Get Ma a Spritzer, It’s Over!

The Plunge

Mix me a spritzer and cue the Barry Manilow…the time has come. As I sit beside the blow-up pool in my backyard, sipping equal parts chardonnay and pineapple seltzer, I hear Barry singing softly in my ears, “Looks like we made it.” (PS I was today years old when I realized that the rest of the song consists of dirty 70’s sex lyrics.) Here at Oz Academy for Fine Young Boys, we have officially completed our first year of homeschooling and it looks like we made it. How did we do? Well, you know I’m ‘bout to tell you all about it.

We started this journey because there was no way that my one-eared, hard of hearing Nugget was going to survive in a world of masks. Not only did he struggle just to wear one (because one needs two ears for those things…) but he needs to see lips move to know who’s talking. It became quickly apparent that if the entire school was masked-up, 2^nd grade would be a wash for him. For clarification- I’m absolutely not anti-mask. In fact, I’ve relished the opportunity masks have provided for me to literally tell the world to ‘suck it’ behind the safety of my Wonder Woman face covering for the past year. And when this fat girl broke her front tooth on a chicken wing and was too scared of COVID to go to the dentist for 4 months, I loved that no one aside from those in my household had a clue. (ICYMI – here’s the tale) But when decisions were being made last summer, I knew we had to take the plunge. And, in our family, if we plunge one, we plunge all, so Number 1 came along too. (Middle school has been my jam for about 20 years so he was covered.)

Still, walking away from the system we’ve all known was hard. I’ve been a teacher for a lot of years, in a lot of places and in a lot of subjects over the years. In that time, I’ve developed some pretty granola crunchy ideas and philosophies about how to teach. Those crunchy ideas got reaffirmed as I dipped my toe into the public-school systems and watched special ed kids like my Nugget get shoved into the corners. If I was ever going to put my philosophies to the test, COVID was providing an opportunity, but I wasn’t sure if I had the cajones to take it. Could we really learn at home? Would they drive me insane? Did I have the ability to teach every subject? Would my kids turn into total freaks? I mean, with this weirdo for a mother, their freak quotient was already high. Most of all, would they resent the fact that I chose to experiment with an entire year of their educational lives?(Due to their crazy Turkish father, whose warning for everything is, ‘You do that and you can die.’ I’ve been building up therapy funds since birth so I was covered if they did.)

Well, I am pleased to say that this year was a smashing success and totally worth it. We spent hours on Cape Cod chasing seals and exploring salt marshes. We investigated Egypt by mummifying Barbies and making death masks. We researched their Ottoman heritage, built up Turkish vocab and learned their genetic link to Genghis Khan. (Which explained so much.) We dissected lobsters and owl pellets, measured the sizes of whales down our driveway and blew up lots of things – sometimes intentionally. We identified turds in our yard (fox, in case you were curious) and built Spartan helmets. We modeled the feudal system with Skittles and learned to make stuffed grape leaves. We hiked bogs and built catapults, wrote ridiculous tales and researched politics. We watched Young Frankenstein and read Mary Shelley. We studied chemical reactions and made Periodic table trading cards. Nugs went from reading below grade level at the end of 1^st grade to reading way above grade level and Number 1 read more novels than he has in his life and actually enjoyed it. They had book-talks with Aunties and practiced Turkish with family. And while Number 1 mastered pre-Algebra, Nugs went from not quite getting addition in his sped math class to starting multiplication with Mom. We. Kicked. Ass. And we did twice the work in half the time.

There were also days I wanted to set them on fire. At least once a month I threatened to call a sub – their father – because I couldn’t stand them anymore. (As Number 1 said, “There is absolutely nothing worse than Baba helping with math Mom. Nothing.” They can’t even imagine how bad it would be to have him teach English since he’s still working on it himself.) There were freezing winter days I made them go outside because they were asshats and I dealt with constant panic that I wasn’t doing enough. I haven’t peed alone since before COVID and there was literally never a break. I’m far more exhausted than after a year at school, but…it was worth it. I got to stop time. I got to spend extra time with my babies before they’re teenagers. I got to snuggle and read books in front of the fire on winter afternoons and teach my kids favorite lessons from my own years of teaching. I got to have picnics on the beach on a weekday and sleep a little later every morning. Most of all, we made our already tight bond even tighter. 

As the world creeps towards normal, decisions had to be made. After three years on a wait-list, Number 1 got into an awesome charter school for 8^th grade. He was nervous to accept the offer but he’s excited too. I’ve decided to stay out of school for a little while longer because Nugs and I are doing it again. After comparing the progress he made homeschooled versus traditional school there was no contest. Teaching your own kids all subjects is a butt ton more work than teaching one subject to 200 middle schoolers, but it’s way more fun. It’s not for the faint of heart but if your liver can handle the wine it takes and your patience is epic, I highly recommend homeschooling. But maybe check with me again after a year alone with my ADHD super spaz, just to be sure. Until then, Barry and I will be by the pool or maybe at the Copacabana, spritzer in hand.

Upstream Nugget

I’ve developed a new obsession with one of Mother Nature’s insane inventions. This has happened a lot this year. The boys and I have spent hours on the Cape watching jellyfish (or as I call them, floating danger loogies). I continue to remain fascinated by all things cranberry bog.  And of course, I have that disturbing love/hate relationship with Debby the Horny Turkey and her posse living in my woods. (ICYMI here’s Debby’s tale) But now that it is herring run time, I have a brand new obsession. 

