means is we all sit around and determine if the negative behaviors PZ is exhibiting are a manifestation of her disability–or if, alternatively, she is just having a really bad…decade.  If the behaviors are determined to be a manifestation of her disability, we re-visit the topic of placement.  I can tell you people that I have visited the topic of placement so many times that I feel like I should just leave a toothbrush and a change of clothes over there.  The last time we had a manifestation determination, she ended up at her current school, in the self-contained classroom.  Which is what her old school wanted all along, so whew, that was finally over.  But now that she’s in the self-contained classroom, there’s really nowhere else for her to go from here.  To my knowledge, the district does not have a School for Wayward Girls.  So I really don’t know what to expect at tomorrow’s meeting.  I’m going to be doing this one solo because Sugar Daddy has to go to work.  (”Oh, I’m SD, I have five dependents to support, I’m already taking the afternoon off to take Elvis to his therapy, blah blah…”)  I haven’t done a solo IEP meetingin at least a year.  SD and I like to play good-cop/bad-cop at these things, but when I’m there alone, I tend to just play pushover-cop.  Or, alternatively, having-a-nervous-breakdown-cop.  I’m very good in both those roles, but they don’t give Oscars for either of them.  It’s like voice-over work.  No one cares how much effort you put into it.  It appears that my metaphor has surrendered to entropy.  I must start a new paragraph.

You all should know that PZ is being sent home from school for hitting staff members.  Students are, quite properly, not allowed to do that.  They have to be suspended if they hit staff (or, presumably, anyone).  So as the principal was telling me yesterday, they’re sorry to call me down there when it’s so inconvenient, but they just really can’t have her hitting the staff.  Which is so thoroughly, totally reasonable.  I have no argument with that principle (or the principal, for that matter).  I just wonder how I could make this a consistent-discipline issue.  You know, so there’s reinforcement at home that supports what they do at school.  I’m always getting the impression that I am simply too permissive and that PZ will never learn to control her aggressive tendencies so long as I fail to provide appropriate consequences for her actions.  Do you think that the next time she hits someone at home, I should kick her out of the house?  Call the cops on her, maybe?  “Sorry, officers, I know you have burglaries and illegal lane-changes to investigate, in addition to being short on jail beds, but I just can’t have her hitting the staff.”  Hm.  Maybe there’s nothing I can learn here.

I assure you that I am not being sarcastic.  I am simply musing out loud.  You see, I’m at the end of my rope, but unlike in the school’s case, I can’t send out for more rope.  Believe me, I’ve looked into institutionalization.  It seems that is frowned upon these days. 

There is all this pressure to put PZ on medication–and it’s not wrong to put one’s child on medication, if she or he needs medication.  I want my child to be successful.  I am, in fact, much more personally invested in that scenario than anyone else I’ve met thusfar.  So I am not opposed to some pharmaceutical support–or as they say in education-ese, “the pharmaceutical piece.”  (Good lord, the principal said “piece” yesterday, and I thought I would deck her–and I wasn’t even angry, it was totally Pavlovian.)  Anyway, as I was saying, I have already gone down the pharmaceutical road.  We’ve tried a couple of different medications.  What they don’t tell you, or what I wasn’t prepared for, is that once you’ve succumbed to the pressure to put your child on drugs, there is the whole new pressure to get your child on a drug that will work instantly and not cause any additional problems.  The last drug we had PZ on appeared to make her more aggressive.  We don’t really know if it was the drug or not because there were so many variables at play, but I was not getting the message that it would be okay to give the drug time to build up in her system and know for sure one way or the other if it was working.  Because she was hitting the staff, you see.  And if she hits the staff, she can’t be at school.  But she has to be at school.  Because if she doesn’t go to school, she won’t get the benefits of school-going.  So she must go to school and not hit the staff, and I must find the magic happy pill that will make it happen, post haste. 

It isn’t that PZ’s teacher or principal or anyone really expects me to perform the aforementioned miracle–or rather, they would certainly deny having such an expectation, because it is obviously ridiculous.  But the pressure, I assure you, is there.  It ain’t going anywhere.  (Sort of like PZ’s behavior plan.)

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For those of you who care…

1.  My father’s surgery went very well.  He’s expected to make a full recovery.  He has to use a walker for the next six weeks, something he finds humiliating, but at least it will keep him off the scooter for the time being. 

2.  Our anniversary was lovely.  We went to the fanciest restaurant of our restaurant-going career.  It was not as fancy as the fanciest restaurant of my solo career, which was when I went to the Rainbow Room in New York–on a friend’s expense account, I assure you.  I didn’t like the Rainbow Room.  It made me feel like scum.  And I didn’t think the food was all that.  But food tastes worse when you’re scum.  By contrast, the food at this Portland fancy-restaurant was worth every freaking penny–and we were paying for it ourselves!  I was also slightly more at ease in that atmosphere than at the Rainbow Room.  Probably because this was Portland, where even the rich are really laid-back.  Also, the wait staff was wonderful–although I remained quite convinced that they were better than I was, I didn’t feel like scum in their presence.  A good time was had by all. 

