I am doing the best I can

Snow White and Rose Red, complete

2012-01-25T20:01:00.000-05:00

The rug is nearly complete - Just binding to do. The finished size will be 32 inches High, 54 inches Long.

I am very pleased.

A: Why Yes. Yes They Do.

2012-01-23T22:54:00.001-05:00

Q: Do older men of French descent really wear beret's?

And other visions from the Big Bang Exhibition at the Fine Arts Museum

I was so moved by this exhibit that I gave little attention to the Feininger exhibit, walking through it in a daze. Tonight I announced that I need to go back and revisit Feininger, as I found his images re-playing in my head throughout today - a sure sign that there is more there for me to absorb.

Testing for Kindergarten? I call Bullsh*t

2012-01-20T15:15:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, Professional Dawn opened her email and saw something which made her so angry that she sputtered and choked her way into the University where she is a PhD candidate, and then proceeded to sputter and choke about what she had seen in her email inbox to her PhD partner in angst.

What could have caused Professional Dawn this type of reaction?

An invitation to a chat with an "expert" in Kindergarten Testing. An "expert" with no actual degrees or experience TEACHING children. An "expert" who has written a book and is trying to sell it to worried parents afraid their child is going to be left out of some thing that , if only they bought the book, would solve the problems of getting their child into that exclusive preschool, or Kindergarten. This will, of course, lead to your child being prettier and popular and eventually getting into Harvard with a full scholarship.

I call Bull Shit. Do you need me to CAPS that statement?

I CALL BULLSHIT.

Professional Dawn has, of course, TAUGHT kindergarten. Professional Dawn has degrees in Education (Both Early AND Elementary) and Child Development and is in process of her very own PhD in said Educations. Professional Dawn is a Mom too. A Mom with a child with a variety of diagnosed learning issues. Professional Dawn is married to Professional Terrance , a man who did his PhD in Psychometrics. Do you know what that is?

Here, let me give you the Wikipedia fast and dirty definition:

Psychometrics is the field of study concerned with the theory and technique of educational and psychological measurement, which includes the measurement of knowledge, abilities, attitudes, and personality traits. The field is primarily concerned with the construction and validation of measurement instruments, such as questionnaires, tests, and personality assessments.

OH SNAP! We have a REAL education Expert AND an Expert in EDUCATION TESTING DESIGN in the same house!!! You can see why we may make a fearsome parental duo.

And do you know what we two experts KNOW about the designs of all of these tests?

They don't measure shit. Not your child's intelligence or interests or ability to succeed in life. Not who you will marry or how happy you will be later in life. They are arbitrary tests which give institutions a Number in order to control the supply and demand of any given product, in this case, Education.

Alfie Kohn calls it "a way to separate the wheat from the chaff children", and you know what that is veiled code for right? Rich and Poor. White and Non White. Haves and Have Nots.

These books - these programs to "prep" your child for anything? Lies. They do nothing.

Do you know what does help? Reading to your child. Talking to your child. Taking your child on walks around the neighborhood and discussing what you see. Listening to music with your child. Cooking with your child. Laughing with your child.

I can tell you that the brain isn't fully developed until about age 21 when the pre-frontal cortex comes fully on-line. This is why teens have such crappy decision making skills, they are still growing the part of the brain that is needed to MAKE decisions. I can tell you that until age 7, the true Concept of Reading is not really accessible to most children. Sure, they can repeat words. They might even be able to sound out letters and sounds if you drill them enough....But the mystery of Decoding for information? Comes on-line about the time they move into the Piagetian "Concrete operational" stage.

I can tell you all sorts of things about children and learning and brain development. I can tell you that a healthy diet and protecting uninterrupted sleep is as important for brain development as reading to your child. I can tell you it is the Quality of experiences and not the Quantity of experiences which shapes brains and intelligence.

I can tell you that if Parents were to refuse to allow their children to participate in these tests that the Institutions would eventually stop demanding them - JUST like most schools no longer require GRE scores for Graduate schools. If you have no test scores to arbitrarily assign value to, then how are you going to Know a child as a learner? Maybe watch them? Get to Know them? Talk with them? If you've got no test scores and no parents willing to comply with providing them, then your product (the school) becomes devalued. You are then forced to change your metric of admission.

I can tell you that Anybody can slap "expert" next to their name and talk about things they have no right to be talking about as "experts".

I can tell you that these books, these programs, do nothing but take your money and stress your children out.
As Alfie Kohn says more eloquently:

"And once you realize that the tests are unreliable indicators of quality, then what possible reason would there be to subject kids – usually African American and Latino kids -- to those mind-numbing, spirit-killing, regimented instructional programs that were designed principally to raise test scores? If your only argument in favor of such a program is that it improves results on deeply flawed tests, you haven’t offered any real argument at all. Knock out the artificial supports propping up “Success for All,” “Open Court,” “Reading Mastery,” and other prefabricated exercises in drilling kids to produce right answers (often without any understanding), and these programs will then collapse of their own dead weight."

However, until PARENTS stand up and say "Absolutely Not, there is no basis or reasons for this" OR Schools come out and simply honestly say "We are trying to keep THOSE children out of this school, you know, the poor/black/stupid ones..." this nonsensical hamster wheel of ridiculousness will continue.

And it makes Professional Dawn crazy mad.

Sept 2010

I am re-printing this because it still makes me crazy mad. And, sadly, because I now have to talk about how I would teach potential teachers to cope with the outcomes measurements being shoved down their throats, ala Race to the Top. Outcomes measurements which I know, in my heart of hearts, is such bullshit that it makes me sputter and storm and want to throw my degrees in the trash, for all the good it has done.

I can not tell you how disheartened and just Sad it all makes me, these policies. How one of the critiques of me during interviews is my non participation in these things that I find so repugnant ( how to prepare teachers for these situations where they must meet "accountability" measurements)...and it isn't because I don't think teachers should be accountable. I do. But because I know what these tests and measurements will lead to, and it isn't better teaching, or better schools or better anything for the children who need it Most. It is more segregation of those we Choose and those we throw away.

As I read that well intentioned suggestion - that I become more familiar with "Standards" in the schools and address how I would teach undergrads these standards and assessments, I saw all the money and time I have spent on a Master's degree and then a Doctoral degree as wasted.

Did I mention that we were out of Bleach?

2012-01-20T00:42:00.000-05:00

You know when you KNOW something? You know - as a parent. You see the event unfolding in your mind - step by step. No psychic flash or exciting event - just the parental spidey sense of "Oh Dear. This is not going to end well...."

The scene: Monday Morning, our house

There is no cereal ( more on that in another post) for breakfast. We are doing well on time. Showers are had. Bodies are dressed. I say, "Hey! Why don't we pop down to the bakery. We have time to pick up breakfast before school!"

Smiles abound. There are rainbows and bluebirds flitting about our heads.

I park and send Emily into the bakery. She gets a huge kick out of going in with the money in hand to order. Quite the "big girl" thing to do, you know. As she gets out of the car, she pauses. "Can I get some milk?", she asks.

Why sure! No problem! What kind of mother says No to milk? Not me!

Then it happened. You know that moment...the one where you spot something and the realization sets in?

Um, yeah.

She walked out with chocolate milk.

Normally, I have no issue with a little container of the chocolate milk. Live and let live, I say. But Emily wears a uniform. And the shirt to that uniform is white.