River herring are a blueish-silver fish, about 12” long that spawn in late spring. Here’s the kicker, they have to leave the ocean, head to a stream, swim all the way upstream, and often up fish ladders, to return to their place of birth to spawn. Yes, they have to roll back up in their hood o’ origin to procreate, because Mother Nature said so. Impressive, since I can’t even handle taking a flight with more than one connection to get back to my hood o’ origin south of Des Moines.

People flock to a small stream next to Plymouth Rock to catch the herring action and of course, my badass homeschool self decided this year we should too. I had no idea what to expect because all I knew of herring was that it came pickled in a jar and smelled like ass. But after about 9 months of this homeschool jam, I’ve found that anything can become a field trip, especially watching fish swim upstream. So we bundled up, because yes, even in May we’re still wearing hoodies and pants in New England, and set sail for Plymouth Rock. (Ok, we didn’t sail and it’s only a 10-minute drive but when in Rome…) 

As we headed up the path next to the stream there was little to no action with the exception of Steve. That’s what Nugget named the lone silver devil floating belly-up at the start of the stream. “Gueth Theeve didn’t make the trip.” 

“Mom, if you brought us here to see a dead fish, I’m out.” Number 1 added. He’s rapidly morphing from my darling boy into a surly teen and I am not a fan.

“Have faith in the fish, buttheads.” 

By the time we reached the halfway point, the magic was happening and within a few more yards the entire stream, about 15 foot in width, was jammed full of herring, all swimming their little fins off and seemingly not moving an inch. The speed of the stream was intense and those fools just kept going. No one gave up. No one retreated. They just kept swimming against the current, determined to make it upstream. Once they actually made it through this rough section of stream they would face a massive ladder that each fish would have to fling itself up, step by step, in order to get past the grist mill blocking their way. The ladder would lead them to a quick respite in a pond before they took off on the next leg of their journey.  We were catching these guys not even a ½ mile out of the ocean, and at the very beginning of their journey. I was exhausted just watching them much like that time I peeked in on a spinning class.

The odds of survival and various facts were posted around the site and it was discouraging. It’s probably a good thing river herring aren’t avid readers. Their chances of success were slim and the odds of their kids making back to the ocean were even slimmer. There would be a lot more Steves along the way. But I couldn’t help but feel hopeful. I wanted to whip out some pompoms to cheer those little fishies on and give them some high-fins for effort. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but I felt connected to these herrings, deeply.

It wasn’t until later I realized why I felt so connected. (I mean, besides the fact that I’m a Pisces – obvi.)  Those fish, giving their all and believing in their souls that they were going to make it, were just like my Nugget. From the day that kid was born he has been swimming upstream. He was born with Brachio-Oto-Renal syndrome, a genetic syndrome that occurs one in 50,000. It came with one ear, a bum kidney, hearing loss, ADHD and a whole host of things that continue to pop up as he ages. He had more surgeries and procedures before the age of 7 than his father and I have had in our entire lives. People underestimate him at every turn but that sassy little Nug just keeps swimming with full-force.

Recently he had a major set-back when we realized his football coach was assuming that he was severely disabled because he can’t hear. The coach was treating him like a token charity chase by allowing him 2-3 plays per game and making a huge deal out of it and patting himself on the back. I was furious. Nugget was devastated. He’s played football for three years and this was the first time anyone assumed he wasn’t capable because of his hearing. 

Back at home, he packed up every piece of football gear he had and asked me to throw it away. I wanted to beat the crap out of that coach. He might be 6’5” and 300 to my 5’4” and none-yo-business, but a pissed off mama can take down Godzilla if it’s to defend her baby. But a couple days later Nugget informed me, “I’m quitting that team. They don’t deserve me. I might play next year with a better team or I might take up hockey instead.” And that was that. He was back in the water, swimming upstream, determined to get where he wanted to go reguarless of obstacles in his path.

I will always be sad that Nugget has to swim upstream, but I’m also in awe of my little herring. Just like those crazy fish, he defies the odds and keeps on swimming. He’s perfectly situated for world domination though. Some day when you’re taking orders from a one-eared, hyperactive nutjob with an epic lisp and potty-mouth, don’t say you weren’t warned. Nugget will be one of those herrings that get where they’re headed and I’ll always be there with my pompoms.

Homeschooling in Oz

We are almost two months into this homeschool madness and I am happy to say that not only has my wine consumption leveled out, but my kids have actually learned a few things. I know, right? I’m as surprised as you are on both counts! To be honest, unlike many parents who made this same choice to homeschool this year, I wasn’t jumping in blind to this whole education thing. In my 20 plus years I’ve taught some of society’s biggest asshats but I knew that even on my cherubs’ worst days, homeschooling them would not be that bad. Afterall, I taught English to entitled middle schoolers in a private school run by the Turkish mafia while nine months pregnant. I could certainly handle my two half-breed Turks.

Being the gal I am, I spent the month leading up to this adventure reading up on every style of homeschooling out there, from recreating school at home with a formal curriculum to the ultra-hippie unschooling (which is basically a damn free-for-all), before deciding on a spot in the middle. We’re taking an experiential, thematic, hands-on, cross-curricular, project-based educational approach here at Oz Academy. Oz Academy is the name I gave my little project not just because it’s a play on our last name, but because I can be either Glinda the Good Witch or Evillene the Wicked Witch at the drop of the hat. I like flexibility. 

