Education is important. Social responsibility and emotional development are important. These beliefs are what drove me to find a good, solid 5 day a week program for Andy. And so I did.
Andy needs to be stimulated--he's ready to read, ready to learn, Mom's Day Out just wasn't cutting it, and this place just felt so 'right'. I love everything about his new school. They believe that children can do anything, they foster creativity, they practice tolerance and compassion, and they churn out remarkably smart and well-adjusted human beings.
Here's the hitch, and this is hard for me to write. The place is a hippie school. I have kind of known this, but the reality sunk in as I was handed the environmentally friendly hemp bag that Andy is to use in lieu of a backpack.
So this morning,
A: Mommy, where's my dinosaur backpack?
Me: Um, you have this great new bag instead.
A: Well it doesn't have dinosaurs on it.
Me: Yes, honey, but you have your dinosaur lunchbox. And see...this tree right here on the front means that they planted a tree somewhere because we bought this bag.
A: Someone needed a tree?
Me: Yes, Andy. And you provided them with one.
A: Oh. So are the people who planted the tree going to use my dinosaur backpack?
Me: Let's talk about your lunch (changing the subject). It's right here in this box. Very yummy things just for you.
A: Cheetohs?
Me: Um, no, your school has a 'no chip' policy, so Mommy made you some yummy sandwiches.
A: Did you put fruit rollups in there?
Me: No, but let me tell you about these SANDWICHES I made.
I don't know how to adhere to a no chip, no sugar, no presweetened or zero artificial-ized lunch policy, so I just made sandwiches. Three of them. PB and J, ham and cheese, and just plain cheese. I did slip in 2 Spongebob-Squarepants yogurts, violating at least 4 rules off the top of my head (no cartoon characters, no non-recyclable containers, no presweetened stuff, and chock full of preservatives).
So off we went to the commune...me, Andy, and the environmentally friendly earth bag thing packed to the gills with sandwiches. Me, the one with all kinds of subtle and not so subtle warm toned highlighted and colored blonde hair. Me, the one whose skin borders on orange because I spray tan so much. Me, the one that thinks Botox and permanent hair removal are the greatest inventions of the 21st century.
And as we pull in, the Hybrid SUV in front of us is sporting 2 bumper stickers:
Peace, Love, and Kindness are my Religion...and Free Tibet.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Furley
Very emotional morning. My sweet, nutty, energetic, and very hilarious 3 year old boy is about to start Montessori school. The questions ricochet in my head and I boo hoo. Am I ready for him to be a student and be gone every day? Will he do OK? What if he doesn't poop in the potty there? What if I really miss him and we are spending a fortune to send him to school and I can't do anything other than sit here and fret? What if I decide I want another baby?
Oh, but the days with him are so long. He asks a million questions and, what's more, has two million demands. Latest one is that he be referred to only as Furley. I asked if he wanted juice (using his given name) and it resulted in being berated for 4 minutes over me not respecting his wishes and calling him Furley. He is not a boy, he does not drink juice from a cup, he is a cat and he wants to drink milk from a bowl. His request is punctuated by a very loud meow.
I glance at the clock. 3 more hours. 3 hours until my little one goes for his trial run at his very exclusive school. 3 more hours of being the only source of guidance and structure in this little guy's world. I tear up more. 3 more hours. It's just school; he'll be fine. Everyone goes to school. It's just for a trial run, anyway...he doesn't start until tomorrow.
I look over. Furley grins. I've been at the computer for a few minutes...thought he was watching Tom and Jerry. What is that fluff I see and where did he find the glue stick? Furley the cat has taken his dulled scissors to our real cat, Minka. Minka now resembles a chemo patient on one side and Furley is gluing cat fur to himself.
And it occurs to me that this week is not indeed over. Andy doesn't start school until Friday and his time to visit school is tomorrow, not today. That means I have 27 hours to clean chopped cat hair and enjoy more quality time with Furley.
Oh, but the days with him are so long. He asks a million questions and, what's more, has two million demands. Latest one is that he be referred to only as Furley. I asked if he wanted juice (using his given name) and it resulted in being berated for 4 minutes over me not respecting his wishes and calling him Furley. He is not a boy, he does not drink juice from a cup, he is a cat and he wants to drink milk from a bowl. His request is punctuated by a very loud meow.
