Running Scared

I am working my tail off and having lots of anxiety with nightmares and more . . .

I am trying to finish this dissertation thing - currently going on month 2 waiting for my major professor to read the damn thing. I am applying for a tenure track position, teaching 3 archaeology classes, giving a paper in October, and attempting to work on publications. This is way too much work!

on top of that there are the occasional social functions

On the positive side, after some of my classes, I feel darn right exhilirated. It can be very fun if the students are into it. Most of the time they are sleeping or bored.

Also on the positive side, I am also still in the embrace of a wonderful relationship with Sean which brings me great comfort and support, as well as laughter.

With all my anxiety, I rarely look at our blog and I feel I am really missing out every time I visit. This is such a great place for us to share experiences almost as if we still lived in the same town. But I am apparently not leaving my house to come out and play. :(

I want to be a part.

I love you girls!

Remembering Jaws

Animals are family for the Morley group. And it's always really tough for us when one leaves for good. Here's what my Dad wrote about Jaws. He was a Big fish in a little pond. He'll be remembered for a good long time.

We lost Jaws last night. I found him washed ashore on the little pond this morning. Mom and I buried him in the bottom of the pond. He would have been 14 in November. I don't know how old grass carp can get, but that's old for a fish. He'd glide around the pond a monarch, his big fin in the air like a sail. Every spring and summer, he'd help me dispose of grass clippings. I always mowed the pond bank in the direction that spewed the cuttings out onto the water. He'd follow along, flopping in the water like a big hog, feasting on fresh grass. I wonder if his antics in these past three months or so weren't signs of his aging, no longer strong and able. He would float for hours on the surface, lying on his side. Sometimes he would float belly up. We'd start out on our morning walk, see him floating belly up, and think he'd passed on to that great sargasso sea in the sky. But he would always stir and come over to the shore for the hay breakfast I'd throw to him. To feed half a dozen Canadians, one morning I put a little pile of corn chops on the narrow strand of pond bottom revealed by the receding water. I came back from my walk to see Jaws having breakfast. He'd rush to the shallows, flip over on his side ashore, just barely reaching the corn chops, grab some, flip two or three times, and flop back into the water. He continued until he had his fill. He was a big boy -- about three feet long and around 20 pounds. He never saw much of the world, but he owned the part he did see.

Doing the Right Thing

When you are a new mother there are a lot of things you have to learn about kids. But what I'm only just learning as my son gets old enough to be semi-autonomous is that there are other things to learn about being a mom that I completely don't understand. And they aren't written down, either. At least with stuff about diaper rash and potty training and tantrums you can drag out the trusty Dr. Spock book, or whomever, and get a little bit of old-fashioned advice.

I was at the daycare a few weeks ago and there was another mom there. While we were all talking her son came up to tell her that another kid was doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. She said, "You're not supposed to be tattling..." and sent him on his way.

Since when? Kids aren't supposed to tattle? When I was little I was Queen of the Tattle. My brothers hated me. My mother loved it because she had a little spy giving her all the scoop about what was going on around the house. As adults we reward people who tattle and even give them a special name -- "whistle blowers". We give rewards to criminals who tattle on other criminals by lessening their punishment.

So, I am very confused.

My family never celebrated holidays so I don't know what I am supposed to do during holidays. At Valentine's Day many of the kids brought treats and valentines for the other kids. I didn't know I was supposed to do all that. I'm a big Dork Mom. My son has a defective mother and I feel bad for him.

Yesterday we were at the park and I was pushing Dr. J in the toddler swing. There was a group of four boys playing on the merry-go-round. Three of them looked in the 9-11 age range and the other was a little brother of about 4 years old.

I watched them as I pushed the swing and for a long time it was little else but them going round and round. Then one of the boys, in green, went over to the boy in blue and leaped up, landing on Blue Boy's feet, stomping very hard. Blue writhed in pain but emitted something that sounded like a laugh. I thought perhaps they were just doing some intense rough-housing like some boys do.

Green Boy jumped off the merry-go-round and I heard Blue yelling, "I'm gonna poop on your head!" Green came running back and Blue said, "Okay, just kidding, I won't poop on your head." As I watched, Green Boy walked over to Blue and gave him one of those sideways kickboxing kicks right to the groin. Blue doubled over.