Granted, the school is only three blocks away. Only.

You all can see where this is going, right? I know you can. We make it two blocks when the spill happens. The great drooling spill down the front of her. The big chocolate milk stain on the white shirt.

Which leads to wailing.

"I CAN'T GO TO SCHOOL LIKE THIS!!! EVERYONE WILL MAKE FUN OF ME!!!"

I keep my cool. I did, after all EXPECT this to happen. I calmly explain to her that she will most likely have to take a tardy slip at school, but that I would take her home to change. I can be a wench, at times, but I am not going to make her walk around in a stained shirt all day.

We get home. She goes into the house to change. She runs out in a lather, wailing loudly.

"THERE ARE NO OTHER WHITE SHIRTS IN MY ROOM!!!!"

Fifteen minutes later, we have dug a white shirt that is LESS stained out of the dirty laundry. Apparently there ARE no other clean white shirts left. The one shirt is serviceable - it will do for the day.

We get in the car and head back to school.

Emily reaches over for the carton of chocolate milk and begins to bring it to her lips.

"Are you KIDDING?!?!?!", I say. "Have you LOST your mind?"

She looks at me.

"What?"

October 17, 2007 Gimlet Eye

Pictures in my Mind

2012-01-17T22:59:00.000-05:00

Green Light

Red Light

"Oh My god, the waitstaff are trying to kill Maija with this Pakun Flower slipped in her drink"

Been to Whorish Ravens lately?

You should.

Think of it as my secret room.

What's in a Name?

2012-01-16T15:06:00.002-05:00

I've mentioned that I'm white, right? Middle America, German heritage? And I've mentioned that my husband is Black ( his preferred term)? Detroit raised, black panther parents?

Yep. We are.

This makes our daughter bi-racial, which is our preferred term for her heritage. Please don't make the mistake of calling a bi-racial child "mulatto", which is a term laden with historical baggage of slavery, rape or otherwise unequal power relationships. And no, she isn't "high yellow", which was another less than kind version of the same thing. Or "mixed". Or "light-skinned"

She has two distinct racial heritages. She is bi-racial.

The problem ( such as it is) is that she is also Black.

As her mother, I have to recognize and prepare her for the reality of living in our society. She will be viewed as a woman of color - specifically a black woman. She will never be able to assert her whiteness, for it is visually clear that she is not white.

Were she to walk into a room filled with white people and announce "I'm white", she would receive puzzled and angry expressions. Were she to walk into a room of black people and announce "I'm white", she would be accused of trying to "pass" as white, or worse denying her black heritage.

What does that leave her? What does that leave me, as her mother? Do I teach her to downplay my cultural background to save her the problem of explaining her parents marriage and her birth? Does she grow ashamed of being white in a society which can not and will not recognize her as being part white in a positive manner?

Emily has the great fortune to have been the planned only child to two well-educated parents who were fully aware of the issues facing children of bi-racial heritage. We considered if we would be strong enough to equip a child with the tools he or she would need to face the institutionalized racism inherent in our society. We decided that we were. We decided that our extended family was strong enough to lend any child the support they would need. We have carefully taken steps to expose her to as much cultural diversity as we could find in our corner of New Hampshire. She spends summers with her grandparents in Detroit to soak up the culture of her father. She knows that the families of her friends are made up of loving parents, even same sex parents.

(* a moment of Mommy pride? When Emily handily refuted a playmates assertion that everyone had to have a mommy and a daddy - which Emily said wasn't true cause her friend Zoe has two mom's!)

To my knowledge, the worst racial "name" Emily has been called was when she was told that "she was black, so she didn't have any friends." I am not so naive as to think that this will be the only comment she will encounter, but it was damaging enough in the context in which it was delivered to her.

My family talks about the issue of race and culture in America every day. We have to. Our daughter's self image and self esteem depends on the manner in which we prepare her for the external societal experience.

Can you do me a favor? Can you start talking about this in your family too? Cause someday, my daughter will be out there - with your children. I want her to be accepted and comfortable in her skin. I want your children to see Emily, as she is - not a label, not a name- but as a beautiful whole person.

Originally published May 18, 2006 at The Gimlet Eye

Having lived in Montreal for nearly six years, I can safely say that Emily has known "cultural diversity" in so many ways - Ethnic, Religious, Language - that I now worry about our return to the US.

Even here, she has been told she is not Black...since her friends see her as possibly First Nations, or of Latin descent. She has had friends from India, much darker skinned than she, call each other black and tell her she was not black. During one trip to New York City, Latinas would constantly come up to us and begin to speak with us - admiring Emily. They believed that her father had to be Hispanic, and since Terrance was not with us at the time, there was no identifiable partner to my White-white-girlness.

Last year, she had her first incident of having a dark skinned girl dislike her ( and verbally disparage her) because she was light skinned with "good" hair. Don Lemon's opinion piece on CNN still holds a great deal of truth in many black american families and communities. It still takes only one drop for many people.

Yesterday, I was showing her pictures I have been scanning in of her as a baby. At her second birthday, we had invited a friend of hers, from child care, over. Brandon was, like her, biracial - with a white mom and black dad.

Emily looked at the pictures and was shocked. She had forgotten Brandon, and certainly forgotten that he was like her, biracial in an extremely white state. In her surprise, she blurted out, "He's coloured!" - which was her brain mixing up words and concepts and even languages.

Her father freaked out.

I mean FREAKED OUT.

As he barrelled into my bedroom yelling "WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT WORD?! TELL ME RIGHT NOW. DID ONE OF YOUR FRIENDS USE THAT WORD?", Emily's mien was that of one confused person. She had no idea what she had said that caused such an intense reaction in her father.

I had to put my hand out and stop him - remind him that I don't think she had a concept of that word as derogatory, given our many years here in Montreal, where racism isn't encountered in the same forms as it lives in the US.

(Racism is alive and well in Montreal, don't get me wrong, it just lurks in different forms. "Mulatto" is still a term used here, as it has a different cultural context, not to mention we are in French speaking province)

After I had calmed him down, I explained to her that "coloured" was a term of prejudice, used in signs and language of segregation that existed in the not terribly distant past. That her father heard that word as one of disrespect, of racism. That his instinct remains that of a man who was born in 1961, a year when our marriage would have still be illegal, and before the Civil Rights movement.

So do my family still talk about issues of race? Yep. Nearly Everyday.

I suspect we always will.

Teething

2012-01-15T01:22:00.001-05:00

Tonight, my daughter lost her seventh tooth.

The losing of teeth is a rite of passage. I recall losing my own teeth and feeling, with certainty, that this was a sign - long before puberty hit me broadside - that I was growing up. Getting the dimes, and occasional quarter from the tooth fairy was a bonus, for sure. But long after the money had been spent, the big new teeth remained, my face changing from a child to a young woman.

In my life before my daughter, I had never given a great deal of thought as to losing teeth and the dilemma it may pose for parents.

Since I naturally assumed that the tooth fairy whisked my sacred teeth to her tooth kingdom, it never occurred to me that my mother was the culprit in the covert tooth removal operation.

It wasn't until Emily lost her first tooth that I was presented with the age old question - What the hell do you do with the teeth? I mean, Santa? Easter Bunny? No problem. I had these mystical characters down pat.

