So Cubby just told me something his science teacher said during their discussion of rocks and rock related fun. He said when the teacher was talking about granite, he specifically said women really like it and asked if they knew why.
Because it's expensive and heavy. Women like expensive things and to make men carry around heavy stuff.
(crickets. . . )
What. The. Hell?!
I know it was only a joke, but they're TWELVE! Oh, science teacher I suspected was a douche to begin with, do we really need to put your bitter post-divorce archaic nonsense into the heads of sixth graders? Apparently, he feels that's a yes.
I feel an email coming on.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
I'm disliking these junior high years more and more
I've said it before, and I'll say it again that public education was not made for most boys. Most boys, unlike most girls, aren't people pleasers. They aren't motivated by wanting someone's approval. They are motivated by exploring what they find interesting, even if that interest occurs at an inopportune moment. They need to feel movement far more than girls. That movement is what keeps them connected to the interest. I've seen it time and time again in my son, his friends, when I've worked with high school students, and even in my college men.
This is all a preface to the issues Cubby has been having in school this year. Not submitting homework is high on the list, but his teachers all of a sudden are hinting at that four letter acronym of ADHD. Mind you, he's been in school for 10 of his 12 years. He's chatty and moves around a lot, but not once has a teacher sat across from me and said "Wow, this needs immediate attention." But this year, they're all over me to "get him evaluated." That would be fine, except I'm not a big proponent of medicating kids. I know there are kids out there who cannot get through the day without medication to help them absorb ideas. They need that medication, and I don't fault their parents at all for giving it to them. But I don't think that NEED is there for Cubby. He absorbs material just fine, even stuff he's not really interested in. I think the teachers would be happier if he were quieter, but that's their need, not his.
Unfortunately, "evaluation" seems to be their only paradigm for helping Cubby to succeed. We've got software where teachers can input students' grades and parents can check whenever they want. However, I find the teachers wait a couple weeks, then post a myriad of grades, so I can't really catch Cubby on the cusp of doing badly, when only one assignment is missing. He's often plunged into three or four missing assignments by the time I see the grades, which I check every other day or so. I've asked for a list of the assignments prior to the due dates so I can remind from home. They responded with "we want him to be responsible for himself" which I get, but he's newly turned 12, and that method isn't working.
The last meeting centered on "evaluation" again, to which I finally responded that if the goal of the meeting was to fast track Cubby to drugs, they'd better come up with a new agenda. Having done my research (I mean, research is in my BLOOD, man), I'm even more against drugs for Cubby, and something new needed to be brought to the table. They said they were setting up a new during school study group they had in 7th and 8th grade, and they thought "some" students might benefit from it in 6th. The counselors taught it, and the counselors were given a list of homework due that was upcoming, so they could closely monitor if they were doing it (Doesn't it sound like what I was asking for? No matter, sign him up!). Better solution, by far, than just getting an assignment book signed, when it wasn't forgotten at school or at home.
This started last week when they returned to school. How many students is "some" you might ask. Eighteen. Eighteen is "some" and that's only for one counselor. There are four counselors at the school. Is it a mix of boys and girls you may ask. No, it is NOT. Twenty BOYS, whose parents I'm fairly sure were probably encouraged to medicate. I just love how both Cubby and I were made to feel like he's an absolute anomaly, and there was something seriously wrong, when in reality, he's pretty darn common. I wish there would come a time when our education system--and by the way, this is a stellar school and district--realizes all kids aren't the same, and they don't learn the same, because we've got a generation of boys who are getting the short end of the educational stick.
This is all a preface to the issues Cubby has been having in school this year. Not submitting homework is high on the list, but his teachers all of a sudden are hinting at that four letter acronym of ADHD. Mind you, he's been in school for 10 of his 12 years. He's chatty and moves around a lot, but not once has a teacher sat across from me and said "Wow, this needs immediate attention." But this year, they're all over me to "get him evaluated." That would be fine, except I'm not a big proponent of medicating kids. I know there are kids out there who cannot get through the day without medication to help them absorb ideas. They need that medication, and I don't fault their parents at all for giving it to them. But I don't think that NEED is there for Cubby. He absorbs material just fine, even stuff he's not really interested in. I think the teachers would be happier if he were quieter, but that's their need, not his.
Unfortunately, "evaluation" seems to be their only paradigm for helping Cubby to succeed. We've got software where teachers can input students' grades and parents can check whenever they want. However, I find the teachers wait a couple weeks, then post a myriad of grades, so I can't really catch Cubby on the cusp of doing badly, when only one assignment is missing. He's often plunged into three or four missing assignments by the time I see the grades, which I check every other day or so. I've asked for a list of the assignments prior to the due dates so I can remind from home. They responded with "we want him to be responsible for himself" which I get, but he's newly turned 12, and that method isn't working.
