Mom’s Version of the Story:

There is little evidence that LM is truly my child. I have stretch marks, scars and stories to convince anyone that I did go through labor but actually proving that he is mine biologically is another matter. There must have been a mix-up at the hospital.

I obviously love to write. I love to tell a story full of engaging details. I love for a reader to know what I’m saying through examples, analogies, and metaphors. I tend to go overboard trying to make a point.

LM hates to write. Or at least he hates to write when it is an assignment. Give him a pencil and paper or sit him down at his old word processor and he’ll gladly write a story about a command ship in Vector 12 encountering enemy aircraft. He’ll tell you how many missiles each has, exactly what they sound like overhead and the screams of the pilots. He has drawn over 30 “adventures” of Smilie Man Comics, his own personal comic strip hero.

But give LM a fourth-grade writing assignment or ask him to correspond with his pen-pal, Caleb, and I’m lucky to get three sentences out of him. In school, they not only write for the sake of writing, they have to write out how they figure out their math problems. They are instructed to use prompts like: “First I…”, “Then I ….”, “Next…” and “Finally I used…”. He would rather stick pins in his eyes. Math is easy. He can solve the problem in his head in seconds flat. But writing out HOW he figured out the answer could take an hour.

This is why his report card has always scored an “A” in Reading, an “A” in Math and a “B” in Writing. “Lack of details”, “Lack of organization” and “Not citing evidence” are some of the areas that have needed improvement. We’ve talked it through. We’ve practiced writing; we have outlined our writing beforehand. I’ve used every method I can think of to help him enjoy the process a little more. He loves to read, and I try to show him how it’s the details that make reading so interesting. But he refuses to translate this into his own writing.

Last night I had conferences with his teacher. It was “optional” but I chose to go, knowing some of the troubles we’ve had this year – more socially than academically. I adore his teacher this year. She’s incredibly young but she really seems to have a great understanding of the kids and has done a wonderful job with LM. Report cards come out today but they give you a copy at conferences to look over. I went over it carefully with his teacher talking about areas he has shown improvement in and areas that still need work before the end of the year.

When I left the conference, I met up with LM out in the lobby of the school. I looked at him sternly and told him to sit down right where he was, we needed to talk. I held up the report card and he said, “oh no.” I sat down next to him and followed the grades for writing across from the first quarter to the second to this third marking period. It took a moment before he realized….

LM’s Version of the Story:

I got an “A” in Writing!!!

P.S. Mom took me out for cheeseburgers to celebrate!

I absotively posilutely have to get a new vacuum cleaner. My hoover upright (with bag) has been around for oh, about 8 years and has filled its duties and is now ready to retire. With a dog and two cats, there is a requirement that our household vacuum actually suck up fur and the Hoover has decided this is no longer in its job description so we need to part ways.

I have read rave reviews (on blogs) about the Dyson Animal. As LM’s dad pointed out, it didn’t get rave reviews from Consumer Reports. So….

I NEED INPUT!!

What do you have, what does your sister or your mom have? Do you/they love it? Do you have pets? Do you use the tools? Give me the scoop!
(Please?)

I had Pottery Class tonight. We watched a movie about an artist that made teapots that I thought were hideous. I suppose that’s part of art, isn’t it? I trimmed up some of the pots I made last week and made two new ones. One that I made tonight I wrecked, but it looked kind of cool so I kept it, even though it’s really a “mistake”. That’s art, too, isn’t it?

As I was getting ready for class, though, I was trying to think of what it was that I wanted to make tonight. I’ve made several pots. I’ve made several cylinders. I’ve even made a really ugly mug and a lopsided saucer. I just don’t know enough about what is possible with the abilities that I have.

To continue along the symbolic nature of my pottery posts, it has recently occurred to me that I don’t know what it is that I want to make out of the rest of my life, either. I had imagined that I would be married with several kids at this point and I wouldn’t have to consider my options until all of my kids were in school, but that ol’ curve ball that life threw my way has given me a chance to “redream”. What do I want out of the next five years? The next ten?

I am at as much of a loss to answer that as to what to make out of the mound of clay sitting on the wheel.

I’m not sure how it is that we figure out what is it that we really want to do. I can ask myself all kinds of questions, but I come up with answers that to some degree feel out of my control. I’d like to be married again. I’d love to have more children. But right now, that’s not a door that feels ‘open’. I’m nowhere near close to either of those two options.