Dear School,

If you KNOW you are sending my daughter home for the day and that I am making the half-hour round trip in the 55 minutes I have between putting one of my sons on one bus and the other son on another bus, could you at the very LEAST have her EFFING READY TO LEAVE WHEN I GET THERE instead of making me walk down to her classroom to get all her effing stuff while carrying a squirming toddler?  Are you really so very busy that you can’t do me this little favor so I can get home in time to feed my other son lunch before he has to go to school?  Would you please document this busy-ness for me?  Thank you.

X’s & O’s,

Madhousewife

One of the things Princess Zurg does not like about her new school is that they have “so many stupid rules.”  Her own classroom, which is specifically designed to meet the needs of students on the autism spectrum, certainly has an appropriate level of structure.  It does seem, though, that the program and the school in general have more rules than her old school did.  PZ complains that there are “a million rules” and you can “hardly do anything.”  She has a tendency to exaggerate.  But part of me thinks she may have a valid grievance.

They do indeed sem to have rules about everything.  No talking during lunch.  No chasing during recess.  No holding hands.  No picking up sticks.  I can understand the rationale behind all of these rules.  The lunchroom gets too noisy.  Chasing can lead to injury (quelle horreur!), as can sticks.  Hand-holding is not always desired.  However, I can’t help but think back on my own elementary school years and realize that we didn’t have any of these rules.  I’m sure my elementary school was chaos by today’s standards.  The lunchroom was always loud.  Sometimes they even had to tell us to keep it down.  Occasionally children were hurt on the playground.  Once an ambulance had to come because a girl tried to do a “death drop” from the monkey bars and nearly broke her neck.  (To my knowledge, no one was chasing her.)  It wasn’t common, but hand-holding between classmates (of the same sex) did occur.  Looking back, it’s a wonder we all survived.  But then, look at what a screwed-up world we live in now.

I don’t want to tell the teachers and administrators their business.  They have to work there, and I don’t.  So I support their rules, even the ones I think are a tad excessive, because PZ has to learn to respect authority, even when she disagrees with it.  I know that sounds like a soul-crushing life lesson, fit for breeding mindless automatons instead of vibrant, dynamic human beings, but, you know, whatever keeps these vibrant, dynamic human beings off the streets, I can live with. 

I’m not entirely serious.

But this much is true:  to get ahead in life, i.e. to mature and reach one’s potential, one can’t be constantly rebelling.  Where ethics and morality are not concerned, it is frequently a good idea to just suck it up and follow some stupid rules.  I want my kids to be productive members of society, and if PZ stays on her current trajectory, questioning authority every time it asks her to blow her nose, she’s going to end up spending her adult life living in our attic, eating undercooked microwavable entrees and voting for third-party candidates.  I’d like her to reach the point when she can be faced with a stupid rule and just roll her eyes and move right along because there’s nothing to see here.  That’s instead of throwing her body down on the cafeteria floor and being dragged back to the Quiet Area whilst proclaiming that just like a tree that’s standing by the water, she shall not be moved.  That just doesn’t help anyone.  Particularly not the person who has to make a half-hour round trip to pick her up from school because there will be No Learning Today–namely, me.

I speak as one with a high threshhold of tolerance for being put down by the Man, except when it really inconveniences me.

Nevertheless, when it comes to rules, I hail from the Less Is More school.  At home the two great laws are 1) No hurting other people, and 2) Do what Mom says.  For a while we had a rule about not leaving Barbie dolls lying around the house naked, but it doesn’t enjoy the prominence that it once did.  (When I was growing up, my parents’ big rule was “No singing at the table.”  I never understood that rule, until I had children of my own and they got to a certain singing age, but I still haven’t implemented it in my own household.  I think that as long as singing is my biggest problem, I’m doing okay.)  In other words, I like to leave my options open.  When it makes sense to prohibit something, I prohibit it, but I establish boundaries.  Don’t interrupt while Mom and Dad are talking.  Do interrupt if Elvis is in the garage dumping out the food storage or setting himself on fire.  You see, there is nuance there.  I could have a strict “No interrupting” rule, but that can lead to children throwing up in the hot tub at the Disneyland hotel (a cautionary tale, from an old acquaintance, which I have taken to heart). 

Put another way:  Don’t pick up sticks if you’re going to hit your brother with them.  Do pick up sticks if you’re engaging in a non-violent play scenario.  To the untrained eye, this looks like flip-flopping, I know.  “I was in favor of the sticks before I was against them.”  But what I’m trying to teach is that context matters.  True, if you never pick up a stick, you will never hit anyone with it.  But where’s the room for kids to practice using their own judgment?  For exercising self-restraint?  I sense sometimes that the biggest problem PZ has with all these rules is that they assume a worst-case scenario.  If you talk, you will be loud.  If you pick up a stick, pretty soon everyone will be running around with sticks and either hitting each other or poking their own eyes out.  If you take someone’s hand, it will inevitably result in a global crisis of unwanted touching. 

I’m sure I exaggerate the fears of school officials, who are after all just trying to maintain some order.  Goodness knows I appreciate the need for order.  I also appreciate the need for students to just shut up and eat and play with the authorized equipment and stop touching each other.  But I also see it from PZ’s point of view, that she’s being micro-managed and the only concept she’s generalizing is that adults are hysterical party-poopers, so why should she buy into any of their philosophy? 