I KNEW how to make convincing easter bunny nibbles in carrots, I made it seem as if reindeers had nibbled at the sugar and crumbs were left to prove Santa had indeed partaken of the snack we left - including the

empty glass of wine we leave for Santa. (Santa enjoys a little change of pace from the whole milk thing. It makes him more generous with the gifts.)

But a flying fairy? Transporting discarded body parts over state and fantastical lines?

And let's just say that this isn't in most parenting magazines yet:

"What to do with your child's old teeth: Five jewelery tips!"

"Parents who callously throw their child's baby teeth away raise a higher percentage of high school dropouts!",

"Today on Oprah, Strippers who can trace their moral downfall to waking up and finding out that their mother was the Tooth Fairy."

It seems somehow wrong to throw away a piece of my child. I mean, I saved the little stump of her umbilical cord too. Ok, stop wrinkling your noses. It doesn't smell or anything. Besides, I know most of you did it too.

It's a visceral reminder of her time in my body. As she grows older and more independent, I treasure those small reminders of her babyhood. When my breasts were Nirvana for her and when I remained the funniest,wisest, most comforting human on the earth.

Now, with the loss of her seventh tooth, she is becoming a young woman. Her face is changing shape. She is sassy and funny and confident. She tries to lie to me, and I can still catch her at it. There will come a time in the future when I will not be able to tell, but I don't want her to know that. I still remain all-comforting, all-knowing, able to fix everything. I know that this stage is coming to an end too.

So, I save the teeth.

I keep them tucked away in the bottom of my cedar chest. As each tooth joins it's fellows, she steps closer to becoming the young woman who will roll her eyes at me, talk about what an embarrassment my clothes are, or makes disgusted noises when her father and I kiss each other. She will keep her own secrets, endure her own heartbreaks and wrestle her own demons.

Yet these teeth, the teeth that nipped my breasts while nursing, that kept us all awake through terrible nights of teething, the teeth that cannibalized a class of other one year olds; they remind me of the baby that the midwife handed to me.

The baby that only lives at the bottom of my cedar chest and in my memories.

September 10, 2007 Gimlet Eye

No, That's mine

2012-01-11T21:19:00.000-05:00

If you want to make a toddler angry fast, insist that his/her mother is not their mother but is, in fact, YOUR mother. Those are fighting words, partner. Some may say that the toddler does this due to egocentricism, but I prefer to believe that in that game you mess with the elements of that child's “Story”, which is part of their essence. If I played that game with a child, I always ended it by telling them that OF COURSE that was their Mommy – and not mine. I needed to reassure that I indeed would abide by their script in this, the most important of roles to them.

This leads to an interesting segueway – as it leads to a second article I wandered into, “Mazes of Meaning: How a Child and Culture create each other” by Jean Briggs.

I found the title was wildly intriguing, as it forms a cornerstone of my dissertation inquiry. The idea that a child is created by a culture....and then moves into a larger social group in a classroom and recreates not only their personal culture, but must then blend that personal culture into a new group culture negotiated by all members of the classroom.

As I read the article, I was a bit troubled. The author describes her life among the Qipisa Inuit and while it started out promising with quotes such as:

The notion that meaning inheres in culture and that people receive it passively, as dough receives the cookie cutter, is rapidly being replaced by the idea that culture consists of ingredients, which people actively select, interpret, and use in various ways, as opportunities, capabilities, and experience allow. But it is not the individual that creates meanings, it is the individuals who do so.” (p 25)

YES! Now this is what I had been looking for! Briggs further sets the stage by describing the community and some of the communally held tenets regarding child rearing and education. How adults in this community use the asking of questions to their children as a means of communicating values and posing problems to be solved. “Well yes”, I thought, “who doesn't do this?”

It was the next paragraph that woke me up. For the questions posed in this community to their children were framed in dangerous and dramatic language. Briggs writes:

“In this way, adults create, or raise to conciousness, issues that the child will perceive to be of great consequence for his or her life: “Why don't you kill your baby brother?” “Why don't you die so I can have your nice new shirt?” “Your mother's going to die – look, she's cut her finger – do you want to come and live with me?”

I was a little disturbed. I mean who tells a three year old that their mother is going to die? Who suggests to a child that they kill their new brother or sister? How on earth is someone supposed to answer these questions?

However, as I continued to read, I began to understand that in this community, this is how children are prepped for life transitions. These questions which seemed unduly cruel to me were the tools by which this Inuit community helped it's individual children clarify issues of attachment, belonging and possession. The author writes that the adults in the community only enact this verbal dialogue with children until the children are old enough to know that the adults questioning are not to be taken seriously. These questions brought directly to the surface impulses and thoughts which could have long term consequences if not managed through the adult group members. Through this question and answer exchange, children can test responses, seek alliances from trusted adults and come to understand the pre-eminent role of their parent(s) as primary caregiver.

As I pondered on what a strange series of questions, and how these questions seemed a bit unreasonable and harsh...I flashed back to my own games with Toddlers.

All of the “No, thats mine” game, where I would pretend to put on someones coat or shoe – or take a bottle or binky away resulting in both hysterical delight and more than a bit of apprehension that I was going to take their belongings. The “That's my mommy, not yours” games. The “pretending to be asleep/dead and then jumping up game” or the “I'm going to eat your lunch” game.

I played the exact same games with the babies in my care as described by Briggs, albeit with different verbiage and the cultural construct in which I lived.

As I reflect, I had no concious knowledge of imparting cultural specific knowledge to those children – but I was. We played with their deepest fears – abandonment, loss of parent, loss of belongings, the role of their interdependence on adults for their sustenance and comfort. By co-creating these stories, each child and I would engage in a delicate dance among the real life monsters of a child world, the fear that lies just on the edge of security. However, while I always knew it was a game, I never gave thought to the idea that the child did not necessarily believe it was a game, but that these scenarios could be quite real. The edge of relief and panic would mix with laughter in each child as I would sit up from my feigned and exaggerated “death”. The laughter would become hysterical at times, for what I now realize may have been hysteria.

I was unknowingly scaffolding for these toddlers their entry into coping with fears that, left unaddressed, could compromise their ability to make important life transitions in not only their social capabilities but their cognitive development as well. I became another player in a social drama that seems to have it's roots in something much deeper than play between a child and adult.

2009

Lick and Learn

2012-01-09T23:25:00.000-05:00

All right - perhaps I find this much funnier than I should. However, I think I have established the "Dawn's sense of humor is a little off beat" vibe...

So Easter morning, 7 a.m. and the bounty of the Easter bunny is being dumped on my vaguely conscious body. I had fallen asleep at 2 a.m., so I am groggy at best.

I hear the bag with the fancy dancy bath salts being opened and sniffed. I roll to get a better look at Emily - just in time to see her say "Yum!" and pluck a hunk of mineral salt out of the bag and pop it into her mouth.

Her face contorts. She sticks her tongue out - not unlike a frog who has swallowed a poisonous bug - and the salt falls out into her lap. Plop. She remains very quiet - clearly embarrassed by popping a bath salt into her mouth, and rolls over to lick the taste off on the quilt.

I pretend to have seen nothing, as I grin into my pillow.

Gimlet Eye 2007

Fears, Idle Fears

2012-01-07T22:19:00.000-05:00

I have an irrational fear. I don't know where it came from. I don't recall a definitive moment when I acquired this fear, but it is there, lurking beneath the surface of my consciousness.

Of course, it comes and goes in intensity. Like a tic I have forgotten I have, until it rears its ugly head and I am ever aware of it for the next several weeks...or months.

