...and my sanity nearly ended.
We are done.
With school, that is. For this year.
Whitney Hoffman has a post over at GNMParents called "Child Advocacy or School Adversary?".
I agree with Whitney - I fully agree - and since Twinks began school eight years ago, we have been involved and active at her schools. As a result, we have typically had good, solid relationships with her teachers every year.
Until this year.
This past school year, we have had a teacher who was, quite simply, prejudiced against our daughter. Everyone could see it - the school counselor, the principal, the other teachers.
Why?
Because our daughter is disabled. Because she is NOT a blonde-haired, blue-eyed cheerleader, or an athlete. Because we allow Twinks to dress in her own individual style, rather than encouraging her to be a cookie-cutter kid who dresses like all the other kids. Because this teacher thinks that if she just "tried harder" our daughter could "be normal".
You read it right.
According to this teacher, Twinks just doesn't try hard enough.
Gee. I'm so glad that she has this all figured out. It's not the multiple orthopedic birth defects, or the fibromyalgia, or the asthma, the arrymthia, or anything like that.
No. Twinks just doesn't try hard enough. Why didn't *I* think of that?
Maybe because I've known this child since before she was born.
Maybe because I have reams and reams of medical opinions, diagnosis and lab tests.
When it comes to this teacher, I have tried to be an advocate, and not an adversary, but this year has been terrible. Things came to a head recently when Twinks broke a classroom rule because of one of her disabilities. (and wasn't the first kid this year to do so, either) Twinks couldn't hold a piece of equipment, and asked another student for help. The teacher used this as an excuse to not only punish Twinks, but hold her up in ridicule to others in the class. This in reaction to a child who not only is typically quite well-behaved and well-mannered, but had NEVER broken any of the teacher's rules before, has NEVER been to the principals office in her school career, and has carried all A's for eight years. Is she perfect? No. Is she a good kid? Yes, I believe that she is. Remember - I've been volunteering at her schools on a regular basis since Kindergarten. I see her at school, in the classroom. I see how she interacts with her friends, her teachers, the staff.
So, I talked to the Principal, and the School Counselor. They agreed that the teacher behaved in a fashion that was unprofessional, and that the teacher was out of line. They offered us an alternative, so that Twinks would not have to face that teacher every day for the rest of the school year. They assured us that Twinks grade (a high A) would not be affected by this incident.
I spent the better part of a week dealing with this. At the end, I was still furious, frustrated and amazed that this teacher could believe that Twinks would deliberately disobey her rule. That she believed that if Twinks would only try harder, she would be "normal".
Ever wonder why we consider Homeschooling? It's things like this incident. It's the subtle little digs, the outright discrimination. It's the exhaustion brought on by trying to make one child who is "different" fit into a world that is designed to exclude her.
Thank God that summer is here. And not a moment too soon.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
The One Where We Remember...
In the United States of America, it is Memorial Day Weekend.
Officially, it is when we remember and salute our war dead.
Unofficially, it is the beginning of summer and the end of regular. We go to the cemetery, and decorate the graves of our ancestors, and place American flags by the headstones of those who died serving our country. We grill hamburgers and hot dogs, and drink lemonade, and watch the kids try to catch lightening bugs in a jar. We watch the parade down on Main Street, and salute when the flags pass by.
And summer begins.
Depending on where you are this morning, school is either out for the year, or will be soon. The kids will have no greater agenda than running through the sprinklers and seeing how far they can coast on their bikes from the top of the hill. Sleeping late, and grilling out become routine. Shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops are the uniform for the next three months, with your bathing suit underneath - just in case you decide to go swimming. The air conditioning is cold inside the house, and the weather is warm and muggy outside, and the shock of moving from one to the other gives you goosebumps.
Our family has no war dead (at least none that I know of) to memorialize. My Dad was a Korean War vet, but he survived his battlefield injuries (thanks to a MASH unit) and returned home to go to college, marry Mom, and father me. Nevertheless, Mom and I went to the cemetery this last week, and placed cheerful bouquets of white and yellow daisies in the vases on either side of their headstone. We tied wire-edged ribbon around the vases in cheerful yellow-plaid bows, and we cleaned off the bird poop and the bits of mown grass from the monument.
As we worked, we talked. Mom hasn't been here, home, to do this particular chore for the last thirteen years, and she seemed surprised and happy that I did things the way she always had. We completed our work, and as we walked back to the minivan, she started to talk about Daddy. Much of it I had heard before, but there were new tidbits of information here and there; some surprising, others bittersweet.
We shed no tears; time has given us the gift of distance. The pain that was so acute, so fresh and raw has dulled to a heartfelt longing. The first year was tough - it was terrible. There were so many "firsts"; the first Christmas without Daddy, the first birthdays without Daddy, their first anniversary apart. Every holiday there was a Dad-shaped hole where he should have been. Every day at 5:20 pm, there was a sadness when we didn't hear his distinctive tread on the sidewalk and the porch. We felt our way blindly through that first year, just trying to survive with out Daddy.