I’m frequently in the position of assuring PZ’s classroom teacher that we do not let her run amok at home, nor do we undermine other adults’ authority.  I share that we’ve informed PZ that she has to obey all of the rules, even the ones that don’t make sense to her.  That isn’t good enough for her teacher because, as she explains to me, one of the most important things they do there is teach the kids that there are good reasons they ask them to do/not do certain things.  The implication–I guess–is that I shouldn’t be admitting that adults sometimes issue arbitrary fiats.  I may have failed to discourage my kids’ belief in Santa Claus, and I still put money under their pillows in exchange for lost baby teeth, but I’m not about to shoot my credibility all to hell by insisting that adults and their rules are always reasonable.  I just tell PZ that she’ll have a much better chance of adults listening to her point of view when she demonstrates respect for them.  She’s not buying that theory yet, but she’s still young.

So today marks the first day of TV Turn-off Week, and my children’s school is again pressuring us to observe this period of Lent by sending home their little slips of paper whereupon we should mark the days our child(ren) do not watch television and which we mustn’t forget to turn in to the school at the end of the week so that…actually, I forget why we need to turn it back in.  There might be some kind of certificate involved.  Whatever.  It isn’t that I disdain the worthy goal of watching less (or no) television.  I think television is a cesspool.  It’s degraded our culture and our public discourse.  All people, including myself, should watch less television, except for those people who are already watching no television.  They should continue to watch the same amount of television, i..e. none, because it’s impossible to watch less than none.  Unless twenty minutes of vigorous aerobic activity counts as less than none, in which case they should do that, too.  Unless they have a physical impairment that prevents them from engaging in aerobic activity, in which case they should read a book or switch to diet soda or something.  I don’t care.

Obviously, TV Turn-off Week is not mandatory.  It’s merely a suggestion, coming from the the folks at the Center for Screen-Time Awareness–an enthusiastic, guilt-inducing suggestion, sure, but you know me, I have no problem with guilt trips, even when they’re laid on thick, even when they’re laid on me.  Guilt is a powerful motivator.  (Also underrated:  Fear of Hellfire.)  I don’t think certificates do much of anything, but I guess I’m not opposed to those, either–except all that paperwork does have an environmental impact, so never mind.  Screw certificates!  This is what bugs me–and I admit that it’s pretty lame, as irritants go, but here it is anyway:

It’s all well and good for the school to throw its support behind TV Turn-off Week, but I wish there were more to it than merely not participating in one particular activity (make that “activity”).  It’s always good to abstain from TV, but I don’t know that it does much good to make a big deal out of abstaining from TV unless you take note of how the abstinence affects how you live.  I’d prefer it if they asked kids to write down what they do with their time during a typical week, then ask them to do it again during TV Turn-off Week (when, theoretically, they would not be watching any–or as much–TV).  That would make it seem like more of a learning experience rather than just another deprivation.  As it is, I’m somewhat annoyed by the “rules” of the game (according to the literature our school gave us).  Nothing on a television set is kosher, be it broadcast or videotape/DVD or whatever.  Movies watched in a movie theater are okay, though–not because big-screen-movie-watching is any less passive than little-screen-movie-watching, but because this is TV Turn-off Week, not Movie Theater Avoidance Week.  As for video games and recreational computer usage goes, “Ask your parents.”  Oh, you bet they will.

So my son already hates this idea, which is funny because he doesn’t watch that much television in the first place.  Just telling him he can’t do something, though, makes him want to do it more.  Then there’s Elvis, who, while he’s certainly cut down on his Monsters, Inc. habit, still has to watch some little-screen entertainment during the day or I will go freaking nuts.  (He doesn’t play video games or use computers recreationally, and taking him to a movie theater would be Missing The Point Entirely.)  To be sure, his Non-TV-Watching Activity Log would be sport lots of interesting pastimes, most of them involving sharp objects, sticky food substances, and that giant mudhole in the backyard–but as the responsible adult in the house, I take the liberty of deciding when his dance card is full, if you catch my meaning.

Anyway, I think TV Turn-off Week is more properly observed during May sweeps.  People who turn their TV’s off in April are wusses!

But all their works they do for to be seen of men: they make broad their phylacteries, and enlarge the borders of their garments,–Matthew 23:5

Yesterday was our first IEP meeting since Princess Zurg started at her new school.  Not having secured childcare for that afternoon, I was not able to attend personally, but Sugar Daddy reported that it went “swimmingly,” and for the first time he feels that we are all on the same page, and most importantly, that the teacher finally “gets” PZ.  Which is no small feat, so kudos to her. 

It may well be that we just needed time for all these problems to sort themselves out, but I can’t help suspecting that a contributing factor to yesterday’s success was the fact that I wasn’t there.  It reminds me of a conversation I had with my friend a couple weeks ago.

Friend:  So you weren’t in church on Sunday.

Mad:  No, I was home with the sick baby.

Friend:  Your children were extremely well-behaved.