The last meeting centered on "evaluation" again, to which I finally responded that if the goal of the meeting was to fast track Cubby to drugs, they'd better come up with a new agenda. Having done my research (I mean, research is in my BLOOD, man), I'm even more against drugs for Cubby, and something new needed to be brought to the table. They said they were setting up a new during school study group they had in 7th and 8th grade, and they thought "some" students might benefit from it in 6th. The counselors taught it, and the counselors were given a list of homework due that was upcoming, so they could closely monitor if they were doing it (Doesn't it sound like what I was asking for? No matter, sign him up!). Better solution, by far, than just getting an assignment book signed, when it wasn't forgotten at school or at home.
This started last week when they returned to school. How many students is "some" you might ask. Eighteen. Eighteen is "some" and that's only for one counselor. There are four counselors at the school. Is it a mix of boys and girls you may ask. No, it is NOT. Twenty BOYS, whose parents I'm fairly sure were probably encouraged to medicate. I just love how both Cubby and I were made to feel like he's an absolute anomaly, and there was something seriously wrong, when in reality, he's pretty darn common. I wish there would come a time when our education system--and by the way, this is a stellar school and district--realizes all kids aren't the same, and they don't learn the same, because we've got a generation of boys who are getting the short end of the educational stick.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
My Best NCAA Final Memory
In 2001 the NCAA final was played on April 2nd, when Arizona went up against Duke's power house. Why do I know this? Because I was busy trying to bring a human being into the world.
Cubby was due on April 9th, and Hubbster declared early on that he would be born during the NCAA final. Saying "all first babies are late," I declared he would come after. Sad to say, a case of pre-eclampsia meant an induction, and more onerously, that Hubbster was right.
So there we were, 20 hours into some hard labor for me (a fact I relish reminding Cubby on his birthday) where I alternately told Hubbster his breath smelled too strongly of coffee, then said it was too minty. I'd cursed him and his male kind, and I think I'd begged him to get a butter knife and I'd get this baby out. The TV was turned to the game in an effort to give Hubbster some relief from my crazies. I may or may not have flung a magazine at the TV at one point. Really, I didn't get any air under it, as I was mid-contraction, so it looked like it dropped and could go either way. At some point the doc decided an epidural was mine, mine, mine!
The epidural doc who walked in was a bear of a man. I yelled at him to get the lead out. He got. As he's about to do his thing with the needle, and I'm curled into a ball, he asked if anyone had watched the game, because he was an Arizona alum and had a few bucks on it. From my near fetal position, I admonished him to focus. He did, and I finally got a nap, after I'd professed my undying love for him. For about an hour. Then the lights went on, and they said Cubby's heart tones were bad. I needed an immediate c-section.
Scary as it was, this team sprang into action, and within maybe two minutes I was in an operating room. As Cubby was taken out of me, with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck and ankle, he wasn't breathing. Hubbster rushed off with the nurses and Cubby, and I was left to still be worked on. That bear of an Arizona alum held my hand the whole time, reassuring me that it would all be okay, and I don't even know his name.
In the end, it WAS all okay. Cubby turned 12 yesterday, and there's almost no trace of that tiny little baby who gave us such a scare that day. There is ONE spot. They'd attached a fetal monitor to Cubby's scalp. In the effort to get him out NOW, they kind of ripped it out, creating a bit of a scab they assured me would go away. It never did. When his hair is short, there's a scar about the size of a dime in the shape of a heart on the side of his head. It disappears soon enough, but I kind of like the first week into a fresh haircut when I can see it on the side of his head.
I look at that spot and think of my little baby.
Cubby was due on April 9th, and Hubbster declared early on that he would be born during the NCAA final. Saying "all first babies are late," I declared he would come after. Sad to say, a case of pre-eclampsia meant an induction, and more onerously, that Hubbster was right.
So there we were, 20 hours into some hard labor for me (a fact I relish reminding Cubby on his birthday) where I alternately told Hubbster his breath smelled too strongly of coffee, then said it was too minty. I'd cursed him and his male kind, and I think I'd begged him to get a butter knife and I'd get this baby out. The TV was turned to the game in an effort to give Hubbster some relief from my crazies. I may or may not have flung a magazine at the TV at one point. Really, I didn't get any air under it, as I was mid-contraction, so it looked like it dropped and could go either way. At some point the doc decided an epidural was mine, mine, mine!
The epidural doc who walked in was a bear of a man. I yelled at him to get the lead out. He got. As he's about to do his thing with the needle, and I'm curled into a ball, he asked if anyone had watched the game, because he was an Arizona alum and had a few bucks on it. From my near fetal position, I admonished him to focus. He did, and I finally got a nap, after I'd professed my undying love for him. For about an hour. Then the lights went on, and they said Cubby's heart tones were bad. I needed an immediate c-section.