My fear? Being stabbed by a person walking by me on the street. Nothing flashy, nothing "Psycho"-esque. Just a random stranger walking by, sliding a thin stiletto blade into my belly, as they keep walking. This person doesn't know me. Hasn't got it in for "Me" in particular, just a random serial stabber.

I know. Weird. But this fear has been there for as long as I can recall. I remember being nine and having this fear. For awhile it had a companion fear, the one I like to call "Fear of being shot to death in your bed while you sleep by an unknown assailant". For several years, I would fall asleep facing the door - so I could see death coming for me, were it to make it's move. As if I had something I could bargain with - "But wait, unknown assailant - I will grow up and make quilts and write things on the Internet, and have some mental health issues, but generally be a decent person. Isn't there some kid MORE deserving of death than I?"

Part of my city fear has been tied up in these two other fears. Being in a city, one would more likely encounter the stiletto wielding pedestrian than say - Vermont. While my chances of dying in a snow related car accident, or a potential moose mauling increased - Death by sneaky stabber was low.

I'd actually forgotten these two fears in the last two years or so. Having gone to New York and Detroit and not being stabbed, nor shot to death in my bed seemed to allay the twin fears.

"Oh Look", said Dawns irrational stabbing fear, "I can walk in a crowded street, or get on a subway and not meet my doom at the hands of some unfeeling sociopath."

"I know!", responded Dawns irrational shotgun while sleeping fear, " We've slept in these scary cities and no one has shot us in the head while we sleep!"

I feel successful. I have showed the fears that they have no power here.

"Psssst", whispers Dawns fear of dying in a fiery high altitude plane crash and being eaten by the survivors, "I'm still here."

I roll my eyes at it. "Fuck off", I say.

The good news is that I no longer have (some of) these fears after living in Montreal since 2006. The bad news? My phobia of being in a bus with smelly people has increased. As in "I have never been on a bus in Montreal because I just can't bear the idea of people who smell being too close to me and me starting to gag".

And my fear of being questioned in rapid French. That has definitely emerged since moving here.

I am Weak, but I am Strong

2012-01-05T05:34:00.002-05:00

While discussing my plans for my life going forward, I confessed that I just didn't know.

"I just feel... ambivalent. Surely there must be more to life than feeling ambivalent about your partner? Surely there must be something more? I feel gratitude. Friendship. Affection. But Love? Passion? Commonality? Is this it? Is this what I have to look forward to the end of my days? Ambivalence?"

Besides, I added, who would want this mess of a human being that I have become...so pitiful that even I can't bear to listen to my internal voice?

"Dawn", Gilda said, "You are ambivalently/anxiously attached to Terrance. This is your attachment style. You learned this from your mother."

well, hello thunderbolt.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am past the "my mommy and daddy screwed me up and let me rage at her/them" stage of my life. It wasn't that I have a fucked up parenting history that was my thunderbolt. I mean, cmon - the fact that with the things I have seen and experienced and lived through? The sexual abuse? The emotional and verbal abuse? The neglect? Yeah. No major epiphanies there, folks.

It was that I always kind of knew that my attachment with my mother was most likely in the "not healthy" range. Shit, I named it over a year and a half ago.

( at which point I raise a toast to my spot on instincts and intuition. Yeah Dawn!)

No - it was that I was repeating it.

Me, who is so careful to scan and monitor my reactions and feelings. Scrubbing myself raw to make sure that there are no gremlins in this machine, and that my motivations are known to me. Never lie to myself, never pretend, never obfuscate....puzzling over this large and unsolvable riddle in the middle of my life for well over a year.

Suddenly, it was like I had been given the key to the lock. The Why of my inability to soothe myself, the craptastic modulation of emotional highs and lows.

Gilda had found the link, the words that I understood. Attachment. Babies. I know this, of course. I assessed for it in the infants for whom I cared, and the mothers - trying to fit myself into their lives, support their needs.

Over the next several weeks, it all began to make perfect sense - this inability to find my own happiness. I was stuck in the patterns of my earliest life, replaying it over and over.

If you've have never had one of those epiphanies in which all sorts of things knit themselves together, like some crazy movie montage, your own personal Usual Suspects moments, then I can only explain it in those terms.

While I normally maintain some characteristics of a child with anxious attachment (no discernible emotional response - no highs, no lows, just middle of the road, preferring auto-regulation), the turmoil of last year ( the depression requiring the medication switch and ensuing grief flood) had swung my response style between that of an anxious then ambivalent child.

In truth, it most likely reflects the styles of each of my biological parents, and how I related to each of them.

My pendulum swung back and forth, from flooding grief wanting comfort to frozen response in which I perceived Terrance as a threat to be avoided.

Fucked up, right? Yeah. I know.

For some ( a long ) time I felt so terribly bad for Terrance. How did he choose such a fucking lemon for a wife? In truth, I still feel bad. Of course, this then became grief... because who else could ever want me? So damaged and imperfect, so utterly up fucked? If we did separate, how would I ever bear to drag anyone else into this mess? I mean it is bad enough I have saddled poor Emily with This as her mothering example.

Over the past few months, as I have worked through this new knowledge, I admit that I have had varying feelings about sharing the information. A fear of seeming just too damaged has played a part, particularly as I look forward to the end of the Dissertation and a life beyond. Not that I am naive enough to believe that we all aren't damaged in a multitude of ways, only that I wear it so openly, so transparently. I know this choice of mine is terrifying for lots of people, socialized to never admit weakness and certainly never talk about it.

After I considered burying the information, my self doubt grew stronger. Until finally, I relented. Yes, I said to my inner voice. I hear you. No pretending. No lying. No covering up.

I can only ever be who I am, you see. When I try to pretend otherwise? The consequences are just never worth it. I get sick. I doubt my own intuition. Every instinct about what is right for me gets muffled, and I lose my way.

For a person who has survived precisely because her intuition? I become wrapped in a shroud of haze, fading away.

You'd think that - like depression - I wouldn't have to learn this lesson over and over. Yet, I do. I am penultimately human. Flawed. Beautifully so. Learning to extend forgiveness to myself and others.

When I do these things, my Center returns. My happiness returns. My ability to be pleased with my work, with my choices, with my life returns.

Here are a couple of articles about adult attachment that I found quite intriguing. Yes, there is some technical language, but I think this doctor has a pretty good handle on the implications of attachment in adult relationships. Avoidant and Ambivilent Now, mind you, this is still kind of a "newish" concept in therapy so I am curious to see how it plays out. There is also some intriguing evidence that attachment style affects brain chemistry in a variety of ways.

Also - and this is something that made me quite literally weep with joy - attachment styles can be changed. Emily was/is securely attached to her father and myself. For her, it was Terrance that mitigated the responses during my post partum depression. As long as a child has one parent/adult to securely bond? Things will be all right. Once I emerged from my depression, Emily recovered the attachment to me as I worked to become a better mother. While about 75% of children re-enact the attachment style of their parent/mother, it is possible to change that pattern.

It is always possible to change the pattern.

Always.

Beauty Within

2012-01-02T23:32:00.000-05:00

At the beginning of winter I was given a new diagnosis from my therapist.

I suppose it isn't so much "new" as it is "new to me". Even then I am not really sure that it is "new to me" so much as "new to me being truly aware of it in a "forefront of the brain" kind of way".