Mad:  Were they?

Friend:  I think SD gave them all gum to keep them quiet.  It was amazing.

Mad:  He gives them gum every week.  I think they were only good this time because I wasn’t there.  I seem to bring out the worst in my kids.

Friend:  Maybe so.

Mad:  I should stay home from church every week.

Friend:  I don’t know about that.

Mad:  I should move out of the house altogether, now that I think of it.

Friend:  No, that’s too extreme.  The Madhousehold would not be nearly as enjoyable without the Mad part of it.

Mad:  Perhaps.

Friend:  You are too wanted and needed.

Mad:  Well, I am wanted.  I don’t really know about needed, but I’m definitely wanted.

What’s the point?  None.  It’s a boring story.  I just thought that considering all the time I’ve spent complaining about horrible IEP meetings, I should be sure to mention when they go well.  And explain my trepidation about attending the next one.

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Speaking of conversations…

Mister Bubby asserts his manly side

Mister Bubby:  I hate pink. 

Princess Zurg:  Why do you hate pink?  Pink is beautiful.

MB:  No, it isn’t.  It’s ugly.  I don’t want any pink in my house.

PZ:  Well…soon, maybe, you’ll get married to a girl and you’ll have to be around pink things.

MB:  No.  I’m not getting married.

PZ:  You’re not?

MB:  No.  Never.

PZ:  But don’t you want to have children?

MB:  Yes.

PZ:  Well, you can’t have children unless you get married.

MB:  Maybe I’ll adopt some children.

PZ:  But who will take care of them while you’re at work?

MB:  I know.  Maybe I’ll get a babysitter to take care of them until I get home from work.

Giraffemom:  Don’t you think your children might like to have a mom who lives with them all the time?

MB:  Hmm…Maybe I won’t have children.

PZ:  You won’t have any children?

GM:  I think MB would be a good dad.  He should have children.

MB:  I know.  Maybe I will get married, but I’ll only marry a sporty girl who doesn’t like pink.

PZ:  But what if you fall in love with someone really glamorous?

Mister Bubby on Outer Space

MB:  Mommy, they kicked Pluto out of our solar system.  Did you know that?

GM:  Well, they decided Pluto isn’t really a planet.  They didn’t actually kick Pluto out.  That would be kind of hard to do.

MB:  They’d have to blow it up, wouldn’t they?

GM:  That would be one way.

MB:  I have a good idea.  If a planet is full of bad guys, they can just blow the planet up.

GM:  I guess…if only bad guys lived there…but…

MB:  That would be a fun job, wouldn’t it?

GM:  Blowing up planets?

MB:  Yes.

GM:  I hope you don’t blow us up, MB.

MB:  I won’t.

GM:  Thanks for that.

Mister Bubby on Career Options

Mister Bubby:  These glasses give me super powers!

Princess Zurg:  What kind of super hero are you going to be?

MB:  I’m going to be a mutant.  When I grow up, will you make me some wings?

PZ:  Well–I could make you some wings, but I don’t think you’d be able to really fly.

MB:  Maybe I’ll be a walking superhero.

So I found out this afternoon that Princess Zurg’s class will be performing in the school talent show.  The letter home says they ”will be performing the dance, ‘YMCA.’” 

I’m reminded of my first job out of high school.  My boss was a very nice woman in her forties.  She had many stories.  One day, out of nowhere, she told me how she didn’t realize the Village People were gay until her (then-)husband told her.  Even now she wasn’t sure whether she ought to believe it or if the man was just messing with her. “But he said they were all just as queer as a three-dollar bill,” said she, and then she shrugged in a go figure sort of way.  I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.  Then we probably went back to work.

It’s a sign of me being old and square, I guess, that I can’t quite get my head around the fact that there are grown-up people walking around today who weren’t even born when this song came out (ha–get it?) and countless others for whom it has no significance other than being a really fun song to dance to.  That’s what I keep telling myself.  Seriously, who can resist the “YMCA”?  Especially when you don’t sit around and…think about it at all.

But I’m supposed to send a costume to school for my child.  The aforementioned letter says that “the costume can really be anything–fireman, policeman, baseball player, ballerina, etc.”  And it’s not like I want to be a fuddy-duddy stick-in-the-mud or anything, but how am I supposed to mentally disassociate from the Village People when a bunch of 8- and 9-year-old boys (and my daughter) are dressed as policemen and ballerinas?  At least no one will be wearing the Indian chief feathers.  This is Portland, after all.

Now that I’ve had a whole weekend to calm down, I’d like to bring some clarity to the moral outrage of my previous post.First of all, thanks for all the supportive comments.  You all give me more sympathy than is probably deserved, but I know you only spoil me because you love me.

I do not think that Princess Zurg’s teacher is an idiot.  I have met very few idiots in the public school system.  I’ve met people who are rigid, condescending, dishonest, and ineffectual–and a few who could use a seventh grade English refresher–but not idiots.  For the record, I don’t feel that PZ’s current teacher–or any of her former teachers (well, except maybe one…)–were any of those pejorative terms I just used, either.  I am inclined to give individuals the benefit of the doubt–not by nature, but because experience has too often found me on the receiving end of no such benefit.  I feel more frustrated by the culture of school and the institutionalized stupidity therein than I do with the well-intentioned professionals who work with children, especially those who work with special-needs children. 