Given my current life, what would I like to be different? What would I do for a career if I could choose any? Where would I like to live if I could live anywhere? What sort of hobbies do I wish I had?

My answer to all of the above is: I.Don’t.Know.

I remember when I went to college. I entered the doors with the determination to become an International Business major. Whatever that meant. I took all the typical freshman courses and in my sophomore year, when I took Macro and Micro Econ, Business Stats I and II, Accounting I and II and the like I realized I hated business. I switched to a degree in Elementary Education without a clue of what I really wanted to teach. Luckily, throughout your early courses in the major, you spend time in various classrooms and I spent a spring break at my step-mom’s elementary school going from classroom to classroom until I realized that I hated the really young learn-to-tie-your-shoes classes, and really enjoyed the older, we-understand-metaphors ages. I student taught 6th grade and loved every second of it.

I wish I could do something similar now. Dabble in marketing. Try out photography as a hobby. Visit several states to see where I might like to grow new roots. But how does a person do that with limited money, vacation time and experience?

I.Don’t.Know.

I’ve decided though, that I need to really spend some time in thought. I really need to look inside and get a grasp on the direction that my dreams are leading me. I could waste the next ten years just being a mom and biding my time or I could take life by the horns (thanks, Dodge) and make it what I want it to be.

And, just like class tonight, I might find that when I try to turn my dreams into reality, I might make a huge mistake along the way. If so, I intend to still savor it, laugh, enjoy it and chalk it up to experience. That’s kind of like art, isn’t it?

A Happy Dog

The Process of Removing Spider Angiomas…

-Before-

-Healing-

-Gone!-
My Brave Boy

Happy Easter everyone!! Christ is risen!

As some of you remember, I have chosen not to include Santa in our Christmas celebrations in an effort to keep the true meaning of the holiday in the forefront of our hearts and minds. To that same end, the Easter Bunny is not part of our family celebration this weekend. We have a bunny-shaped basket, sure, and there might be a little bit of chocolate to put in it, but there is no belief that a rabbit hid eggs around our house. I wanted LM to wake up on Easter morning thankful that Christ died and ROSE AGAIN for HIS sins, not to wonder how many jelly beans and marshmallow eggs he could eat in an hour.

I’m not here to tell you how to celebrate the holiday. I just realized (and I probably should have shared this sooner) that some fellow Christians may be interested in how we’ve come to make Christ the center of our celebrations even in the midst of a hunt for eggs.

We have come to use “Resurrection Eggs” as our “egg hunt eggs”. They each contain a small token that corresponds to a story told in the book “Benjamin’s Box” that tell the story of Christ’s journey to the cross. The eggs and the book are both available at Amazon.com or at any Christian bookstore, I am certain. They truly are a great way to tell the greatest story.

Have a great holiday everyone! And may God Bless you all!

Are you sitting down? Are you sure? Are you drinking something? You might want to stop. Do you have children or are you thinking of having any? You may want to reconsider reading this post. I’ll just say this as a warning: I had a consultation with the orthodontist today concerning LM’s mess of a mouth. This post is about that meeting. If you are not sitting down, are sipping something you don’t want sucked up through your nose in shock or spat out at your computer monitor, or if you’d like to enjoy your children without a thought towards their dental expenditures, please stop reading now.

Seriously.

They took molds and x-rays three weeks ago. Tonight was a meeting to tell me how they recommend we proceed. It started with an explanation about the condition of LM’s mouth. Just looking at the x-rays I suspected I was in for a doozy. He explained that LM had some issues but it wasn’t a horrible scenario. He recommended an expander for the top and a gadget for the bottom that will tilt his teeth forward as they should be. They will be on for about nine months. When they are taken off, we’ll probably have to extract his two bottom eye teeth (he had three baby teeth extracted on the bottom already when the permanents failed to push out the babies, which is what’s happening with his eye teeth). We’ll wait for his twelve year molars to come in along with the other permanents that need to arrive before proceeding with the actual braces.

I asked how much the initial expander process would cost.

$2000.

I asked how much they would estimate the braces might be (although we obviously won’t know the true extent until we see the effects of the expander and his teeth coming in.)

$4500-6500.

I told you to sit down first.