So far, I’ve learned a lot through this whole experience. Like, I’ve learned that though I tried my best to make genetic odds work in my favor by mating with a math wiz, my kids did not get those genes. Conversely, I’ve learned that helping those students through that remedial 7^th grade math class last year was the most beneficial thing that ever happened in my teaching career. I’ve learned that spelling and English are boring, but they can be fun if you combine them with cool stuff like science and monster myths. I’ve learned that my Nugget isn’t possibly ADHD (as reported by past teachers) but rather he’s – hot freakin’ mess akin to a squirrel on a sugar high -level ADHD. I’ve learned my 7^th grader is a major slacker if left unattended and that my 2^nd grader didn’t really learn what he should’ve in 1^st grade. Most of all, I’ve learned that I am a big fan of not getting up at 4:30 in the morning to get to school by 7:00 and I much prefer a school day that starts at 9:00.

While there is a ton of work and I’m always tired from this process, I’m can’t imagine doing homeschool in a better geographical location. We’ve got the Mayflower and Wampanoags, Salem and Plymouth, the ocean and the bogs and so much more just minutes away. 

We’ve spent so much time on Cape Cod, we’re like the cousins the Kennedy’s don’t want to claim.

We’ve slogged through enough cranberry bogs to make our own Oceanspray commercial. (The boys are cran-grape dudes but I’m a purist)

We’ve caught snails and hermit crabs, dissected lobsters and used the leftovers for lobster rolls.

We’ve observed tides on the ocean side, then rushed across the Cape to compare the same tide on the bay side.

We’ve built Day of the Dead altars and the boys got to know about their grandfathers on both sides.

We’ve painted, drawn, sewn and sculpted.

We’ve mastered enough Turkish to get into trouble. (Nugget embraced the word ufak – pronounced like ooooo-f-u-c-k. It means small in Turkish but to Nugget it has many uses, none of them being small.)

We’ve biked miles and miles and kept Mom limping along.

We’ve made new homeschool friends and kept in touch with our homies.

We’ve read books about the Jersey Devil and compared the Boris Karloff Frankenstein with Mel Brooks’ version. 

We’ve become addicted to both the Munsters and the Adams Family.

We’ve fought over math and when it comes to pre-algebra, f-bombs have been dropped.

We’ve had to backtrack and re-teach, jump ahead and repeat.

We’ve cut days short when frustration was too much.

We’ve worked longer than expected and finished sooner than planned.

And we’ve had way more ups than downs. Ultimately, as the Covid rages again and politics crumble one thing has become clear. This decision to check out of society and take this less-than-standard approach to work and school was not an easy one but here in our little corner of the world one thing has been abundantly clear, we are exactly where we need to be in this moment and this mom is going to soak up every minute of it. (Even stinky farts when we’re snuggled in watching Morticia and Gomez.)

Perhaps the truth really came last week when the Turk eavesdropped as Nugget, my long-time special ed kid, was reading to me. That evening during cocktail hour the Turk said, “Honey, what happen to him? He can read. I hear him. He can read so good now.”

“I know right? He’s really taken off.” I beamed.

“I think maybe you know how to do this.”

*insert resting bitch face* “Ya think?”

Like I said, we’re right where we need to be.

Decisions Have Been Made…Forward Ho!

I started teaching by doing art classes for kids in college. After grad school I taught in Philadelphia, then in Turkey, Iowa, Indiana and Massachusetts. I’ve taught everything from art to science and a million things in-between. Until recently, (and except for teaching for the Turkish mafia at that one school…) I’ve always been in progressive education. I believe in progressive education because it’s hands-on, experiential, project based and above all else, student led. There is nothing like sitting with a class and asking them what they want to learn then boiling it down to a curriculum. For close to 25 years I have passionately followed my students on crazy academic adventures while touting the importance of making learners not memorizers. I’ve been watching light-bulb moments from surprising sources for my entire career and it has fed me.

Twice in my life I’ve ventured into public education, never lasting more than a couple years at best because public education is so very different than those places I’ve taught and it’s frustrating. Public education in the US is broken but tradition is strong and we’re all scared to change it. I was scared to change it. My own kids went through public education and we did ok for a while but this year, even before the world exploded and sent us all into our foxholes for home learning, I sensed my boys losing their light.

Nugget is in special education. Between being Hard of Hearing, ADHD (as hell!) and in need of occupational and speech therapies, he’s also very young for his grade so he needed that nudge that comes from special education. He wasn’t a huge fan of school but he did well for a few years, until first grade stole his light. When he couldn’t stay focused or keep up with the math, he was left to falter. He sunk into a hole whose sides were made of self-loathing, low confidence and a hatred of school. Thankfully, that’s about when Covid hit and I got a front seat to his situation.

Likewise, my 6^th grader was miserable. “Mom, it’s just so boring. Why do they just talk about things but never let us do it?” If I were not literally in his classes for my own job I would assume he was exaggerating but he wasn’t. I saw it every day myself. He was earning High Honors without doing homework or needing any help at home. Now, he’s no dummy but he’s also no boy genius. He simply wasn’t challenged, and it was killing him. He was bored and resentful.

I knew these things but like most of society, I wasn’t sure what to do. I’d always dreamed of homeschooling Nugget but finances didn’t allow for it. I knew his learning style wasn’t conductive to standard public-school methodology but what could I do until we could find a way for me to stay home? Plus, my view of homeschooling was very tainted by the anti-Darwin, militant Christian homeschoolers I’d met in Indiana. I didn’t want to be lumped into that.

We got Number 1 into a new charter school for the following year but in my gut I wasn’t sure that was the right move either. I waited anxiously all summer as the public turned on teachers, calling us everything from lazy union hacks to ungrateful slackers. (Hey? Weren’t you all just calling us heroes a few months ago when you got stuck teaching your own children and realized what buttheads they are? Whatevs.) I Zoomed into school committee and union negotiation meetings (while sucking back medicinal boxed wine) hoping, as the Quakers say, a way forward would open. But it didn’t and the union is still fighting valiantly.