PZ’s teacher has many years of experience working with autistic children.  She seems like a very nice lady.  I don’t wish to assign her a host of demerits based on my limited interaction with her.  But there are limits to my tolerance, especially after those limits have been tested ad nauseum over three years and I get the distinct impression that I won’t be taken seriously until my child’s behavior proves me worthy of respect.

I understand that these people have hard jobs.  I myself have a hard job, so I think I can relate.  I also appreciate that they’ve been trained and have experience with up to hundreds of students.  This understanding, coupled with my natural tendency toward self-flagellation, has historically prevented me from advocating my daughter’s interests as vigorously as I should.  If my daughter was having problems in school, it couldn’t be the fault of all these nice, well-trained individuals who have made careers of helping children.  It had to be my fault.  If I had done my job properly, she would be succeeding.  Since she was not succeeding, I had obviously failed.

Neither attitude–blame the teachers or blame the parents–is terribly healthy or productive.  We all ought to be cooperating for the common goal of my child’s success in school.  After almost four years, I’m very familiar with the concept.  It’s a beautiful theory, but in practice this is just not how things work.  In practice, the teachers are almost always cast as the reasonable experts, and parents are hysterics in denial.  We have to be dealt with patiently.  Our parenting is only as good as our daughter’s performance.  Of course there are lousy parents out there, and teachers have to work with such parents all the time.  Blah blah.  I understand.  But I am tired of not getting the benefit of the doubt, when I (and my husband) have obviously put forth so much effort toward the Common Goal.

These people are not strangers to my daughter’s case file.  Before she started attending this new school, my husband and I sat down with these people and wrote a behavior plan–a behavior plan which was pretty much ignored in this instance, incidentally.  I was about to say that was a separate issue, but it’s really not.  Unfortunately we are used to having our input ignored or discounted.  Our opinions seem to be valid only insofar as they reflect what the well-intentioned professionals have been trying to ram through our thick skulls all this time. 

I admit that I was in a highly irritated state as soon as I realized that I’d have to drive down to the school just so my daughter could be suspended for ten whole minutes that day.  (I found out later that the behavior-that-shall-not-be-tolerated-even-for-ten-more-minutes-of-school actually started two and a half hours before I received the fateful phone call.  Riddle me that, Batman.)  That probably made me less in the mood to listen to a lecture on my least favorite topic:  how I, the parent, am sabotaging my child’s success in school and life.

Believe me, kids, I have been fielding unsolicited advice long enough to know the difference between just-trying-to-help and just-trying-to-compensate-for-your-parental-shortcomings.  I don’t believe for a minute that the insults are intentional, or that the advice doesn’t come from a well-meaning place.  I no longer speak to my step-mother about my children’s difficulties because every conversation would become a well-intentioned referendum on me and what I was not doing to help the child in question.  “Problem X [Y, Z, or Q] is a very serious problem.  It’s so important that you solve this problem.  I know it’s hard for you, but you have to do it for her [or his] own good.”  And the pièce de résistance:  “You’ve got to be the parent.”

Here’s a news flash for you, lady:  I’m not the one confused about who the parent is.

My step-mother loves my children.  She’s emotionally invested in their welfare.  (And mine, too, for that matter.)  Her concern comes from a good, sincere place–but what comes out of her mouth belies her protests that she only wants to help.  What comes out of her mouth is the implicit message that I care less about my children than she does, and the reason I care less is that I’m too lazy to do the hard work of parenting.  And that was the implicit message coming out of the teacher’s mouth last week.  No, I’m sure it wasn’t what she “meant.”  The thing is, though, that if you don’t mean it, you’ve really got to stop saying it.  And if you’re not going to stop saying it, don’t be offended if I stop humbly taking it.

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Just a couple of addendums–or is that addenda?  addendi?  eh, whatever–PZ did not hit another student.  She hit an instructional aide.  NOT that hitting an instructional aide–or anyone–is okay, but I think it’s important to differentiate between aggression toward peers and aggression toward authority figures (whichever you happen to think is more serious).  PZ never hits other students.  (Why would she?  What did they ever do to her?)  There’s always a first time, of course, but it hasn’t happened yet.I’ve already forgotten what the other addendum was, so I’ll have to get back to you on that.  I’m sure it will come to me eventually. UPDATE:  It just came to me.  I was going to say that overall PZ’s new placement has been very good for her and we remain optimistic about her future there.  I’m trying very hard not to overreact, which is why I blogged my frustrations rather than taking them out (fully–heh heh) on the teacher.  I feel that I am entitled to a little hysteria in private.  I figure that’s what you all read me for, anyway.

…you get a phone call from your daughter’s school, and it’s her classroom teacher telling you she’s getting sent home for the day for hitting.

Me (noting that it is 2:20 p.m. and Mister Bubby is getting out of kindergarten in 10 minutes and PZ’s school, which is 15 minutes away, gets out a half hour after that):  I have to pick my son up from school, so the earliest I could get there is…pretty close to 3. 