Can I apply my Roth IRA towards orthodontics?

Seriously.

A year ago at this time, I was giddy with anticipation. I loaded LM up in the car and drove 11 hours to my sister’s home in Michigan. We arose early the next morning, loaded all 6 of us into a rented mini-van (much to Bear’s disdain) and drove 5 hours to my grandparent’s home in western Illinois. At the time, due to limited vacation days and a lack of funds, I hadn’t seen my grandparents in 6 years or more. When I had lived in Illinois, they were a short two hour drive, one I would frequent with the baby in tow just to spend the day with Gram. Now, it took a series of logistics to get us there with the limited time that we had and the very limited funds, but it was a priority of the highest order.

On the drive, we sang songs like “Sweet Home Alabama” and “We Will Rock You” at the top of our lungs. We giggled and laughed and told stories from our childhood days. LM had been 2 ½ the last time we had see my grandparents, so we took the time to familiarize him with the stories, to get familiar with people he didn’t have a mental image for other than through pictures.

As we drove across the flat, patchwork farmland of Illinois, I traveled back to my youth, to days of going to Bobby Walter’s for ice cream. A tradition so entrenched that the owner would even be sure to have lemon ice cream on hand if he heard my mother was coming to town for a visit. We saw the pharmacy where we used to stop to see my aunt.

We hadn’t told my grandma that LM and I were coming. She was expecting my sister and her family, they make the journey twice a year to see her, but I was along for the surprise. She wasn’t at all certain who I was at first, despite being the only redhead in the family. She said later she just couldn’t for the life of her believe that I was there, all the way from Pennsylvania.

We spent a very short two days there, but they are days I will not soon forget. I can sit in my grandmother’s kitchen and close my eyes and hear my mother when she talks. Without saying it aloud, we all silently miss Mom together. She is there, with us, bridging the generations. I can see her smile as she hugs her mom, I can hear them laugh together. I can see it all come back together, if I just close my eyes and listen.

G’ma’s house has a certain smell to it. It smells old, but in a comforting way. Her table is always set the same way, meals will always include Jell-o. Granddad will always fall asleep in his wheelchair. And after the meals are complete, G’ma will dump the leftovers into a pot, mix in a little milk, warm it just enough and take it outside for the kitties. She used to do this everyday on the farm and has continued to do so even now that they live in town, feeding cats that are no longer her own.

My sister and her family are on their way again this year. They will go make sure that all the jobs that need to be done around the apartment are taken care of. They will go to Wal*Mart and make sure they have the clothes and supplies that they need. They will treat them all to Hardee’s or maybe a pizza. They will stay two towns away as it’s the closest motel, one with a pool for the kids. They will drive through the towns that defined the phrase, “nothing to do”. Small towns of no more than 500 people and a post office. And before they leave, G’ma will give my sister a box or two filled with items that she wants us to have. Some items of no consequence at all, but tucked unnoticeably inside will be something precious. Last year, we found the wedding bands of my g’ma and her mother both, tucked inside a little handbag. Slowly, she gives us her life’s mementos. And we treasure every part.

I miss her today. I miss the way my granddad smiles when George does something mischievous. I will miss talking with my uncle, the only child left of three, the one who maybe said three words to me as a child and now will talk on and on. I miss the three great-grandchildren going outside to sweep off the porch, doing the little things they know how to do to help out.

I will even miss George’s water bottle, filled with orange cracker backwash.

Today I am homesick.

Apparently God means for me to be surrounded by phlegm. Not only do I have to listen to my co-worker (see previous post) but my dog has caught Kennel Cough from the Bark Park. For those who don’t know about Kennel Cough, it means that my dog sounds like an 80 year old, three-pack a day’er with his wheezing and coughing and hacking. He gags and coughs and appears to be on the verge of puking but then doesn’t. Except that last night he did.

So. There’s the cough. And then there’s the puke.

This is my life.

The vet will prescribe medicine and beg me not to bring my dog in with his contagious cough and we will not be permitted to go to the Bark Park until he is cured, despite the fact that the park is where he caught it from to begin with.

There go my weekend plans.

The man in the office next to me, our newest, latest employee, is doing that thing men do when they suck the snot out of their throats and into their mouth where they can just hack it out only he’s not getting to the hacking part just that God-awful sound of sucking snot.

I might not last the day.