The second year was still hard, but easier by the knowledge that we knew that we could survive - after all, we had made it through that horrible first year and all the horrible "first time withouts", but now we had to begin the process of creating new traditions, and finding new ways of doing things without Daddy in them. And we have. We have gone on with our lives, have learned to laugh and love and rejoice without him here. It doesn't mean that we don't miss him, because we do. I would give every earthly possession I have, or might ever have, just for one more hour with my Dad. Just to be able to see him hold Twinks one time. Just to hear his voice once more. Just to feel his arms around me, and to feel safe and loved as only my Daddy could make me feel.
He's never far from us - we know that. The monument that stands out at the cemetery is simply a way to make sure that the rest of the world does not forget him.
We will always remember.
Officially, it is when we remember and salute our war dead.
Unofficially, it is the beginning of summer and the end of regular. We go to the cemetery, and decorate the graves of our ancestors, and place American flags by the headstones of those who died serving our country. We grill hamburgers and hot dogs, and drink lemonade, and watch the kids try to catch lightening bugs in a jar. We watch the parade down on Main Street, and salute when the flags pass by.
And summer begins.
Depending on where you are this morning, school is either out for the year, or will be soon. The kids will have no greater agenda than running through the sprinklers and seeing how far they can coast on their bikes from the top of the hill. Sleeping late, and grilling out become routine. Shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops are the uniform for the next three months, with your bathing suit underneath - just in case you decide to go swimming. The air conditioning is cold inside the house, and the weather is warm and muggy outside, and the shock of moving from one to the other gives you goosebumps.
Our family has no war dead (at least none that I know of) to memorialize. My Dad was a Korean War vet, but he survived his battlefield injuries (thanks to a MASH unit) and returned home to go to college, marry Mom, and father me. Nevertheless, Mom and I went to the cemetery this last week, and placed cheerful bouquets of white and yellow daisies in the vases on either side of their headstone. We tied wire-edged ribbon around the vases in cheerful yellow-plaid bows, and we cleaned off the bird poop and the bits of mown grass from the monument.
As we worked, we talked. Mom hasn't been here, home, to do this particular chore for the last thirteen years, and she seemed surprised and happy that I did things the way she always had. We completed our work, and as we walked back to the minivan, she started to talk about Daddy. Much of it I had heard before, but there were new tidbits of information here and there; some surprising, others bittersweet.
We shed no tears; time has given us the gift of distance. The pain that was so acute, so fresh and raw has dulled to a heartfelt longing. The first year was tough - it was terrible. There were so many "firsts"; the first Christmas without Daddy, the first birthdays without Daddy, their first anniversary apart. Every holiday there was a Dad-shaped hole where he should have been. Every day at 5:20 pm, there was a sadness when we didn't hear his distinctive tread on the sidewalk and the porch. We felt our way blindly through that first year, just trying to survive with out Daddy.
The second year was still hard, but easier by the knowledge that we knew that we could survive - after all, we had made it through that horrible first year and all the horrible "first time withouts", but now we had to begin the process of creating new traditions, and finding new ways of doing things without Daddy in them. And we have. We have gone on with our lives, have learned to laugh and love and rejoice without him here. It doesn't mean that we don't miss him, because we do. I would give every earthly possession I have, or might ever have, just for one more hour with my Dad. Just to be able to see him hold Twinks one time. Just to hear his voice once more. Just to feel his arms around me, and to feel safe and loved as only my Daddy could make me feel.
He's never far from us - we know that. The monument that stands out at the cemetery is simply a way to make sure that the rest of the world does not forget him.
We will always remember.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
The One Where We Start Over...
Lately, I find that I have become obsessed with starting over.
._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-.
It started (of course) with The Unpacking. One at a time, each box is completely unpacked, and everything in it is Put Away. As in, put where it will live from now on. And if there isn't room to Put It Away Correctly, then all efforts grind to a halt while we sort through everything, to determine What Must Go Away.
It has been slow, dreadfully slow, and only three rooms are fully complete at this point: Twink's room, the kitchen, and one of the two bathrooms. Everywhere else, there are boxes, and the living room is still a depository for All That Which Will Be Sold (in the inevitable yard sale) and the game room contains All That Which We Want To Keep But Have No Room For.
On top of it all, we need to remodel at least one bathroom, widen the hallways, and somehow fix the front porch/front door all to be more accessible. It's only a matter of time before someone around here is in a wheelchair, and it needs to be done. How it will happen, I have no idea.
._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-.