Yes, Yes, There is depression. Always and eternal, my shadow dawn that lingers in the closet, waiting to knee tackle me when I get cocky or have no energy to resist. She is a mean bitch, that shadow-dawn. And brutally unforgiving. And critical.

Luckily - if one can calls this luck - the damage I do is primarily to me. When I emerge from the bad depressions - the ones that go on and on and need medication changes, and months of therapy to get me to stop weeping continually, or lying in bed, alternately wishing I would spontaneously fold in on myself and die OR sleeping for 18 hours only to get up and then decide I am too exhausted to do anything - I am usually both scared and timorously exalted.

Mostly because I am always shocked when I realize I have been depressed. That what I was/am feeling was an honest to fucking god depression. I chide myself for not knowing. For not catching on...I mean, for fucks sake, how many times do I need to get hit in the face with this particular frying pan to recognize it?

So, as I reviewed the past year with Gilda, my long suffering therapist, I said this:

"I'm not depressed anymore. I know that feeing. I wake up at a normal time, and fall asleep at a normal time. I have gotten more work done in 6 months than I have in the past 5 years. But I am not happy. "

To not be depressed, but not be happy? Forgive me when I confess that I was flummoxed by this. Now, I might not be the most enthusiastically joyful person at the best of times, but when not depressed I have never felt....Unhappy.

And Yet, there it was. I felt unhappy.

For a while I blamed Terrance. It was Him. He made me unhappy.

Of course, this rang untrue to me, even as I was blaming him. My husband is many things, but patently cruel has never been one of them. Can he be a bullying asshole? Oh, yeah. But does he seek to make me unhappy? No, not really.

Week after week I would slide into my chair at Gilda's office and unroll my litany of sadness. I wasn't happy, and I was trapped in it. How did I get to this place in my life? How did I become this woman, this wife? I despised my own grief and mourning for something I couldn't name.

I was productive, Yes, but not happy.

This unhappiness made me feel ludicrously uncertain. I just didn't KNOW....and this began to trickle into realms in which I am generally sure of myself.

My writing for example. I would email Maija and ask if she Understood it, because I couldn't be certain that what was coming out of my head through my fingers was coherent. I became oddly paralysed, frozen by my inability to judge what I was feeling. As a person whose intuition is generally spot on, this left me feeling like I had lost a limb.

I knew I was unhappy, but I trusted nothing coming in from my senses. My intuition was firing away, and I was receiving those messages - but doubting the content.

That's fucked, people. It's like seeing a colour and knowing it is Red, but then pausing and thinking "Well, maybe it is't red. It could be Yellow. I just don't know.

It is crazy making. Srsly. This is the kind of shit that drives you Crazy. This is also the kind of shit that I know from my Years with Crazy D. She was Queen Grand Poo-bah of telling you what you were seeing, or feeling or experiencing was Not Happening. Did Not Happen. Nope. No Sir. Not Here, by golly.

And I wasn't shaking it. I wasn't shaking the voice, the doubt. I no longer trusted myself.

The rest is coming, I promise. It's just too damn long to fit into one post....

Damn you, Internet meme

2011-12-31T23:05:00.000-05:00

I never make resolutions.

This is, in part, because I know I am so damn stubborn that I will inevitably wilfully sabotage myself, simply to be contrary. Also because I am pretty clear on the things I should be doing in my life. Making promises on one night because the calender changes really doesn't appeal to me.

A few weeks ago I saw a post on an old bloggy friends facebook wall ( yeah, yeah I gots the facebook, but not the twitter. never the twitter) that intrigued me.

Grace Davis ( one of the truly most spectacular, kickass, centered and all around lovely human I have ever had the pleasure of not only Knowing, but making her laugh her ass off next to a pool on a Balmy San Jose night...seriously, I want to be Grace when I grow up) posted 30 things to Stop Doing to Yourself

"hmm. I'll nibble at that" thinks I.

So I click on over...and read the first one...

If someone wants you in their life, they’ll make room for you. You shouldn’t have to fight for a spot.

Oh.

Well then.

I can give you a thousand examples of this in action in my life and the lives of people I know and love. People fighting for spots in lives, rather than room being made. I am guilty of it myself.

I will no longer fight for spots in the lives of people I know, and I will do my damnedest to not make people fight for spots in mine.

This year, I work on Balance.

In all Things.

Peace to you, my internet friends.

Baby, it's cold outside

2011-12-29T23:53:00.001-05:00

So...we live in Canada now, right. We are New Englanders. We are used to cold weather.

Um. Yeah. Not so much.

Today Emily and I walked down to the bakery. All right. It's about a half a mile. We were bundled. Tra-la-la. We chat about life as we walk down ( wind behind us) to our delicious destination.

We eat, we drink, we are merry.

Jaunty Hat and Scarf Combo

We re-bundle. We head out.

Dear Lord in Heaven. It seems to have dropped about 150 degrees in the brief amount of time we were inside. The wind is right in our faces. The tips of my ears, although covered in scarf and hat, begin to get painfully cold. Our small talk, so merry on the walk to the bakery, drops to nothing.

Emily tries to pretend she can't see and hangs onto my arm. I shake her off, visions of the Donner party in my head.

MUST.........NOT........STOP......WALKING.....MUST.....NOT......SLOW......DOWN

As we crest the hill which signals one block to our house, Emily spontaneously yells:

"WALK OR DIE, WALK OR DIE!"

I start to laugh, and so does she ( as the little worm huddles behind me, using me as her windbreak)

We round the corner and begin to race walk home.

Emily demonstrates her "I'm Dying" pose

Smart Mouth Gene

2011-12-28T17:02:00.000-05:00

Sigh. I know I have a normal kid. What's more, I know that with a Mom such as myself, my child was fated to be a bit ( hold your comments!) of a smart ass.

I mean, I'm not exactly world renowned for my ability to keep my mouth shut, now am I? I have been "uninvited" from meetings/committees since I tend to speak the stuff in my head...out loud. Is it any surprise that my daughter seems to have inherited this tendency to "say stuff"?

Well, No. But it is dammed annoying when the commentary is directed at ME. Take this past week ( oh yeah, I am in recovery from this week for a LONG time).

Every. Little. Thing. She resisted me.

She would pretend to not hear me, or do what she was asked ( like put away her clothes) and when I found them shoved in the closet, try to tell me that she "misunderstood" what I meant by "putting them away".

Or the answer "No" to her umpteenth million request for "dessert", which ended in her stomping away and muttering bitterly.

"What was that?", I snapped.

"Nothing", she replied.

"I heard that...", I said.

"what?", Emily responds.

"You said, "I wish I had a nice Mom", you don't know from Mean, honey. I can show you a whole world of mean if you keep pushing it."

I pause - staring at her.

Every day. Wishes for a nice mom, a different Mom, a mom who is Pleasant and wouldn't make her do these ridiculous chores are muttered sotto voce...and I must challenge every one of them. Oh, and the LOOKS. I had to spank her bum yesterday for the look she shot me when I told her to get into the shower.

And on one hand as I must reign her in, I secretly rejoice on the other. She will not stay quiet. She is my daughter, through and through.

Gimlet Eye 2007

Lo-Fi

2011-12-24T14:12:00.000-05:00

She approaches warily. What is this box on her bed?

"How do I open it? Do you have a key?", she yells from the room

I tell her she doesn't need a key to open this box.

