Collect THIS data

I got THAT email this morning when I arrived at school.

You know THAT one.

It said, "Let's get together after school and talk about how you are teaching skills in small group." This was from the literacy coach in our building.

And it doesn't matter how you try to spin it, there was no way this was a chance to get together and chat about how AWESOME I am and how she wants to videotape me so that ALL of the 5th grade teachers in our district can revel in and learn from my GLORY.

Nope. We don't do THAT. We only get together to talk when someone is unhappy with us.

After a day of churning stomach and anticipation, 3:30 arrives and she marches into my classroom.

her: "I've met with [the principal] and your name has come up a few times over the last few weeks. Let's talk a little bit about how you are teaching the current skill in your reading block."

So I proceed to explain to her that I do most of my skill work in whole group (stay with me - some of this is teacher talk) and that I know I could be doing more in small group but that we also have to discuss the plot of the book. We can hit multiple skills that way.

her: "You have to remember that the book is merely a VESSEL for teaching the skills." 

me: (in my head) THIS IS WHY KIDS HATE TO READ.

I could go on and on, but here is what I really want you to know. Our principal prides herself on being a "data driven" leader. She likes to gather and study data on students to make the best decisions for their education.

The data she has on how I am doing teaching the skills during small group reading? She has visited my classroom THREE TIMES over the course of ONE HUNDRED TWELVE DAYS, each time coming during the exact same group (my lowest group - the kids who don't talk and aren't proficient readers), sitting at the table while we talked about our book. THREE TIMES.

Is that fair? I mean, if you want to accuse me of being a bad reading teacher, that's FAIR, but only if you have actual data that makes sense, that comes from a variety of times during the block, over a significant amount of days. And I'm ALL about saying I'm not the best reading teacher and that I can certainly get better and use suggestions. But at least make them feel like they are based on fact and not a skewed opinion.

The other thing that really cracked me up? The rest of her data collection was based on what the other 5th grade teacher has posted around her classroom - posters and other work the kids have done on the skills. The assumption was made that, since I don't have the same things adorning the walls of my classroom, I am NOT doing them.

Sigh. Really?

Your data collection SUCKS.

Shrugs

It's really hard to see your kid sick.

It's even harder when he doesn't appear to be sick.

Harder still when you know that, genetically, it's your "fault."

Pectus Excavatum. That's what ails Griffin. It's what he (now) lovingly calls his dent. What used to cause him great embarrassment, the need for swim shirts, and general discomfort evolved into his defining feature. Where once he hid it, now he encourages others to touch it, to eat out of it (yes, with a spoon), and to bask in its glory. The boy loves his dent.

We went to an appointment at the Hershey Medical Center to meet with a specialist. Seems Griff has noticed his dent is getting deeper. And he's concerned.

He and I even had a discussion (back when he was still talking to me) and I realized that my son has been doing reading about his very ailment and knew about surgical options and recovery and procedures. Very grown up. And sort of scary.

The appointment seemed to be routine, but then it took a turn for the confusing. The doctor was very nice, very thorough, spent and hour with us...but I left with snippets.

• Griffin's is one of the more serious cases he's seen
• the most common procedure involves inserting two (so bad - he gets two!) metal bars into his chest, where they will be sewn to his ribcage, for three years
• the pain is so intense he will be reliant on straight up narcotics for a month
• recovery is intense for a month but takes upwards of three months
• he'll need help getting out of his bed for the first few weeks
• he won't be able to ride his bike all summer
• the surgery isn't purely cosmetic...but it's not required either
• the success rate is very high - as long as the patient adheres to the strict rules
• it's super painful

Sigh. 

IT'S REALLY SUPER HARD BEING A MOM.

So, that was horrible. Besides the sheer overwhelmingness of it all, I felt kinda alone.

And JC was in the room with us.

But wait! Act now and it gets worse.

Seeing as my middle child, the boy I love more than most things in the world, the boy who would do just about anything to make me laugh or smile a year ago, isn't really talking to me right now, I could do nothing to console either him or me.

Alone for a few minutes post-appointment, I asked him what he was thinking, as he had been silent in the exam room.

me: "Initial thoughts?" 

him: shrug  

me: "You must be thinking something. Are you scared? Worried? Feeling good?"

him: shrug 

me: "You have to set aside how you feel about me right now. The anger you feel. This is serious. Important. We have to talk about it." 

him: "I mean, I don't know."

Then we climbed into the car, he inserted his earbuds, and we drove back across the river. 

 I won't lie. I miss my boy. And I can't shake the feeling that it's all on me.

Dinner for One

I remember, geez, what must have been MONTHS ago, when I wrote a very earnest post about how sad and depressing it was to eat dinner by myself in my new house when my children were with their dad.

Some very nice internet friends told me that I didn't have to sit at the table and eat a proper dinner. I could start a new tradition of eating in front of the TV, or eating out, or going to a friend's house for food.

All of which I tried to varying degrees of success.