I glance at the clock. 3 more hours. 3 hours until my little one goes for his trial run at his very exclusive school. 3 more hours of being the only source of guidance and structure in this little guy's world. I tear up more. 3 more hours. It's just school; he'll be fine. Everyone goes to school. It's just for a trial run, anyway...he doesn't start until tomorrow.
I look over. Furley grins. I've been at the computer for a few minutes...thought he was watching Tom and Jerry. What is that fluff I see and where did he find the glue stick? Furley the cat has taken his dulled scissors to our real cat, Minka. Minka now resembles a chemo patient on one side and Furley is gluing cat fur to himself.
And it occurs to me that this week is not indeed over. Andy doesn't start school until Friday and his time to visit school is tomorrow, not today. That means I have 27 hours to clean chopped cat hair and enjoy more quality time with Furley.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Aunt Nickie
So Aunt Nickie is not really my aunt. She's my great-aunt...30 years older than me. I'm 42 now so that makes her kinda old. And she's lived the life that every girl back then in Texas wanted to live--traveled in grand style, had men at her beck and call, bought and did what she wanted, and was an oil wildcatter--just your West Texas drop-dead gorgeous woman that was determined to live better than she was raised. Ran into my great uncle, who was the best thing that Wichita Falls, Texas had going, married him, and helped him to do even better than he already was. Nickie was gorgeous, had movie offers, modeled a tad, and other than that never worked a day in her life. Things just happen for Nickie. Or they did.
Now Nickie just sits and cries that her good days are behind her. Swears that aging is the worst thing that can happen to a girl. People die, looks fade, and old age means you have nothing to look forward to. Since she never had kids, I'm the end source for her pontifications and observances.
Nickie says that education and your brain are the only things you can take with you. She says men fizzle no matter how hot they sizzle (and she sizzled through many in her day; a wedding ring did not deter her pursuits, regardless of whose finger the ring was on). Experiences, according to her, are bittersweet. The richer they are when you go through them, the more you miss them and reflect that your life is empty when they are gone. Maybe not initially, but when you get old. And I'm getting older so I think about what she says and can only hope her assertions are wrong.
That being said, one fact we ABsolutely agree on is that everybody, no matter how much they shine, has their own bucket of crazy. Maybe hidden under a facade of lip gloss, diamonds, or a high-power job, but it's there as sure as the sun will rise. It can start with the admission that yes, you do have an uncle who drinks a bit too much and mows his yard half-naked. Behind that and closer to home, though, is the truth that nuttiness and inconsistency are part of the human condition. Yeah, you may have the alcoholic uncle, but you've got your own bucket of crazy somewhere in that pretty little head of yours.
I'm here to suggest that you embrace your crazy. Life is short. Don't pretend like everything is above-board. Or let's just say that, if you do, I won't believe you.
Now Nickie just sits and cries that her good days are behind her. Swears that aging is the worst thing that can happen to a girl. People die, looks fade, and old age means you have nothing to look forward to. Since she never had kids, I'm the end source for her pontifications and observances.
Nickie says that education and your brain are the only things you can take with you. She says men fizzle no matter how hot they sizzle (and she sizzled through many in her day; a wedding ring did not deter her pursuits, regardless of whose finger the ring was on). Experiences, according to her, are bittersweet. The richer they are when you go through them, the more you miss them and reflect that your life is empty when they are gone. Maybe not initially, but when you get old. And I'm getting older so I think about what she says and can only hope her assertions are wrong.
That being said, one fact we ABsolutely agree on is that everybody, no matter how much they shine, has their own bucket of crazy. Maybe hidden under a facade of lip gloss, diamonds, or a high-power job, but it's there as sure as the sun will rise. It can start with the admission that yes, you do have an uncle who drinks a bit too much and mows his yard half-naked. Behind that and closer to home, though, is the truth that nuttiness and inconsistency are part of the human condition. Yeah, you may have the alcoholic uncle, but you've got your own bucket of crazy somewhere in that pretty little head of yours.
I'm here to suggest that you embrace your crazy. Life is short. Don't pretend like everything is above-board. Or let's just say that, if you do, I won't believe you.
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