I suppose it is only natural to dream of running away to a new house. To leave behind this one, that is falling apart around us even as I type this. The Wrench and I have fought a losing battle for the last 10 years with trying to keep the house from tumbling down around us; Twinks health has been our first priority, always since she was born. Now there are holes in the porch ceiling, and the fences are falling apart. The paint is fading, and on the north side of the house, the wood siding is all messed up.
The worst part is that we got caught in a predatory loan several years ago, and now actually owe more than the house is worth; the interest rate is so high that it resembles credit card terms. We literally can't afford the house, but we can't afford to sell it either.
And now you know why I dream of running away...
._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-.
Even as I watch the house crumble around us, I push forward with this new-old beginning that we are trying to create for Mom, and indeed for all of us. There is no other choice. It must be done, and so as always, we will try to comport ourselves with as much dignity and grace as is possible. The experience has certainly been cathartic. As the afore-described unpacking has been taking place, I have taken this opportunity to clean up, and clean out. Since this all began, I have learned that all of the "stuff" that I thought I *had* to have to survive really is optional. The reality is that we have allowed our "stuff" to expand to fill the available space.
You know me. I love a good spring cleaning. This is just a bit more, um... extreme, that's all.
Probably the most interesting side-effect of all of this has been how we (the four of us) have adapated to living like this - squeezed into a handful of rooms, working together daily to make what progress we can, all while trying to live as "normally" as possible. Meals still need to be cooked and served, laundry still needs to be done, Twinks must be chauffeured to and from school every day, and The Wrench still has to go to work everyday. We really are far more adaptable and flexible than I thought we would be.
._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-.
Starting over is never easy, and that is - at it's very essence - what we are doing here. We have created a whole new family; we are creating a whole new way of living. Rooms are being repurposed, furniture is being shuffled around. Everything old is new again; the rules have been thrown out the window, and we are flying by the seat of our pants now.
Change can be refreshing, or scary. It can be sad, or joyful. It can bring heartache, or help erase it. As we are learning daily now, it is all in how you decide to handle it.
Hopefully time will prove that we have handled this well.
._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-.
It started (of course) with The Unpacking. One at a time, each box is completely unpacked, and everything in it is Put Away. As in, put where it will live from now on. And if there isn't room to Put It Away Correctly, then all efforts grind to a halt while we sort through everything, to determine What Must Go Away.
It has been slow, dreadfully slow, and only three rooms are fully complete at this point: Twink's room, the kitchen, and one of the two bathrooms. Everywhere else, there are boxes, and the living room is still a depository for All That Which Will Be Sold (in the inevitable yard sale) and the game room contains All That Which We Want To Keep But Have No Room For.
On top of it all, we need to remodel at least one bathroom, widen the hallways, and somehow fix the front porch/front door all to be more accessible. It's only a matter of time before someone around here is in a wheelchair, and it needs to be done. How it will happen, I have no idea.
._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-.
I suppose it is only natural to dream of running away to a new house. To leave behind this one, that is falling apart around us even as I type this. The Wrench and I have fought a losing battle for the last 10 years with trying to keep the house from tumbling down around us; Twinks health has been our first priority, always since she was born. Now there are holes in the porch ceiling, and the fences are falling apart. The paint is fading, and on the north side of the house, the wood siding is all messed up.
The worst part is that we got caught in a predatory loan several years ago, and now actually owe more than the house is worth; the interest rate is so high that it resembles credit card terms. We literally can't afford the house, but we can't afford to sell it either.
And now you know why I dream of running away...
._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-.
Even as I watch the house crumble around us, I push forward with this new-old beginning that we are trying to create for Mom, and indeed for all of us. There is no other choice. It must be done, and so as always, we will try to comport ourselves with as much dignity and grace as is possible. The experience has certainly been cathartic. As the afore-described unpacking has been taking place, I have taken this opportunity to clean up, and clean out. Since this all began, I have learned that all of the "stuff" that I thought I *had* to have to survive really is optional. The reality is that we have allowed our "stuff" to expand to fill the available space.
You know me. I love a good spring cleaning. This is just a bit more, um... extreme, that's all.
Probably the most interesting side-effect of all of this has been how we (the four of us) have adapated to living like this - squeezed into a handful of rooms, working together daily to make what progress we can, all while trying to live as "normally" as possible. Meals still need to be cooked and served, laundry still needs to be done, Twinks must be chauffeured to and from school every day, and The Wrench still has to go to work everyday. We really are far more adaptable and flexible than I thought we would be.
._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-.
Starting over is never easy, and that is - at it's very essence - what we are doing here. We have created a whole new family; we are creating a whole new way of living. Rooms are being repurposed, furniture is being shuffled around. Everything old is new again; the rules have been thrown out the window, and we are flying by the seat of our pants now.
Change can be refreshing, or scary. It can be sad, or joyful. It can bring heartache, or help erase it. As we are learning daily now, it is all in how you decide to handle it.
Hopefully time will prove that we have handled this well.
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