Early on in this whole Covid mess, the Massachusetts head of education gave an empowering address about how this is the time to look at how we do things. This was the time for us to get progressive and make changes. My heart leapt as I screamed, “Hell yes!” startling my kids and cat. This was what I had been preaching for 20+ years. But now this is the same man who demands teachers sit in their classrooms to remotely address students because teachers should not be trusted to work from home. (Though we did it successfully for months prior.) It seemed that even in times as unprecedented as this and in a state as progressive as mine, the comfort of tradition paralyzes.

About a month ago, my husband, the Turk, and I were sipping cocktails in the treehouse and it all hit. “I can’t do this.” I said.

“Do what?”

“I can’t put the kids through this school mess. Nugget reads lips. He can’t read lips if everyone’s in a mask so it will be worse than last year and Number 1 is miserable. There is a better way to educate kids than this. I don’t want to do it like this for them.”

My dear husband simply said, “Don’t.”

“But what about money?”

“Honey, we have no money in Turkey and we make it. We have no money in Philadelphia and we make it. We always figure out. Now is for kids. We make it.”

Within days I devoured a million articles and books about homeschooling and soon found that there were very limited anti-Darwin militant Christian homeschoolers here in New England, but lots of hippies(and former teachers) like me that didn’t believe in the system anymore. I cheered along to podcasts about creating learners instead of memorizers as I went on my walks (I looked like a nutjob but I was moved.) and was empowered to rewrite my children’s education path and homeschool for the next year.

So Mrs. O is trading in her title. The boys helped create our curriculum and we managed to find a way to spend most of the first month at the beach doing everything from reading currents to analyzing bryozoans. (When mom taught science and dad is a water engineer, we go hard in the science zone.) We’re all excited about this new page and I’m proud of myself for putting my money where my mouth is and taking this philosophical plunge. The Quakers were right, a way forward did appear, just not where I was watching.

As is always the case with us, we never know what’s next so stay tuned because it’s bound to be interesting!

 

A Hard Earned Holiday Haze

There are mere hours left until I have to return to reality. Were I not a grown-ass woman, I might fold my arms, bow my head defiantly and simply refuse to put on pants and go, but there are bills to pay and responsibilities to be upheld so hence, I must return to work. I must go back to packing lunches, prodding my offspring through homework and taking on the role of personal Uber for my family, oh reality. But this year I’m more ready to return to reality than I’ve been in years.

In the past, when I began the glorious educational hiatus that is Christmas break, I made lofty organizational goals, domestic aims that might make Martha Stewart proud and parenting ambitions that would land me a feature in any issue of Working Mother. Usually I achieved about 90% so I assumed this year would be no different. My 2019 to-do list included baking six types of cookies and 4 kinds of fudge, color-coordinated gift-wrapping, a host of holiday kid projects and enough family activities to make the Brady Bunch jealous. As the last days of school wrapped up I was ready to turn my energy to that list but then Nugget got cooties and thus began my downfall.

My poor Nugget not only missed the 1^stgrade Christmas concert but also all the glory of the pre-break madness as he was stuck at home with the Turk shivering from a nasty fever and a host of germs flowing through his body.

“He has fever.” The Turk alerted me at work.

“I know. He’s had it since yesterday. How high?”

“High.”

“What’s the number?”

“I don’t need number. I am Turkish. I could tell when I touch him so I give him medicine.”

“Well in America we judge fevers with numbers so I’m going to need that.”

Five minutes later I received another text, “His fever is 82 degrees.”

“Um no. Try reading it again.”

“Is digital. I read it right. 82.”

“I’ll be home in 10.”

After a lesson on how to take a temperature, and a call to the doctor, I learned that my beloved Christmas break would be taking a 3-5 day delay due to a  nasty virus winding it’s way though the elementary schools. No outings, no activities, no baking, just hours of snuggling with my baby.

While it wasn’t what I’d planned it was exactly what I needed after the past few months of madness and mayhem. We caught up on some of his shows, (That Apple and Onion never cease to crack me up.) watched a large hunk of classic Star Wars movies and put everything on the back burner. It was blissful.

I assumed that as soon as Nugget was recovered we would pick up my to-do list and we did…kind of. By the time the cooties had left him it was a mad dash to get things ready for Christmas so we cut down the list and punted. We managed to make an insane amount of cookies expertly decorated by Nugs and the color-coordinated wrapping morphed into a “done is good” situation. And while in days gone by I would have been a hot mess over such slacking, this year my advanced age (and perhaps the box of wine) allowed me to accept defeat gracefully while my butt melted into my sofa.

Instead of worrying about giving my family a Martha Stewart worthy holiday season I abandoned them. I started by spending a couple days in Maine solving holiday themed murders before heading to Connecticut to dissect the psychological diagnoses of Mr. Parish. I stole money from a plane crash in Bora Bora while scuba diving and lived in a drug-fueled haze with a band loosely resembling Fleetwood Mac. (It’s amazing what can happen when you avoid Facebook.) I’ve never managed to finish this many books in two weeks since…ever but once I left reality I couldn’t go back.

I devoured book after book on the Reese Witherspoon Book Club list – PS – I’m way more Reese’s Club than Oprah’s. Reese keeps it real with smut and murder and I appreciate that. And when I wasn’t reading I was learning how to exploit my paranoia with the Doomsday Preppers (Those people are certifiable.) and how to save my Homestead with Marty Raney. (My entire family is now addicted to Homestead Rescue and Marty’s hairy chest.) I’m not really and HGTV gal, I need more drama like missing outhouses and underground bunkers and Marty fits the bill perfectly.