Teacher:  So effing what?

Okay, so she didn’t say, “So effing what?” in so many words.  What she said was…

Teacher:  … [complete silence] …

And I just read into that so effing what.  So I said, “Okay, I’ll come get her.”  And then the teacher proceeded to “explain” why PZ had to leave school.  It was because she’s not allowed to hit at school.  PZ thinks she can hit at school, and she just can’t and she has to learn that.

Me:  Yes.  I understand.

Teacher:  What PZ thinks she can do and what she actually is allowed to do…do not meet.

Me:  No.  No, they don’t.

Teacher (for the dozenth time):  But she can’t hit at school.  She thinks she can hit at school, but we can’t allow her to hit at school.  She should never hit anyone at any time.

Me:  Yes.  Well.  I think I understand that.

Teacher:  [What she said before, on continuous loop]

So I pick up MB and we drive straight to PZ’s school.  When I arrive, it is 2:50, ten minutes from dismissal time.  Is my daughter who is too-dangerous-for-school waiting for me in the office, or some other undisclosed location?  No.  She is in class.  (I would learn later on that she never left class.)  The secretary calls down to the classroom for her dismissal. 

PZ and her teacher meet me in the hallway.  Teacher hands me an envelope which supposedly contains the paperwork from today’s incident.  She again explains why PZ is being sent home.  (For those of you who haven’t been paying attention, it’s because she hit people, and she’s not allowed to hit people in school.  She cannot be allowed to hit anyone, ever.  Not at school, not at home.  Here, let me show you her helpful diagram–it really clarified things for me:

HITTING = NOT ALLOWED

Fig. 1.1

Since I had left the other children in the car, I was kind of hoping to get out of there quickly, which was not happening, so I decided to interrupt her detailed explanation and say, “I’m sorry, but is this for my benefit?”

Teacher:  Well, what we try to do here is establish certain rules and let the children know that the rules apply consistently–you can’t do it here, you can’t do it there.  If she hits at home, she needs to sit in the quiet chair for 10 minutes.

Excuse me.  I’m sorry for interrupting the story, but did this person just explicitly tell me what form of discipline I must use at home?  After informing me that I need to stop letting her hit people, of course.  What an enlightening message that was.  It never would have occurred to me to teach my children not to hit.  I thought maybe PZ was the one person on earth who didn’t need to learn that lesson.  That’s why I’ve never imposed consequences for hitting.  Certainly haven’t tried Time Out.  Is that some new-fangled technique or something?  Never heard of it.  Anyway, sorry–back to the story:

Teacher:  …so she just needs to learn that she can’t hit people–

Me:  Yes.

Teacher:  I’m just worried about her siblings.

Sorry, but I have to interrupt here again.  Excuse me?  EXCUSE ME?  You’re worried about her siblings?  My God, that explains everything.  That’s why I’m not supposed to let her hit at home.  My very own flesh and blood may be harmed!  Good Lord, how could I not have seen that before?  It makes so much sense:  she hits people, people get hurt–even her siblings.  If I let her hit at home, innocent children–children her teacher obviously cares very much about–may get hurt.  Am I truly the only person on earth who never made this connection?  Why haven’t you all ever said something to me? 

Teacher:  PZ just needs to learn that she can’t hit people, and as long as she doesn’t hit, I’ll keep her.  It’s just that safety piece I’m worried about.

Okay, here’s where I got annoyed.  I’ve been listening to these professional educator types for the last four years, and I am sick unto death of hearing about “the safety piece,” “the behavior piece,” “the learning piece,” “the getting-along-with-others piece.”  For Pete’s Freaking Sake, will you stop using the word piece when you really mean…NOTHING!  It’s a thoroughly superfluous buzz word, and it’s getting on my nerves!

So to continue–we finally finished that “conversation” and I took PZ out to the car, where we waited behind her bus for 10 minutes before we were able to leave the parking lot. 

As for the “paperwork” in the sealed envelope, it told me almost nothing about what happened.  It said, “Here it is, here’s what PZ did.”  No context or anything.  I actually already knew what she did.  (Hitting–for those of you who just woke up.)  I was hoping to understand what the trigger for this aggressive behavior (which we haven’t seen at her new school up to now) could have been.  Nothing.  Zip.  Nada.  PZ flipped out and hit for no apparent reason.  Which makes sense, because when hitting is so very much against the rules, there can be no antecedent for an incident of hitting.  There’s no excuse, and therefore there is no antecedent.  Everything that existed in time and space before that moment PZ hit someone instantly vanishes; it is a natural consequence of violating the rules. 

Consequences, though, are apparently not my strong suit.  That’s why I keep wondering what on earth happened and how I can keep it from happening again.

Thank you, friends, for the moral support regarding Princess Zurg’s IEP meeting.  It’s always good to know my virtual community’s got my back.

Well, that was an ordeal.  I came out emotionally drained but feeling…not terrible.  Which is an improvement over most previous meetings.  We went in thinking we had two options on the table, with us leaning heavily toward one and the rest of the team leaning heavily toward the other, and we ended up going with Door Number Three. 