Her sounds of joy and excitement roll from her bedroom.

"Is this for ME? Where did you get this? Is this mine?"

And my house is filled with the joyful noise of a typewriter clacking.

Wrapping

2011-12-23T17:30:00.003-05:00

After a hiatus of Never, Terrance and I attempted to wrap gifts together last night.

I am not sure that we ever discussed why we don't wrap gifts together, but I suspect that in the early years we just never thought about it. Actually this isn't true. I have always wrapped gifts. As he spent the first five years of our relationship buying me "gift sets" from the liquor store on the way home, he felt that since they were boxed that it counted as wrapped.

I recall the argument over this habit of his - both the lazy wrapping AND the not so subtle attempt to turn me into a raving alcoholic by waiting until the drive home before any "event" to purchase the most half assed gift he could find. And then I drank the bottle of Sambuca.

Last night I figured - What the hell.

I assembled my carefully chosen for the best aesthetic combinations paper, and tape ( the good tape, not the cheap stuff that doesn't hold) and scissors and called my spouse forth. I requested he bring the gifts He has bought for Emily. In point of fact, we don't shop together, so we never know what she has until each adult has unveiled Ye Olde Mountain of Far Too Much Shit that they have been accumulating in the closets and basements of the house.

Terrance has the ability to simultaneously appear shocked and appalled at what I have purchased, all while unveiling more and more gifts HE has squirrelled away. So while he is yelling at me for spending too much money, HE is walking in with MORE AND MORE gifts.

Normally I do what I do with 98% of his conversation....which is to go to my happy place and ignore him.

I begin to wrap my gifts. Measure gift with paper. Assess if the gift can be wrapped and another gift can be wrapped with left over paper. Perhaps I even attempt to configure gifts on paper so as to make only one extra cut.

HEY! When you are wrapping a billion gifts, your efficiency of movement can stave off the inevitable carpal tunnel and spousal stabbing which is going to be, frankly, inevitable.

I am merrily on my third gift when I glance over at Terrance.

Oh. Oh my.

He is handling a Rectangular package. Nothing hard or fancy about this wrapping job. The paper I have bought even has the grid guidelines so he doesn't cut bizarre shapes that I can't reuse.

He has one side partially wrapped. I say partially because while there is more than enough paper to cover the gift, he has mangled the edge of the paper in what I can only describe as "twisted, burning wreckage."

He is now pawing at the other end of this gift like his hands have swollen to the size of hams. In fact, this is when I started to giggle, because he looked like Frankenstein being confronted with Fire. He was making the same noises too.

I finish my gift, chose the tag that matches the paper best and place it in the middle of the bed.

"Wrapping makes me Angry", he states.

This strikes me as enormously funny. All I can think is "Fire! BAD! Fire, BAD!"

My slight giggle becomes a chortle. I now think "Gift wrapping with the Hulk" and envision my husband with Hulk Hands smashing gifts left and right.

He moans louder.

"Oh good god, just give it to me!"

I finally relent, taking the gift from him and attempting to unravel the Gordian knot of tape he has placed on the back. "For such an intelligent man, you'd think that the mystery of wrapping a rectangle might be a bit easier to solve...besides, I know you were just fucking it up so I would take it away from you - the same way I know you bleached the clothes in 1993 so you wouldn't have to do laundry."

He grunts at me. Yes. Grunts. Sullenly.

He announces his new job will be to write the gift tags. I laugh again and go back to wrapping.

But here is where he slays me. The pile of gifts is in the middle of the bed, and I am taking them one by one...wrapping and placing them over near him.

He then looks at the gift and says "What's THIS?!" in a simultaneously confused and accusatory way.

I then have to look at him and explain it is a gift HE BOUGHT her. I am just the agent of wrapping.

He does this EVERY TIME. Seriously. Every Fucking Gift.

Finally I blurt out:

"Is the concept of object permanence lost on you? Are you the Cat? Just because something has been wrapped, doesn't mean the thing inside has been changed. If I hold my hand up to my face, will you be worried I have disappeared?"

I think this statement is Hysterical. I believe I riff for several more minutes on this theme, cracking myself up more with each passing second.

He, of course, does not find this funny at all.

And so endth our one and only attempt at gift wrapping together.

Watch this. I loved it. Terrance does not.

Three Sisters

2011-12-21T17:32:00.003-05:00

The first thing she noticed was the silence.

It frightened her.

The second thing of which she became aware was the absence of her sisters. She could not feel them beside her and when she finally opened her eyes, she understood why.

She was alone.

Luna couldn't remember falling asleep. This was not to be the only or most troubling perplexion of her day, however.

The sensation was unfamiliar, in part, because she had never slept before. As she lay still, her eyes closed again and she opened her other senses to the world around her.

She felt the sun. She smelled salty, sooty damp; wood rot and mold. But most of all, the silent sense of neglect and abandonment overwhelmed her.

Her sisters were gone. She reached out in her mind for them; any sign, any trace...but nothing. No smoky dark promise of Drea, no green gold excitement of Chase.

Just Luna. Pale, cold and forsaken. She opened her eyes again

The last thing she remembered was fire. Delicious warmth had turned to biting heat, making her cry out. She must have fallen asleep after that, she thought, her eyes soft and unfocused.

Sleep was it's own mystery, for since the primal moment of her conciousness she had lived in a never ending flood of cacophony. Lights, music and movement had filled every second of her existence.

With her sisters, she had been a queen of the night.

Each in their kingdom, they had demanded and received endless tribute from eager supplicants. For Drea it was passion; hasty couplings, stolen kisses, and all things that happen in the dark between lovers. Chase wanted excitement; she loved the thrill of the hunt, the pursuit, her eyes sparkling like the shikari.

Luna? She wanted only music.

Laying in the sun, Luna recalled a night when the sisters had joined hands and stood before their courtiers, incandescent.

The lover she chose that night was different. Luna rarely took humans as lovers and each one was unique, like curious bugs. His reluctance was what drew her. Shyly watching her from the side shadows, she'd caught his eye and smiled. He looked away, for he was no musician and she almost never spoke to ones from whom no music flowed. She decided then to choose him.

Later, in her bed, she had opened to him. Her face becoming, he said, like the promise of summer. The memory made a corner of her mouth turn up, an almost smile washing across her pale visage.

Luna closed her eyes again.

"Where are my sisters?", she thought

Snow White and Rose Red

2011-12-19T11:39:00.000-05:00

I've not shown you updates on the Snow White and Rose Red rug for ages now. I have, of course, been working hard on it, for it soothes me to have the wool in my hands and the colours before me.

If you don't know the story behind this rug, you can find the original Grimm version all over. My affinity for the story is told here and here. I still think about Tender Morsels, you know. Almost every day and my screen saver has never changed...reminding me that my happiness is not paramount, but my presence always is required.

The next rug will be Red Riding Hood and I am starting to dig around about how I feel about it. There is something potently dark and sexual about that story that draws me and it is going to require some more digging around in boxes in closest's that I don't always root through in my psyche.

Exhausted

2011-12-18T20:53:00.010-05:00

But not yet defeated.

Three is a Magic Number

2011-12-15T19:48:00.000-05:00

I greet each pregnancy announcement from friends with honest joy. These women with whom I share this unique space between and within blogs...I like them. I love them.

I would, however, be dishonest is I did not say that I also feel a wave of jealousy. Envy, deep green and salty, washes over me.