But still, my kids weren't with me.

Fast forward to seven months later...and I set the table FOR ONE and eat a delicious dinner that I cooked up just for me when my kids aren't here. AND I LIKE IT. Sometimes I'm accompanied by music, often by a book, and maybe even the TV. It's whatever I want.

I no longer dread my weeks "alone", as they are rarely spent alone, and when I am on my own, I consider it a small triumph.

Let's get something straight - I haven't drastically changed my earlier stance that I would prefer my kids live with me full time. I STILL DO. But they don't. So, I'm making the most of it.

I am always AMAZED by what the passage of time brings to a situation - clarity, definition, APPRECIATION, understanding, acceptance. You'd never know it when you are living through it. Everything is HEIGHTENED - it's the BEST thing that's every happened to you, you'll NEVER survive, it was an AMAZING opportunity, it almost KILLED you.

But in retrospect, you realize that things aren't as EXTREME as you thought they were. (Is this coming out right?)

Look, I never wanted to get divorced. I certainly didn't want to give up 50% of my kids' time. I had no interest in buying and maintaining my own home. And I didn't think we would survive.

How SILLY. Perfectly silly.

Here's something I've taken away from the BIG D. A life lesson, if you will.

I no longer PANIC when something HAPPENS. I realize that it seems daunting or special or WHATEVER and really it is just another hurdle, no bigger or smaller than all of the other hurdles I have to jump over.

I wondered, as we broke our kids' hearts the night we told them of the divorce, if they would ever forgive me, ever be able to look at me, ever stop crying. I actually worried that WE WOULD NEVER BE OK.

But we're fine. It's working out. There are good days and bad days - but please - I bet YOU aren't divorced and you have both good and bad days. Don't you? Well?

I still get emotional. I still worry and smile and cry and feel excitement...it's not that I'm become an automatan. It's just that I know like I can put it all into perspective much easier now.

Remember how I was all honest and told you that my kids hate me? Yeah, well, that's ok.

I KNOW IT WON'T LAST FOREVER.

Bronx Beat

I have developed a deep and abiding love of poetry over the course of the last few weeks.

It is completely separate from the MASSIVE GIRL CRUSH I have on Amy Poehler. I feel like we have a chance. (Amy? Call me.)



Look, when I was in high school I was required to read poetry.

UGH.

I remember tattered anthologies and droning voices as we parsed our way through SIGNIFICANT WORKS by IMPORTANT POETS of this century.

I spent most of that class trying to get Tim Horn to look my way with well placed hair tosses and dropped pencils. (to no avail, in case you were wondering) I certainly didn't spend that time HEARING the poetry to which I was listening.

Wasted time. Wasted thought. Day after day in which we tore apart each line looking for hidden meanings and greater value when really the poet might have JUST MEANT WHAT HE WROTE.

But recently I had the chance to be exposed to poetry. I HEARD someone reading it and it was beautiful. Musical. Magical. Inspiring. The lilt of the voice, the pauses, the tone.

There was something IN THERE and I was finally finding it.

I went to the library and checked out no fewer than seven books - some by specific authors, some anthologies - and sat on my bed for hours trying to absorb them.

And I stopped trying to GET IT. Instead I just accepted that the poet wrote words, bursts of words, broken lines of prose, and he didn't expect me to GET IT. Just to hear it, feel it, soak it into my every pore and love it.

I have a few favorites. I enjoy the poems of Billy Collins (Marginalia is so great, as are others), Sylvia Plath (it's not as depressing as people want you to think), and then, even though I was afraid of him, ee cummings.

In fact, the name of my blog comes from a poem of his that I absolutely LOVE. It means nothing and everything to me.

Read it for yourself:

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she

 (may i touch said he

how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)

 may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she

 but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she

(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine! said he
(you are Mine said she)

My children hate me and other fun things!

You did read that, right? My children hate me.

You're loling, aren't you? You remember that post almost a year ago when I told you that JC and I were getting a divorce and you were waiting for the punchline - only to find out that I wasn't kidding.

Yeah. THAT.

It seems that divorce ISN'T EASY.

Aw, pick your damn jaw up off the floor. I HATE to shatter your deeply ingrained ideas about divorce, but it's a regular shit storm that doesn't wrap up neatly with closing credits and hipster music after two hours.

It's been ten months. (Plus two days, but who's counting?) And I'd like it to be known that I've come a long way. I no longer cry ALL THE TIME. I am able to fix my toilet, mow my lawn, clean my gutters, and pay my bills sans alimony. (I don't want that fool's money.)

It wasn't easy to get to this point, but I dragged myself, and often my children, kicking and screaming to the other side.

It reminds me of a conversation JC and I had years ago. Reed was young, probably eight years old, and he had become the pickiest eater. If it wasn't a starch or tan in color, he wasn't eating that AND DON'T TRY TO TRICK HIM, BITCH. The conversation included the idea that, just like potty training often feels as if there is no end in sight, no child comes home from college in a diaper begging his mother for his favorite meal of Tyson chicken nuggets and french fries.