So now that fudge is no longer coursing through my veins and I’ve had more relaxation than I’ve had in over a year, I might be ready to go back to middle school. Break didn’t look anything like I’d planned and it was awesome. And maybe, just maybe I will keep it up until the sun comes back in April… but until then, you can find me in Bora Bora…or maybe Tailand…wherever Reese sends me.

 

Man of the Ear

“Are you really sure about this?” I asked Nugget one last time as we spun through the hospital’s revolving door for the third time. (Revolving doors never get old in our family.)

“Yeth. I am thure. I’m ready Mom.” The idea of letting a six-year-old make his own medical decisions seemed nuts but in the end, it’s his body. After spending the summer jumping through more hoops than a participant in the Westminster Dog Show, Nugget will be heading into surgery tomorrow to get an abutment implanted in his skull that will eventually hold his hearing aid and while he can’t wait, I’m ‘bout to lose my damn mind.

Six years ago this chunky Nugget came roaring in and while he was as big as a small toddler, weighing in only an ounce shy of 10 pounds, he had more issues to contend with than his thunder thighs. He had a kidney that didn’t quite work taking up his entire abdomen. He had a divot in his throat that we hoped had closed better on the inside than it had on the out and as a cherry on the top, he had one ear. The other spot was filled in with a tiny nub that kind of resembled a mini-ear but with no opening or inner workings. After failing the newborn hearing test and a few kidney scans we spent his first couple years splitting our time between children’s hospitals and doctors until we finally got the diagnosis that put it all together – Branchio-oto-renal syndrome. Branchio-the divot in his throat, oto- that missing ear and renal, the  hot mess kidney. With an official answer, we were on our way to getting a handle on things.

The first three years of his life were filled with procedures, surgeries, early interventionists, audiologists and a mother that played detective better than Cagney and Lacey combined. Eventually we hit a good groove and things became manageable. A speech impediment and anxiety issues are far easier to deal with than internal organ issues but there was still one surgery left and that one is happening tomorrow.

Because he doesn’t have an ear, there is no place to put the hearing aid and no tube to send the sound through so he wears a BAHA (Bone Anchored Hearing Aid). He’s worn it on a headband up until now that holds the aid close to his bone and transmits soundwaves through his skull. But being the one-eared guy wearing a Bjorn Borg head-band all day as well as a transmitter around his neck connected to one around the teacher’s neck has taken a toll on his self-esteem. (And I thought being the chubby kid was rough!)

Last year a little asshead from a neighboring class did mock him but the perpetrator was quickly reported by the class narc and received a harsh punishment. I asked Nugget if he was upset about the incident, “Nah. It didn’t bother me because I didn’t hear him.” Note to the asshat, if you’re going to mock the one-eared guy, you’ll need to do it on the side he actually has an ear or your efforts are fruitless. This is a prime example of how Nugget handles all this. In his six years he’s gained more self-acceptance than most adults. Last week he came home from school with  a self-portrait complete with one ear, “Dats who I am Mom. I’m just keepin’ it real.” It worked for Van Gough, so why not Nugget?

Six is the magical age when a kid can break free of the headband and get an abutment implanted so the hearing aid just snaps on, streamlining the process and turning him into “a man” as Nugget explained. “When I get my BAHA implant, I’m going to be big, like a man. No more little kid.” He has been counting down to this manhood for years. This summer we got the approval and now it’s time. It’s all great for him but the thought of wheeling my baby into surgery one more time gives me more anxiety than the current political climate. And if I’m bad, my husband The Turk, AKA Captain Anxiety, is about to blow. 

“Baba is thrething me out Mom.” Nugget confided in me last night in bed.

“Right??!? He stresses me out too!” I confirmed.

“Can we leave him home?”

“Sorry Nugs but no. We can send him for coffee a lot though and if we take him he can drive and we can snuggle in the backseat.”

“Thounds good to me Mom.”

So send some good vibes our way for tomorrow, Nugget becomes a man, or at least his ear does and while that happens I’ll be twitching and pacing and The Turk will be getting coffee….again…and again.

 

Hi Ho Hi Ho, Back To Work I Go..

School has started and I’m about to lose my damn mind. It’s not like this is a surprise or anything. I’ve been doing the school year mom spaz-out for the last seven years with two in school for the past three. I’ve worked either full or part-time for all but one of those seven years so I’m not a noob, yet somehow, after a summer of lounging on the beach and sipping afternoon spritzers, I always manage to develop a case of amnesia regarding the level of suckage that occurs when school returns. At present, I’m three weeks in and already feel like I am being pummeled by a heavyweight champ from 5:00am to 9:00pm every single day.

When the alarm sounds at 4:45 my mind instantly fills with profanity. I am a morning person but 4:45 isn’t morning. It’s like morning eve, not quite night and not quite morning. It’s a limbo time when I should not be awake. From the moment I jump over the cat and begin the morning routine it’s a sprint. Number 1 now gets on the bus an hour earlier than his brother so that means any chance of alone time is gone unless I get up at 3:45. (To that I say, no. Just no.) It’s better to be a stressed-out nut-job all day than rise two hours prior to the butt-crack-of-dawn. The marathon from getting one on the bus and the other to before-school care before racing to work leaves me as breathless as when I was a fat kid in gym class struggling through the Presidential Fitness Tests (Thanks Regan. Like Reganomics and Just Say No that was another plan that didn’t work out in the long run but I digress with my liberal tendencies.) After that 2.5 hour sprint it’s time to work a full day with smelly, surly middle schoolers before the afternoon shift of laundry, homework, dinner and running back and forth to the various lessons, practices, appointments and meetings my children deem important to their young lives. 