Scary as it was, this team sprang into action, and within maybe two minutes I was in an operating room. As Cubby was taken out of me, with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck and ankle, he wasn't breathing. Hubbster rushed off with the nurses and Cubby, and I was left to still be worked on. That bear of an Arizona alum held my hand the whole time, reassuring me that it would all be okay, and I don't even know his name.
In the end, it WAS all okay. Cubby turned 12 yesterday, and there's almost no trace of that tiny little baby who gave us such a scare that day. There is ONE spot. They'd attached a fetal monitor to Cubby's scalp. In the effort to get him out NOW, they kind of ripped it out, creating a bit of a scab they assured me would go away. It never did. When his hair is short, there's a scar about the size of a dime in the shape of a heart on the side of his head. It disappears soon enough, but I kind of like the first week into a fresh haircut when I can see it on the side of his head.
I look at that spot and think of my little baby.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Her own drummer
My baby girl is an absolute original. She has her own way and style about her. Those who try to force her peg into a differently shaped whole usually end in defeat.
We had a rough year last year. While I try my best to respect her hodgepodge creative space, we clash sometimes. Unfortunately, as a teacher she had someone who only saw kids in very specific, certain terms (Is the Breakfast Club running through your head?). The year was spent with EPIC battles over in brushed hair, messy desks, dropped book bags, and mismatched socks, all battles I'd chosen as futile long ago. It was a looooong year.
Today, I thought about how much more relaxed she is this year, and during this ruminating, I happened to look down at Brownie's feet, and her mismatched socks.
Vive la difference!
We had a rough year last year. While I try my best to respect her hodgepodge creative space, we clash sometimes. Unfortunately, as a teacher she had someone who only saw kids in very specific, certain terms (Is the Breakfast Club running through your head?). The year was spent with EPIC battles over in brushed hair, messy desks, dropped book bags, and mismatched socks, all battles I'd chosen as futile long ago. It was a looooong year.
Today, I thought about how much more relaxed she is this year, and during this ruminating, I happened to look down at Brownie's feet, and her mismatched socks.
Vive la difference!
Saturday, March 16, 2013
I'm RICH!
Yep, you heard that right, I'm apparently RICH! Well, our household is, at least according to a columnist in the Chicago Tribune last week. Discussing taxes and tax filing, one Jim Gallagher noted that "Tax preparation filing might be the only area where it's better to be a working stiff than to be rich. For most working folks, tax preparation is cheap or free. . . if your income is under $57,000. . . "
Uh-huh. $57,000 indicates a "working stiff" so by extension, since the comparison was to being "rich" I'm assuming Gallagher thinks those who make $57,001 and up are "rich" indeed. My questions, if Jim Gallagher were sitting in front of me are as follows:
Uh-huh. $57,000 indicates a "working stiff" so by extension, since the comparison was to being "rich" I'm assuming Gallagher thinks those who make $57,001 and up are "rich" indeed. My questions, if Jim Gallagher were sitting in front of me are as follows:
- Did you take a vow of POVERTY, man?! In Chicago, $57,000 can barely sustain one person!
- Are you eating Ramen noodles and baloney every night to do that sustaining?
- Is this a trick by mainstream media to make those who make $57,000 feel flush?
- This isn't so much a question as a thanks for giving me an all-out chortle this morning.
Monday, March 11, 2013
People are crazy
8yo Brownie comes home today all jazzed up that one of her friends is SO lucky. Why? Because she got to go to a friend's birthday party in. a. limo.
Take the time to reread that. A limo. For a 9th birthday party. I have now crossed into the zone where I have a desire to smack people I don't even know.
Take the time to reread that. A limo. For a 9th birthday party. I have now crossed into the zone where I have a desire to smack people I don't even know.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Ah, the irony
I volunteered at Brownie's school today. It was some winter carnival, open call for warm adult bodies for crowd control. As a result, there were about 15 of us moms wandering up to the school entrance, then waiting to be led to our area.
The ENTIRE time, one mom who had five obvious name brands at my count was talking on her phone loudly. The general idea was that she was slamming a family member who did not behave according to her very high standards at a dinner outing.
She mentioned FOUR times in about 10 minutes, "God! He's so SELF-INVOLVED!"
Irony. At its finest.
The ENTIRE time, one mom who had five obvious name brands at my count was talking on her phone loudly. The general idea was that she was slamming a family member who did not behave according to her very high standards at a dinner outing.
She mentioned FOUR times in about 10 minutes, "God! He's so SELF-INVOLVED!"
Irony. At its finest.
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