Door Number Three is the district’s self-contained autism classroom–more properly called by its PC moniker, “the Social Communication Center”–which is an option we’ve been given many times before and that we’ve considered and ultimately rejected, for a bunch of reasons that are too complicated and boring to get into here.  Suffice it to say, some of our original concerns are still valid, but as of this meeting, enough of them have been addressed that we no longer feel justified in our resistance. 

Obviously, it is not our ideal.  Ideally we would love to keep PZ at her neighborhood school, where her brother is, where our community is, and not have to deal with the emotional upheaval such a transition involves–oh, and also have her be successful.  See, it’s that last little part that causes all the drama.  And now I have the anticlimactic outcome that I was hoping for.  We geared up for a fight and decided not to have it after all.

For a decision that looks suspiciously like rolling over, even to me, I’m surprisingly comfortable with it.  I just had one of those painful moments of clarity about 80 minutes (oh yes) into the meeting, when I realized that what’s best for PZ is not what we thought or hoped was best.  There’s plenty of blame to go around, but I figure we’ll all just pass on the blame and get on with the business of meeting PZ’s needs.  I do feel that the journey to this point has been instructive and worthwhile because I doubt we could have gotten our concerns resolved satisfactorily if we hadn’t started kicking butts and taking names. 

To all of you with special-needs kiddos who are not yet in school, I just have to say this:  No matter how well-meaning and pleasant school district employees are, you can never take a passive role in these things.  They aren’t as emotionally invested in the outcome as you are.  It doesn’t mean they don’t care–they just don’t have to care as much as you have to care.

I think this placement will work.  I also think it’s the best chance PZ has of eventually mainstreaming–hopefully sooner than later.  The teacher for the 3-5 SCC has a reputation as a mainstreaming warrior, so that is a plus. 

Another plus is that the woman who was PZ’s1:1 aide for first and second grade is now working in that classroom.  The karma is good.  It will be hard on PZ to leave her current school.  I expect some drama on that count.  But I think we are making the right choice.

The best part is that I get my nice, sane husband back, and I can go back to being the crazy person in the family.  Drinks all around.

Gentle readers, I need your positive vibes for the IEP meeting I’m scheduled to attend in three and a half hours.  As I said yesterday, Sugar Daddy has been slaving over a hot white paper to present to the rest of Princess Zurg’s educational team.  He has been a man possessed.  Ordinarily SD is the incurable optimist in this parental unit, but as of yesterday evening that role is being played by your congenitally cynical Giraffe, which should give you an idea of how dire our prospects are. 

I must say that I have seen my husband angry on many occasions, but I have never seen him so upset as he was last night.  This is not your run-of-the-mill, raving-lunatic anger.  It is cold, sober rage.  I find it disconcerting and just a tad freaky.

There was a time when I thought the educators at PZ’s school and the district muckety-mucks who attended our IEP meetings were sincere, well-intentioned people, with maybe just a mild streak of incompetence.  Over the last few weeks I’ve been disabused of that charitable opinion.  While they’re certainly not bad people, their incompetence is not mild, their intentions are neither good nor sincere, and believe it or not, I’m starting not to like them very much.  That’s a dangerous attitude to have concerning the people who hold your child’s fate in their hands. 

Some friends of ours have a son who is disabled.  I don’t know all the particulars of his condition, but his deficits are, for the most part, in the physical rather than cognitive realm.  He’s a first grader at PZ’s school, and his teacher and the rest of his IEP team have been pressuring our friends to put him in a self-contained special ed classroom because his disabilities are so inconvenient to them.  PZ’s case is complex; the solution to her problem is hardly clear-cut.  Our friends’ case is clear-cut.  Their son is not a “behavior problem.”  He does not have severe cognitive impairments.  He is perfectly capable of functioning in an inclusive classroom with appropriate and reasonable accommodations.  Their refusal to accommodate him is illegal and borders on cruelty.  They seem to be playing a waiting game:  how long can we stall on these accommodations, i.e. following the law, before the parents finally throw up their hands and take their inconvenient child elsewhere?

As I said, their case is not like ours, but the school’s MO is the same:  withhold information and withhold resources–and wait.

I’m going into this meeting without expectations.  I have no idea what’s going to happen.  My hope is that the meeting will be anticlimactic, as these things so often are.  But I humbly request that you say your prayers, light your virtual candles and/or make your virtual sacrifices to your unknown gods on our behalf.  We and PZ will be fine, whatever happens.  We just like us some moral support sometimes. 

To talk science education and see the sweet banner Scott designed for my husband’s site, click here.  For duller graphic design and no mention of algebra, stay on the current page.