At 6:00 when the Turk arrives home from his quiet train ride back from the city after a grizzling day punching computer keys behind his desk in a climate controlled office that likely does not smell of a sweat-sock and puberty cocktail, he mutters, “Wow, I am tired.” To which I respond by placing all sharp objects from my reach because the urge to cut a bitch is real. But this is the reality of most working moms and it sucks. Occasionally add in taking on a burly football coach, panic over a hearing aid that goes missing, a burst of adolescent emotions or a forgotten homework assignment and it’s amazing so many children actually make it to adulthood. It’s also understandable why mothers have cornered the market on wine consumption.

The thing is, no one warns you when you’re sniffing your tiny baby’s head fresh from the hospital that motherhood will so quickly turn into a crap-storm and that baby smell will be a distant memory like your perky boobs and waistline. All too quickly you will go from swaddling a gorgeous bambino to wrestling sweat-soaked sports gear from your offsping while trying not to inhale a bodily stench comparable to a decomposing bovine. (I grew up on a farm. I know this stench.) 

There is one positive in the hot mess existence this year though. For the first time ever I share a school with one of my babies. Number 1 son is now a full-on middle schooler which means that along with all the horrors that come with middle school (PS I’ve been in middle school for 20 years and it is still just as bad as when you were there.) he has the added joy of running into his mommy in the halls and lunchroom. Occasionally I can’t resist the urge to pinch his little cheeks and blow him a kiss from the hallway as I take the job of SMother to the next level. It’s comforting to know he’s in the same building and while I thought he might disown me, he’s actually enjoying it too. Likely because not only do I SMother him, I SMother his friends too. We also get a full hour together sans Nugget due to stepped dismissal times and that has been absolutely amazing. Sharing a school with your kid takes mom control to a new level and it’s AWESOME. 

Thankfully in all this madness, my husband the Turk has offered to help lighten my load, “Since you are very busy, I can feed cat so you not have to worry.”

Yes, he is swooping in to take the pain of cracking open a can of Tender Viddles and dumping it into a cat bowl each day off my to do list. Thank God! I could’ve never done that on my own!

Here to you, moms. Hang in there. Christmas break is only 97 days away.

A Baller He Is Not

 

“Other way!!!! Run the other way!!” Screamed a gym full of parents and grandparents from the bleachers. Nugget, oblivious to the words coming at him because he won’t wear his hearing aid in a noisy gym, offered a smile and wave before he continued dribbling down the court to the opponents’ basket. Fortunately, he stopped short of shooting into their basket. Finding himself suddenly alone with no one guarding him, he decided to shoot at the nearest basket instead. Unfortunately, the basket he chose was the practice basket on the side of the gym. That did not deter the 5 year-old baller though. He took about five shots resulting in five air balls before finally losing the rebound to an unusually tall 7 year-old that had made his way down the court.  Nugget was proud of his possession and the bleachers shook with the bladder busting laughter often found at sporting events of the under 7 crowd. It was a win of a different sort.

Nugget had a similar showing during this past flag football season. During one play, his objective was to grab the handoff, pivot and take it the 10 remaining yards over the goal line. Excited by the opportunity to be the runner, Nugget took off, forgetting the part of the play when he needed to pivot. He tucked the ball under his arm and ran. He ran and ran and ran. Again, the sidelines full of parents tried to help him out “Other way! Not that way!” and again Nugget sans hearing aid assumed that was just a cheering section and offered a thank you wave. When it was clear he wasn’t going to stop, the fans changed course, “Run little guy! Run!!!” And that he did, all the way into the neighboring soccer field. 

Initially, I thought maybe his sporting difficulty was simply because he couldn’t hear. As a guy with one ear, it is hard to always catch the play when a team of kids is excitedly squeaking in the only ear you have. After the football run, my husband, The Turk, and I considered the idea that football might be a too much for Nugget because it required more hearing and concentration than my hard of hearing, attention deficit child could muster. We decided he’d have better luck at basketball because ultimately, the process was pretty basic. Dribble, run, shoot. We were wrong.

In addition to the dribbling drills, Nugget added some dance moves, spinning and swaying his way up the lane. When they practiced guarding, his moves took on a disco slant and during shooting, he struck a victory pose after every missed ball. During games he ran in circles waving his arms and usually panicked and forgot dribbling was a requirement if the ball landed in his hands. As I watched my flailing Nugget I was reminded of an adorable middle schooler I taught years ago. In addition to teaching Danny, I was also his tennis coach. Tennis and Danny were not a winning combo. In every doubles match I had to remind Danny that there was a time and place for tap dancing and it wasn’t on the tennis court. When not using his racquet as a dance prop, he used it to wage epic sword fights with an invisible nemesis and like my Nugget, he could spin and shimmy like a champ. Though coaching Danny was craz-inducing, I loved that boy and he turned into a fabulous man. (Word is he’s still dancing.) 

Remembering Danny did comfort me on Nugget´s future but still I was concerned with his immediate performance. His brother is a natural athlete, only hindered by his height. Number 1 has stood about a foot shorter than most players on both his football and basketball teams this year but he has still managed to kick butt. Nugget adores his brother and tries desperately to emulate him but his performance in the sports area is slowing showing that might not be possible. While Number 1 seemed to directly inherit the genes of his father and former professional athlete grandfather, Nugget appears to have inherited the genes of his mother, the benchwarmer. 