So, I felt pretty confident, even in my darkest hours, that at some point we would be OK. Me AND my kids.

God how they hated us (me) at first. They didn't understand, didn't see it coming, didn't want the world as they knew it to come tumbling down. But there was rubble and I helped free them from it. It was a long and arduous process, often fraught with huge setbacks, but we emerged, mostly unscathed.

Don't worry, in preparation, I stocked up on bandaids.

Then something weird happened...it started a few months ago and reached a fever pitch in the last few weeks. Apparently I am not completely reprehensible or hideous or old.

YES. A few guys asked me out on dates. I'll give you a minute to roll that one around on your tongue. (Get your mind out of the gutter.)

But let me just make this clear to you: ONCE YOU ARE SOMEONE'S MOTHER YOU ARE NO LONGER ELIGIBLE TO DATE NOR MAY YOU PARTICIPATE IN THE LOTTERY.

(OK, I made that last part up - but the first part is 100% true.)

I tried to avoid it. I mean, you don't HAVE to date anyone. You can just have your friends and your trivia and your work AND SO MANY CATS THAT PEOPLE START TO GIVE YOU FUNNY LOOKS, and no dates.

Being alone does have it's perks. I had never had the chance to live by myself as an adult, and when my kids aren't with me (who are we kidding - they are almost ALWAYS here), I have learned to relish the time alone. (read: I walk around in my underwear and swear a lot. I'm cool like that.)

But everyone wants someone to share their shit with. Someone who gives a shit about their shit.

I recently told my kids that I had been "hanging around with someone" and that I wanted them to know because we had graduated to dating. (Saying that made me throw up in my mouth a little bit.)

Their reaction? CRICKETS. Mother. Fucking. Crickets.

Here's what I keep doing: I keep thinking back to April 23 when we sat the kids down in the living room and broke up with them...and how I pulled them from the rubble and back into living.

I want to be happy, I deserve to be happy (OK, OK, still trying to make MYSELF believe that one) and if I want to test drive a few relationships to see if having a person who cares about my shit makes me happy, my kids will eventually get used to it.

But I've still got those bandaids just in case.

Let Me In

I had a mind to try to stop you
Let me in, let me in
But I've got tar on my feet and I can't see
All the birds look down and laugh at me
Clumsy, crawling out of my skin




I feel like Michael Stipe is speaking directly to me in this one. And oh, Michael, how I want to let you in...but we both know, as soon as I let you in, I will panic, freak out, and then, unceremoniously, push you away.

It's my pattern.

I HAVE A PATTERN!

And so, this is what has been frustrating me for the past few months as my life shifts and twists, turns and careens - if we know our pattern, if it is something we understand on an intellectual level, something we can identify and talk about, why can't we change it?

I mean, I guess I know. It's not rocket science to come to the realization that patterns in our lives define our very being and become so ingrained in our fabric that to try to change them means to tear apart the whole and try to reimagine it as something new.

Which is scary as hell.

It's so much easier for me to continue on this self-destructive, sabotage-heavy path in which I want to trust someone, want to let someone in, yet am forced to push them away.

I even know that it stems from my relationship with my mother, in all it's screwed up glory. And ends with my other half wanting out after two decades.

I need to figure out how to be less hard on myself. I've got to believe that I'm worth it (cue cheesy shampoo commercial dialog here).

I know this intellectually...now how to make the rest of me believe.

I'm a whore

I am cheating on my first love.

For five wonderful years, I blogged about EVERYTHING that was important to me on The Litter Box. Sometimes tenuous, sometimes joyous, always honest, my blog became an extension of who I was, who I am. It is filled with hundreds of invaluable (to me) stories of my family, my job, pop culture references, comedy, and pain. When I scroll through that blog I find the most amazing stories about my kids that I know will one day mean the world to them. It's a book about a fantastic, wonderful life...with an expiration date.

I wrote daily. DAILY. And while this might not seem a feat to some, it is something of which I was incredibly proud. I solicited readers. I sought the approval and interest of others - some who knew me and others who didn't.

I made FRIENDS from blogging.

And daily writing turned into a novel, and then two novels, and (most recently) a foray into poetry.

I KNOW, RIGHT?

But ten months ago today, my circumstances were altered. I received an email and then a phone call which culminated in a divorce.

It was like The Sweater Song - I was coming Undone.

And I no longer found joy in writing.

I have missed A LOT about the life we had created for ourselves over the course of twenty-two years, and I have resented A LOT about the new normal I was forced to create.

But perhaps more than anything, I both missed and resented the loss of writing from my life.

I can't go back to The Litter Box. There are many reasons which I will let you speculate about, but I can't go back there.

My shit isn't together yet, and until it is, I'm still feeling my way around. But I want to write.

And I hope you'll want to read.

Most importantly, I hope you'll hang out while I work on happy, 'cause that's what I want to be.