I wish it could be me. I wish it was me that had a new baby growing in my body. I wish that it was me who would be holding that newborn, inhaling that smell. That smell that is so uniquely baby - sweet, sour and powdery. I smell it sometimes and there is an almost indiscernible lurch in my breasts. I remember the pleasure of nursing my child, and the delicious yumminess of her dimpled flesh and baby soft feet.

I can see it, you know. My invisible baby. She is a girl and she is wrapped next to my body in a sling. I would take such joy in her, this second chance at mothering.

My mind meanders in this fantasy. It is lovely and my baby is beautiful.

It is at this juncture that Logical Dawn kicks down the door and shakes the ever loving shit out of me. There also may be some swearing and yelling, too. For Logical Dawn knows that I am not built to mother another baby. Not for a physical reason, my pregnancy was easy by all measures, and my labor was less than 3 hours long. And yes, my husband has had a vasectomy. But details, people, details.

Do I fear another post partum episode? Unequivocally.

But it is more than that.

I never expected to feel so divided about being a Mother. I never expected that this transition, the assuming of a new part of my identity, would take so very much out of me. Some may call it being selfish, and I do too, sometimes. There is a part of me, a large part of me, which needs MY attention. When I do not attend to myself, this part becomes petulant and sick. That illness spreads into other areas until I am forced to withdraw and care for this part of my being. While I am doing this, there is no room for anything or anybody else.

The idea of having another baby and dealing with another -inevitable- depression? Frightens me beyond words. But, abandoning a dream of having another baby in the hopes that it will be easier, sunnier, More?

I sing to myself:

Three is a magic number
Yes, it is
It's a magic number...

Sept 28, 2007 Gimlet Eye

It's Better than Bad, It's Good

2011-12-12T05:25:00.001-05:00

So we've established that I get a little "over achieving" when it comes to lots of things, right?

Such as the size of my Christmas Tree?

Well, the stand that Terrance bought leaked...so he had to take the tree down to return the stand ( one of those super duper swivel self watering things)

Since the tree was down, he decided to "trim" the trunk a bit. You know, make a fresh cut so the water could get in...and lower the tree a bit.

I was in the front of the house, decorating the porch, so I was unaware of his evil machinations in the back.

Until I saw this:

ACK! I believe we have the lead player for "LOG" on the Ren and Stimpy show. Its big, it's heavy, it's wood!

Next came Dawn pleading "Just leave me enough branches on the bottom...OH MY GOD! STOP CUTTING THE BRANCHES!!! YOU'RE BUTCHERING THE TREE!!!"

And while I am not admiting a thing....This is what the tree now looks like:

Not so bad I guess. And Emily didn't notice a Thing. The extra branches off the bottom gave me enough greenery to do this:

Ok, yes - I know. A bit much Dawn? I know - but the neighbor has strung up these multicolored lights over the front door in the shape of a Christmas tree ( see exhibit A) - as if to broadcast to the neighbourhood that the people in this duplex have no taste! LOOK!

So I had to redeem us somehow.

Tonight I plan on shredding the trunk to make homemade wrapping paper...

Kidding.

Maybe.

Gimlet Eye December 2007

Blue Velvet Christmas Tree

2011-12-09T05:35:00.000-05:00

Ah yes. The promised second part of the tree story. Of course other things were happening in the field as Terrance dragged the behemoth to the edge of the field.

You see, internet friends, I occasionally attempt to be NICE. You know, give it the old college try for the benefit of my child. I stand with the farmer - Elwood - and listen to his stories of farm hardship. I smile at him and thank him for having such a lovely farm. I express how much we missed cutting down our own tree.

Now I have NO problem with grizzled old farm types. Living in Vermont and New Hampshire has familiarized me with these types of people. I usually stand there and agree that the world is going straight to hell. That farming is a losing proposition. That I recognize that he works too hard for too little money. And that the banks suck ass.

This is the moment that Elwood injects the truly gruesome and macabre into our fun family outing. He tells us of his mauling in October by his tractor. The one coming to pick us up. Emily's eyes grow wide. The other mother standing in the field with us looks horrified. But Elwood? Ignores all signals coming from his captive audience. We hear of his hospital stay. The morphine. The weeping wound. The stitches. And then - in a move I can only describe as oddly poetic, he launches into a story of his neighbor. The neighbor with the three year old daughter. Who had her in his lap as he drove the tractor this summer.

Do you see where this is going?

Cause I seriously didn't. It happened so fast.

Elwood tells two mothers and four collective children about the three year old who fell out the back window of the tractor cab and was mangled by the machinery "Never to be seen again." At which point he adds this festive gem: "And her aunt, who was working in the emergency room when they brought in the pieces - cause they brought the whole machine with them - yeah, she didn't even recognize that it was her niece she was trying to put back together..."

Now let's rejoin Terrance:

When we left the Rouse-(other last name redacted), they were (scratch that, I was) attempting to secure the B.A.T. to the roof of our car. After being assisted by two farm employees, we finally secured (somewhat) the tree. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of the two farm employees shaking their heads in a disapproving manner. I'm sure they were calculating their legal liability.

The first mile of the journey back home was trouble free. This gave me confidence that I could take the highway without fear. However, my confidence was about to be challenged. As we pulled onto the entrance ramp of the highway-Emily announce, "Daddy, I can't see the tree anymore." What! I rolled down the window to discover that the tree had shifted. While still secured, the tree had slid from the left to the right-side of the car. This was going to be a long 30km's.

I would like to say without reservation-that Montreal is a wonderful city with a wealth of natural beauty. However, ask anyone what they dislike about the city and you will hear, the roads and the drivers. Montrealer's are notoriously bad drivers. Courtesies in the forms of signaling before turning and allowing someone to merge into traffic are rarely given. Quebecer's view driving as a competitive sport. They routinely weave in/out of lanes, tailgate, run lights at 100 mph, while simultaneously smoking, drinking coffee, talking on their cell phone, flipping you the bird and cussing you out in French. Ahh yes, these are the only driver's in the world that make you long for the good old days of driving in Boston. Driving on a Montreal highway at 40 mph with your flashers on give you the feeling of being a three legged dog trying to run across a six lane highway! You might as well paint a target on your trunk and put a sign in your rear window that reads, " Hey, I am from the U.S., your country sucks, that's not really French your speaking, Poutine taste like Ass!

cough-cough. This is actually true. I now drive in Boston like a champ, people. It doesn't even make me blink. Driving in the middle of Boston is relaxing compared to driving here.

By the grace of Xmas-we made it home. This is when the real fun began. Once we got the tree off the car -we decided to drag it into the backyard and allow everyone to eat and rest. Oh, by everyone, I mean me. Upon returning from dinner, it was decided ( again, not by me) that the tree needed to be brought inside and put up. For reference sake, our ceiling is about 15ft high, the stick next to the tree in picture 1 is 15ft high. I'm looking at this tree- it's not going to make it into the living room. After knocking everything over from the back porch to the living room- we finally try to put the tree up. Just as I thought, when we try to stand the tree-it scratches up the ceiling. I take two feet off the top, place the tree in my fancy self-watering, self-centering stand and we get the tree up. We step back to gaze upon our accomplishment and take a collective sigh of relief.