My career in sports looks like this______________________________nothing. I did spend one season on the girls tennis team back in 10th grade but spent most of that season on the bench. I was athletically challenged as a child. I had a minimal interest in football and I was rather skilled in 4-Square at Jefferson Elementary but that is about where I maxed out. As an adult I took up running and while I love it, I suck. I’m slow and wheezy and don’t have a lot more than a couple miles in me at my best. But watching Nugget’s sashay form while playing guard did give me hope. The kid does have solid dance skills and a flare for the dramatic like his mother. He has no interest in the artsy fartsy way of life yet, but in time he might find his way. 

I realized that playing sports was not my jam but I am damn good at sports momdom. No one is louder or more overprotective than this mom. I’m the first to take on a washed-up football coach twice my size if he is disrespecting one of my babies (true story and that fat bastard is still scared of me.) and if you bench my kid in favor of your talentless turd of a child just because you’re the coach, you will feel my wrath. Hopefully, like his mother, Nugget will someday find his place but for now, I think we might forgo soccer season and look into a modern dance class. From what I’ve seen on the basketball court, he might be a natural.

Mama Don’t Need No Tribe

Everyone has those words or phrases that rub them wrong way like the ever-despised word “moist.” Personally, that one isn’t a trigger for me because when someone says “moist” my mind automatically follows that with “cake.”

It’s not gross words that rile me up, but more phrases that might be found in a middle management training manual, like “team building.” Or, “I just want to circle back to that.” Unless we’re out riding our bikes to the Dairy Queen in 6^th grade or rounding up our wagon train to conquer the Wild West, I see no need for you to “circle back,” just call me.

But the phrase that has really been eating at me lately is “my tribe.” As an incredibly politically incorrect human, it’s probably shocking to most that I might be a little uncomfortable with that term. I’m especially uncomfortable when “my tribe” is used by a bunch of white chicks in reference to likeminded friends when they’re out grabbing pumpkin spice lattes. Even we offensive broads have limits.

This whole tribe thing has been stuck in my brain lately though and I’ve been giving it way more thought than necessary. It started last week when I was having a difficult time with Nugget which resulted in a true special needs mom meltdown. That’s when it was suggested that the answer to my problems was that I needed to find “my tribe.”

At the risk of sounding like an 80’s Rob Lowe character, I’ve always been a loner. People are fine and all, and I do have a pocket of friends I consider to be sisters and gay brothers, plus a huge web of people beyond that, but I’m an arms-length kind of gal. I don’t do tribal friendship. (Perhaps because I don’t do pumpkin spice lattes?) However, in my pocket of sisters and gay brothers and even in my web beyond, I don’t have any close special needs parent connections so my journey with Nugget has been a lonely road.

When you have a kid that carries a genetic label few have ever heard of and even fewer can spell (Branchio-oto-renal syndrome doesn’t usually pop up in spell check), and has a whole host of diagnoses that follow him around, it’s easy to feel like Tom Hanks in Castaway with no one to share your woes but Wilson the washed ashore volleyball. (Full Disclosure: sometimes when the Turk and I do talk about Nugget’s issues, the big English words throw him off and he basically turns into Wilson too. I love him but I know his limits.) But a tribe? I don’t know about that kind of hippie madness.

Last year Nugget finally started to catch up developmentally. About mid December, that dude started busting through every limitation that had been weighing him down. He gained years in months and it was exactly what my mom heart needed to believe things were finally going in the right direction.

And then this year he got stuck in a mudbog. Since school started this year Nugget has stagnated. No growth. No change. When I persist, “Let’s work on letters.” I’m met with, “Nope. Can’t do dat.”

If I try, “Let’s write together.”

I get, “No. I can’t.”

It’s killing my old teacher heart.

In addition to his genetic anomalies, Nugget also drew the long straw on a healthy dose of stubborn Turk genes too. Many a teacher and medical professional have said, “Wow, he really only does what he wants to do.”

To which I can only respond, “It seems you’ve not met his father.” But recently those Turk genes are about to do me in and have me worried of they are a sign of more than just obstinace.

The driving force behind my recent meltdown, the one that spurred the whole tribe thing, has been Nugget’s hatred of everything resulting in hissy fits that would make Naomi Campbell proud. There are tears, flailing, occasional profanity and relentless arguing and that’s just on Nugget’s side. I’m about a step from postal.

Simply put, Nugget doesn’t want to do anything.

Go to school – hissy fit.

Go to anything for his brother– hissy fit.

Grandma shows up – hissy fit.

Grandma leaves – hissy fit.

And the list goes on and on. After one particularly rough day when the hissy fit was so bad at school he had to go home, I immediately spiraled into a pit of mom guilt so deep even mid-day, high-dollar chocolate couldn’t bring me out.

It’s been a rough year with a new and highly incompetent teacher (It’s not brain surgery girl, it’s special ed preschool.) and I’m beginning to think special ed is holding him back. I spiraled from, maybe we should pull him from that school, to maybe if I weren’t so busy taking care of other people’s kids all day mine wouldn’t be in this mess.

I talked it out at work, (A major advantage to dealing with special ed school issues for you own kid is working in a special ed school) until I finally relented and called Wilson – I mean, the Turk. I’m not sure why I was moved to call him but I assumed that women with tribes do that kind of thing.

“I don’t know, I just think maybe if I weren’t working all the time I could get Nugget going again and put an end to this crap.” I whimpered on the verge of tears.

“No.” The Turk replied.

“What?”

“Honey, calm down. He is asshole. Even if you home all the time, he still be asshole.”

“Are you joking?” Sometimes it’s hard to tell with that accent.