I was livid. Something inside me snapped and with nothing but pure animal I left my son in the swing and stomped over to the merry-go-round yelling, "THAT IS ENOUGH OF THAT BEHAVIOR!" All the boys froze, turned to stare at me. With all eyes on me, I realized I had absolutely no plan whatsoever and I had absolutely no idea what a mother was supposed to do when she saw complete and total strangers beating up and getting beat up.

Well, what the hell, I thought. Right or wrong, I just plowed ahead.

"Apologize to him, say your sorry or get out of the park." Round and round the merry-go-round went. "Did you hear what I said?" Round Green goes and doesn't want to make eye contact.

"HEY! Where are your parents?" Green points silently toward the parking lot where I see a white car with the doors open. "Tell him you're sorry or we're going over to your parents and have a talk about this."

Finally, grudgingly, he said sorry, spitting it out as if it were something foul in his mouth. I knew he didn't mean it but I didn't care. I just wanted him to see someone making him accountable for his bad behavior.

"Don't do it again," I said, then walked back to J in the swing. He had slowly pendulumed nearly to a stop and I wondered what he thought about his insane mother yelling at strange boys in the park.

I looked at him and said, "He was a bad boy..."

"I want to go HIGHER, Mommy!"

Don't we all...

As I pushed him again in the swing, Green and two boys left the park and Blue Boy came over and sat on the swing near me. I asked him who the boys were, if they were friends or brothers or what. As he spoke, I realized he's what people often call "slow". I could tell there was something not entirely right about him, although I don't know what. Slow really is the best word for it.

Blue said they were not his friends, he was just playing with them. He said, "Sometimes I say mean things to them to hurt them because they hurt me."

I asked where his parents were and he said he only had one, his mom. He was here at the park with his dad (visitation, presumably). He pointed to where his father was, "Over there, the gray van, in the first parking spot. There."

J swung, Blue swung. We were quiet for a minute. Finally, Blue asked, "Are you going to tell my parents they hurt me?"

Again, I had no idea what Moms are supposed to do. I know his mom is supposed to love and protect him and obviously wasn't succeeding on the last front. I imagined his redneck weekend dad being disappointed at having a slow kid and the beating that would probably ensue if I told his dad that his son was getting beat up on the playground.

I should have asked Blue what he wanted me to do, but I didn't. Instead I just told him "no" and now I feel bad about it. Now I just see him sitting on that swing dragging his feet in the dirt waiting for the next time some kid comes to beat him up.

Cars and electronic equipment come with operating manuals. I don't understand why you don't get one when you bring a baby home from the hospital. Our kids are going to be running the world when they get older and I hate that my life with be at the mercy of those two boys on the playground.

I wish it were an inherent drive to do the right thing, I wish it were not learned behavior because not enough people are teaching it. If it weren't for adults we'd all be living in The Lord of the Flies.

It's All Relative

My son has nodules on his vocal cords. His voice is kind of different -- scratchy, I guess you'd say. Rough. Sort of like he's had a cold that he's just getting over. He can't get much volume, so is difficult to hear sometimes. We've been teaching him sign language since we discovered the problem. He'll be gifted with two methods of communication.

I am good at understanding him, but every now and then he will stump me on a word. This morning he came up to me and said, "I door."

"You're a door?" We are in the habit it repeating things to acknowledge that we have understood him correctly and he's very patient as he waits until we get it.

He looked into my eyes and repeated with a slight variation, "I daar..."

Still no clue. "You draw?"

He looked at me for a second and his eyes rolled upward to gaze at the ceiling, thinking. Looking at me again he made the sign for girl, waiting to see if I'd understand.

"You're a girl?"

He grinned really big and said, "Yeah, and you're a BOY!"

Three surgeries later there is little improvement in the quality of his voice, but he has finally learned to compensate and hits notes that make sound come out. I've become accustomed to it, although when I hear other children I find myself alarmed at how loud they seem.

Thursday we took him to his first swimming lesson. He said something to the teacher who looked at him funny, blinked and then looked at us. She said, "He has asthma, huh?" I explained that he always sounds like that. "Oh," was all she said. It's funny, because I'm so used to how he sounds I don't think much of it until people remark on it.

We're out enough now, and he talks enough in public that I wonder what it's going to mean for him. Once a little girl asked what was wrong with his voice and I just told her he had a sore throat. She was little enough she wouldn't understand a real explanation.

I wonder if kids will tease him. I hope not, but he's HUGE for his age and I have a feeling he'll continue to be, so if we teach him the right values and the ways we know to take care of himself at least he can kick all their asses.

Ha!