The saga is over. Not! On Sunday, I'm finally able to put the entire tree episode out of my mind. There's something to be said about the peace and serenity that comes with having a pollen infested, asthma inducing, fire hazard in your house. My peace is soon broken as Emily walks into the living room and request that we trim the tree without mommy. What? "Honey, why would we want to do that?" The crying starts. "Mommy put the decorations up outside without me. I'm going to be in school all week and won't have time to decorate the tree."

I explain to Emily that we can't decorate the tree without her mother-and unless she was now attending a boarding school-she would have plenty of time to decorate the damn tree. A few moments pass and I hear Emily crying again and Dawn ordering her to her room.

What the hell is it now! It appears that Em' had tried to convince her mother to decorate the tree immediately, for fear that her mother and I are so lazy that somehow it wouldn't get done.

I yell into the next room, "I just want to watch the game and eat my pizza in peace, is that to much to ask?" Emily starts to cry louder as she stomps away into her room, Dawn closes our bedroom door, and I head for the kitchen to consume whatever has alcohol in it. I yell at both of them, I drink because of you two!

Terrance has failed to mention the six hours of handmade garland twisting I endured. Because plastic garland is for pussies.

He's such a diva.

A note from the teachers of the world

2011-12-07T22:25:00.000-05:00

A Holiday message on behalf of All of your children's Teacher, Caregivers, Child Care Providers, et al.

Please do not give me anything with an apple on it. Please do not give me candy. Please, no mugs and no jewellery.

If you must purchase something ( which honestly, you don't need to) Then how about a small gift certificate to a book store? We love books, you know. Or a gift card to a coffee or tea place? Or a small box of stationary with stamps to go with them? Or something for the classroom - new markers, exciting markers with stampers on them?

Or write me a real letter about your child. About how my days with your child are important to you. I'll take a sincere letter over a thousand mugs.

But honestly, you don't have to get me anything. I like my job. I like your child. That's why I do it.

(P.S. - As a Mom, I always tried to get gifts for my daughter's teachers - One year, I collected from all the parents who wanted to give Ms Deb a gift for end of the year. Rather than each of us give her individual gifts, we all chipped in and bought her a day at a lovely local spa. I think she loved it, and it was something she would have never bought for herself.

As a Child Care Director, I encouraged the teachers to make classroom "wish lists". If parents wanted to give a gift, they could buy something for their child's classroom. Plus, as we worked with families from all economic situations, we wanted to make sure that it was a way for every family to feel that they could give something - if they wanted to do so. If not, it was no big deal. But it also avoided the "hey, look at what X's Mom got me!" scene. Holiday's are stressful enough without adding competition in gift giving to teachers in the mix.

But honestly - I didn't teach for the gifts I might get at holidays. I taught because I loved the children in my care. It was enough for me that I got to share in the care and development of each child. I was truly blessed to have a career where I enjoyed going to work every day.)

Sing Me Something Brave

2011-12-05T21:28:00.002-05:00

I had a day today, the kind of day that you wish you could stay in bed but you really really can't, but then it just ends up morphing from one thing into another until you wonder:

What next? Martians? Sea Creatures emerging to suck my brains through my nose?

It started late last night when I decided to eat a piece of carrot cake. I don't eat sugar, folks. I can't. Not only does it make my blood sugar wonky and then make my doctor shake her fist at me, threatening dull needles to inject insulin for the rest of my life until my lovely, lovely toes are amputated BUT it disrupts my sleep and then my stomach.

Gah. I am OLD.

Since I had thrown down at the alter of sacrificing my health for the promise of good carrot cake, you can imagine my irritation and overall angst when the cake was not good. Oh SO disappointing. The frosting was too sweet and not cream cheesy enough, the cake didn't have enough spice or the bits of walnut and raisins you should find in any self respecting piece of carrot cake. Therefore, I made the epically poor decision to attempt to redeem the carrot cake with an Apple tart.

I knew as I made this decision that it was a bad one and that I would pay in some manner. Even so, I had committed to sugar and therefore SUGAR IT WAS!!! After eating the not quite as disappointing apple tart, I had some peppermint tea and settled in for the night. You know, because peppermint tea aides the digestion.

I needed sleep because I am now in research mode of ye olde never-ending dissertation. This involves me immersing myself in a classroom of 4.5 year olds as I frantically attempt to keep up with their Tri-lingual ( and sometimes 4 or 5 language) abilities. Since I am still "new" in their classroom, I am the focus of a great deal of attention by them. I am an adult sized living doll who only follows them around with expensive and fascinating recording equipment that they turn off as soon as I turn it on and attempt to capture their conversations.

Seriously. One boys sole purpose in life is to turn the recorder off as soon as he sees the solid red light indicating that I am attempting to collect data. Another young lady decided that the recorder - like all your bases - belonged to her and hid the recorder behind her skirt.

While I know that in a few days both the recorders and I will become passe, it is hard work just trying to keep up with them.

So, I needed sleep. Which due to my poor food choices was not going to happen. Since my gall bladder decided to raise an unholy fuss at 2:30 in the morning. It was rugged. I tried a hot bath, I tried rolling around and moaning. I tried drinking water. I tried weeping and dry heaving. Nope. The one miracle in all of this was that NO ONE ELSE woke up. I am, it seems, a wholly silent sufferer.

I finally fell asleep at 6 am, only to get back up at 8, in order to get to the research site for 9.

I erroneously thought that being tired and having a belly ache that resembled some alien entity trying to dig through my stomach muscles would be the sum suckitude of my day. I was wrong.

How so Dawn?, you may think. Well, let me tell you, says I.

I had a meeting with my supervisor. I thought I was in Year 6 of my PhD. Apparently I am not. I am in Year 7. Which means that I have until end of Winter Term to submit my dissertation. My Completed Dissertation.

I go into a meeting, which I think I am going to get praised for doing so much this past year, and to my serious mother fucking shock, awe, horror and mind caving in on itself fear, find that I have under 5 months to produce a finished dissertation. I did mention that I have only just gotten into a research site? It was at this juncture that I looked - quite seriously - at my supervisor and said ( entirely without guile) "Your words are bouncing off my brain". I believe I also managed to say: "I have a terrible stomach ache" as she and I rode down the elevator together.

After this meeting - in which I seriously developed the urge to 1) vomit and 2) kick over her computer and leap from the window, I exited the building. Via the parking garage. Which I tried to pay with my debit card. which was declined. Because it had been cloned this weekend and used for fraudulent purchases and as such, cancelled. I forgot that it was no longer in service. Perhaps due to the Lovecraftian levels of fear I was experiencing. Mountains of Madness? HAH!

There I am. Staring that the machine that keeps repeating "This Card is Declined. Please insert your Payment" in a Stern, Soulless voice which would have terrified Hitler.

My lip trembles. I park (illegally) and run up the stairs to get cash from the ATM. I return to the car to discover that I have now lost the ticket to insert into the machine and so now have to pay 10 extra dollars to get the fuck out of the building of doom before I break down sobbing while bludgeoning the parking meter with a copy of "Dewey Reconfigured".

It seems to me there are a few other things that happened, but at this point I am fairly certain that I am losing sight in my right eye from panic.

Did I mention that I had to clean the rabbits anal glands tonight as well? Because that was an extra special and unexpected treat. Or the Job interviews that are making me break out in hives?

So forgive me in the coming days and months when you are forced to endure old stories or things culled from Gimlet. On the up side, I'll be about to become a Doctor of Education after the end of April.

I just can't vouch for the sanity of yours truly by the end