“No. Don’t you remember Number 1 at this age? He was asshole too. He is not asshole now so they get over it. You don’t need to quit.”

The Turk was right. There was never a time when I understood more fully why animals eat their young than when our oldest was four. He was indeed a raging asshole but fortunately, he grew out of it.

“When I kid, I hate school too. My father get so mad because I never learn letters or write. I not do it because I thought it was stupid. Maybe he’s the same. Relax. We get him there.”

And with that, my meltdown ended. I didn’t need some ridiculous tribe; I only needed Wilson to finally talk back to me on my desert island.

Unfortunately, we are only 3.5 months into this grand age of 4 and with some wine and more high-dollar midday chocolate, I might make it through. Better than that though, I realized a gal doesn’t need a tribe as long as she has a straight shooting Turk.

 

Arrrrrrgggg, Fall Break, How Dare Ye!

I’m having a difficult relationship with fall break this year. I’m torn and I think it might be best if fall break and I see other people.

Don’t get me wrong, like any human who spends their days in the trenches, dodging free-range sneezes and sauntering through unexpected fart bombs having chosen the title of Teacher, I love me some fall break. After two hard months of school, (2 months immersed in middle school hormones mind you) Mama needed a break. I mean, how long can one discuss worm poop and owl regurgitation before needing a breather? But somehow, this year fall break wasn’t what I needed.

It wasn’t like I was expecting an actual “break,” bingeing on Netflix and merlot while thumbing through People. No, that’s the stuff dreams are made of. For teacher-moms, a school break is never really a break. You just go from working two full-time jobs to working one (though not packing lunches and living via Crockpot for a few days is AH-MAZING!). Instead, I was ready for a break filled with outdoor entertainment with two tiny Turks, later bedtimes and a break from our insane schedule. What I wasn’t expecting was for fall break to show me how much I miss out on by working all the time.

Missing my babies didn’t hit at first, likely because the Turk and I made the error of taking a family get-away at the start of break. We were just going on an overnighter but as history has shown us, that never goes well.

This trip, like many through our history, went downhill from the onset.

“Why there are no signs for Cincinnati? We are driving for two hour, we should be there now.” The Turk muttered while making another obscene gesture at another passing truck.

Because I’m now well-versed in life with the Turk, I pulled up the directions on my phone to assess the situation. “You took 70. You were supposed to take 74.”

“What?” He wailed. “No. Your phone has problem. It is always wrong.”

Again, because I’ve lived this life for a looooong time, I pulled it up on his phone as proof.

“Oh.” He whispered. “They must have put wrong sign up back there.”

“I’m sure they did honey. I’m sure they did.”

Thus began an hour long journey through winding rural Indiana roads by two people terrified of Indiana (If you didn’t read my last post, click here. It explains everything.) with a ¼ tank of (PS- Rural Indiana, if you could replace just one or two of those churches with a gas station, that would be fantastic. Thanks.) and two carsick, starving children. By the time we reached civilization on the Ohio border, Number 1 was hangry, Nugget was nearly catatonic and I was surlier than normal. When the Turk proclaimed, “I think we just keep going to zoo. I am not so hungry.” after having stuffed his face with a family-sized bag of peanut M&M’s, I began to vividly imagine his death and wondered if the Twinkie Defense would hold up.

However, I didn’t get a chance to plot his demise because my darling offspring beat me to it. From the backseat came an uncharacteristically loud, “No Baba! Not this time. We are going to eat and we are going to eat now or you will regret it!” from Number 1. Never doubt the power of a hangry 9 year-old.

That incident was followed by stomping through a crowded zoo in unseasonable heat, a Nugget meltdown because a bird looked at him, a hostile tirade from the Turk because the gorilla exhibit was under construction (One word man, Harambe. The construction was justified.) and a skeezy hotel in which the elevator got stuck and the air conditioner fell off the wall. While it may seem dramatic, that’s pretty much how all of our family overnights pan out so it was no big thing and we made it out alive.

The boys and I spent the next chunk of break planning out Halloween costumes. Having a mom who used to be a professional costume designer, my boys think big when it comes to costumes. The day one of my children asks for a store-bought costume I may weep (in a sadness/relief combo).

Nugget had an exact image in his head but getting a four year-old with a speech impediment to explain that image can be challenging.

“Mom, I need a hooker for Hawoween.”

“Hubba whaaaaaa?”

“I hooker. I need one.”

I’ve never been one of those parents skilled in the art of keeping inappropriate topics away from little ears, but I’m also pretty sure a discussion of hookers never came up in our house. So hope was strong we were just having a miscommunication.

“You need a what?”

After a few charades it became clear what he really needed was a pirate’s hook for his hand. Because as he explained, “I can’t be a piwate wifout a hooker.”

And that was it. I was done. Sometimes it takes your 4 year-old asking for a hooker and your 9 year-old threatening harm to his father to show you how fast they’re growing up and to send a mom into a meltdown.

Our fall has been hectic with pee wee football (PS- We won the league championship though I may not be allowed to attend another championship game due to some language choices made in the heat of the moment.) a million other commitments and a raging battle with Nugget’s special ed class as I struggle to find out why he’s in a developmental standstill. I run out the door at 7:00 and rush back at 4:30. By the time we tackle daily tasks we’re lucky to have a couple hours together before bed. I miss my boys and spending a few full days with them always shows me how much.

So fall break, even though I longed for you, you suck. While I needed a few days without getting up at the butt-crack of dawn, I didn’t need the reminder that our life is like a raging river and I’m bobbing along like a flailing carp. If fall break left me in this state, all I can say is Christmas break- have mercy on me.