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Yesterday was Princess Zurg’s annual IEP review, and it went about the same as it always does.  Sugar Daddy and I sit at a table with about half a dozen educators and spend roughly 65 minutes going over crap we already know regarding our daughter’s behavior and academic progress at school; then we spend the next 15 minutes wringing our hands over what to do with her next year. Total number of useful minutes in this meeting:  2Part of the problem is that none of the other members of the team will say what they mean.  The occupational therapist spent about seven minutes trying to say that she didn’t think PZ needed occupational therapy without actually having to say that.  She didn’t want to say it.  I could tell she didn’t want to say it.  She was trying to get someone else to say it without actually saying it, until everyone finally understood what was being said without it actually being said.  Several times during this back-and-forth exchange with the other educators in the room, I just wanted to jump up and say, “Enough!  She doesn’t need occupational therapy!  Just cut the occupational therapy already!  I can’t stand it anymore!  Aughhhhhhh!”Of course I didn’t do that, because I have my dignity.  Actually, I don’t have my dignity.  I was just really sleepy.  (Too much Veronica Mars again.)  And I know from sad experience that overly direct communication with these people can backfire.  If you call them on what they’re trying-to-say-without-actually-saying-it too early or in too straightforward a manner, they will immediately start backpedaling and try to deny that they were in fact saying the thing they were trying to say without saying it.  That’s their way of saying, “You may have gotten my point, but you didn’t phrase it in the proper form, so it doesn’t count.  Let’s start over.”

Part of this is cultural.  Generally, I don’t like to say things like this, but I’ll say it anyway because it’s what I mean even if it isn’t the way I’d like to say it.  All of these educators are women, and women are notorious for beating around the bush in misguided attempts to spare other people’s feelings.  During these meetings I frankly feel sorry for my husband, who in addition to being male is also used to working in an environment where people don’t have time to be considerate of other people’s feelings because time is money and so they just say what they mean and say it in the most efficient way possible, even if it’s rude and/or cruel.  If it’s torture for me to sit there listening to people trying not to offend me with facts that are patently non-offensive, I can only imagine how nuts it must drive him.  Actually, I think SD is so un-used to this form of conversing that he spends more time being confused than frustrated.  The school principal wasn’t at yesterday’s meeting, but when he does come he tends to just sit there and not say anything.  I think he figures that someone in the room has to be quiet and it may as well be him.

I expressed my frustration over this inefficient meeting style to SD last night, and he pointed out that the two of us are, technically, in the driver’s seat, and if we walked into the meeting and said we wanted PZ’s instructional aide to show up to work everyday with pasties, they would still not be able to come right out and say no.  (Sorry, but that is what he said.  Just be grateful you don’t know PZ’s instructional aide and are thus spared the specific mental image I shall be forever burdened with.)  I wish there were some sort of waiver I could sign, swearing that I would not get offended or sue them because of something they said in a meeting.  I don’t appreciate being treated like the neurotic parent.  I am the neurotic parent, but that’s none of their business.  I don’t appreciate being treated like the neurotic parent who’s going to throw a tantrum or call my lawyer the minute one of these ladies says something undiplomatic.  I’m like Tom Cruise cross-examining Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men.  I can handle the truth, people.  Honestly, I can.

I was hoping that after all the leaps forward PZ has made this year, this might be the first IEP meeting where we didn’t have to talk about “alternative placement.”  Unfortunately, PZ decided to regress back into her psychostudent role a couple weeks ago, and that reminded everybody that although she is doing twice as well this year as last, she’s still only doing half as well as they’d like her to.  Alternative placement was very much back on the table yesterday, although it didn’t come up until the very end.  I knew it was coming.  I was in denial before the meeting started, but when you sit through 55 minutes of people rehashing your child’s shortcomings, you know what they’re gearing up for.  That’s how you prepare a parent to hear the words, “Your child doesn’t belong here,” even though you’re not planning to say those words.

I have naught against the folks at my daughter’s school (other than their infernal tip-toeing).  I think they’re doing the best they know how to do.  They’re between a rock and a hard place, trying to accommodate my child’s needs without compromising the other children’s educations.  I’m between a rock and a hard place, too.  I know my daughter doesn’t belong where she is.  But I know equally well that she doesn’t belong where they want to send her.  I don’t know where she belongs. 

My husband likes to take the “wait and see” approach because he’s an optimist.  Maybe because he’s a scientist, he has a higher tolerance for failed experiments.  I take the wait-and-see approach by default because I am out of ideas.  Maybe because I’m a pessimist, I can’t see my way forward.  That’s probably why, even though I appreciate the school’s dilemma, I can’t be too sensitive to it.  I’ve been looking for a way to make this work for the last eight years.

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Stolen from DiniHJ:

Your type is: INFJ  —The “Know Thyself” Mother

“I believe the joy of motherhood is self-discovery—for them and for me.”

• Sensitive and family-focused, the INFJ mother looks for and encourages the unique potential of each child. Self-knowledge may be her byword. Her aim is to help each child develop a sense of identity and cultivate personal growth. In fact, she may value the mothering experience as a catalyst to her own personal growth and self-knowledge.
• The INFJ mother spends time observing and understanding each child. She is drawn to intimate conversations and seeks a free exchange of feelings and thoughts.
• Sympathetic and accommodating, the INFJ mother strives to meet the important yet sometimes conflicting needs of each family member in harmonious and creative ways
• She is conscientious and intense as well. Probably no one takes life and child-raising more seriously than the INFJ. She approaches mothering as a profession requiring her best self.
  

 

What’s Your Mothering Style?

 

Oh, bitter irony!