One Of Those Sappy, Heartwarming Mother's Day Stories

Once upon a time, there were two sisters who played with dollies and dreamt of having real babies to care for someday.

The big sister grew up, got married and had two babies without much trouble. The little sister sang at her wedding, brought balloons to the hospital, and dreamt of the day she would find a husband and start a family of her own.

The little sister sometimes thought that might not happen.

She was a heavy girl, and she thought herself unattractive. But she tried not to lose hope. She tried to believe that some day, she would find a man who would love her for the woman she was on the inside; smart, funny, capable and kind.

And she did.

The little sister had a beautiful wedding in a historical church in a quiet little town. The big sister carried her train and cried when the younger sister said I do, and dreamt of the day their children would play together.

But the babies never came, and the little sister began to realize that there was something wrong.

The big sister told her "Relaxe! Don't try so hard! It will happen when the time is right."

But it didn't.

And the big sister's heart broke for the little sister, who so longed to be a Mother. She worried that her own children underscored the heartache. She tried not to talk about how wonderful they were or how much she loved being a mother.

But, in typical fashion, the little sister refused to give up. She did research, she consulted professionals, she sought an explanation and then, a solution.

And she found one.

But it wasn't easy.

The little sister had to face the knowledge that her body was broken and would never work the way it was supposed to. She had to take drugs that made her terribly sick. She had to endure one humiliating procedure after another. She had to spend a ridiculous amount of money out of her own pocket to pay for that privilege.

And just when they were about to give up; bankrupt, disheartened and defeated....

The little sister became pregnant.

The big sister cried when the little sister showed her the stick with the plus sign on it.

The little sister gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, with fat cheeks and a turned up nose. He was healthy and perfect and she thought that even if she could never get pregnant again, she would be happy.

But she did get pregnant again. Though again, she had to rely on drugs and treatments and planning and plotting.

Next the little sister had a set of boy/girl twins who looked just like her handsome dark eyed husband. They flourished and grew into petite, gamine faced children with devilish grins and sweet, funny dispositions.

The little sister knew there would be no more babies. But that was okay because she knew she had been very, very lucky.

She settled down to the business of raising her family. Caring for twins and a four year old was very challenging and sometimes the little sister felt overwhelmed. Then she would get angry with herself, because she knew she should be feeling grateful.

After a while, it was decided the little family should move back to the sisters' home, which made the big sister very sad. She would miss them so much, but she knew, because of the deep, aching homesickness that was her own constant companion, that it was a good thing for the little sister and her children.

The big sister and the little sister talked on the phone whenever they could, and saw each other once a year at Thanksgiving or Christmas. The big sister was sad every time she saw them, because the children had grown so big, and she had missed so much. And every time, it was harder and harder for the big sister to leave them. Everytime, it was harder and harder for the little sister to watch her go.

But they had to make the best of it, and so they did.

And then, one day, the little sister called the big sister for one of their marathon telephone conversations. And she told the big sister shyly; her voice quivering with excitement and emotion....that she was expecting a baby.

There had been no drugs. There had been no humiliating procedures. There had been no plotting and planning. Her body had simply done what it was supposed to do. It had worked.

The little sister's baby is due on Christmas Day.

And the big sister thinks that sometimes, she can almost believe in God and miracles.

Happy Mother's Day, Mothers of the blogosphere.

No Small Thing

Before I was old enough to hold a real job, my main source of income was babysitting.

I always had plenty of work, because I was a good at it.

I wasn't one of those babysitters that plunked themselves down on the sofa with chips and soda while the kids ran amuck. Unlike a lot of girls my age, I really liked kids, so I played with them, read them stories, took them to the park. Most of the homes where I babysat were within walking distance of my own house, and sometimes I would pile the kids in a wagon and take them to visit my Mom, who would feed them illicit goodies.

I didn't leave a mess or eat all the food or have boys over or talk on the phone all night or steal beer from the fridge. I did snoop though. Folks, if you think your babysitter is not the type of kid that would snoop, you are deluded. They're all the type; even the nice ones. It's just too much temptation. It's almost like being invisible.

Who, if granted powers of invisibility, would not spy upon their unsuspecting fellows?

We don't have babysitters regularly, but on the few occasions that we have used them, I made sure our extensive porn collection was under lock and key.

I kid.

With the internet what it is today, I can get all our porn on streaming video.

KIDDING! Honestly.

But there are certain things that I made sure were safely away from prying eyes.

Anyway, I was in high demand, and always had a pretty steady flow of cash. It wasn't unusual for me to have more offers than I could handle on the weekends, and often, I had to turn folks down. Of course, I always chose those who paid the most and whose kids were well behaved. Plentiful snacks and amenties such as a VCR definitely helped sweeten the deal.

But I did have dry spells, and during times of economic want, I would be forced to babysit for the undesirables.

There was one woman in particular that I absolutely hated babysitting for.

She was single mother. She was also a boozehound and a, erm...very friendly woman. She was hard. There was nothing soft or feminine about her, and I never understood how or why she became a mother. She wasn't nurturing. She wasn't even nice.

Of course, now, I understand how she became a mother. There was no carefull plotting of her menstrual cycle, I can assure you of that. You can be certain that there were no birth announcements or pink hued baby showers.

She lived with her two young daughters in the upper level of a once graceful victorian that was slowly crumbling into a state of thorough and inexorable disreputability.

There was no television and very little furniture. There were sheets tacked over the windows. There were no rugs on the scarred and worn hardwood floors. There were no homey touches anywhere. It was a cold, barren, depressing place.

There was never any food in the refrigerator, but always plenty of beer. Once, she gave me a knowing look, laughed harshly and said, "Help yourself."

It wasn't beer that she was offering me. She might as well have said...Help yourself to hopelessness. Help yourself to not having any choices. Help yourself to a future as bleak as mine.

I never did help myself.

The girls, who were 4 and 2, slept on a ancient iron bestead in a room that was mostly empty. No toy chest, no toys, no cheery curtains at the windows, no sign at all that little girls lived and played there.

The bed had only a bare mattress upon it, that was stained and sagging in the middle. I hated putting them to bed on that thing. They had no pillows and each had one blanket that was scarcely large enough to cover them. They slept in old t-shirts that were so thin I could see their slender bodies and their drooping, threadbare underpants right through them.

Every time I put those little girls to bed I felt terribly sad. It was a maternal sadness, though I couldn't recognize it such since I was not yet a mother. But the sight of their bare feet poking out from beneath those threadbare blankets made my heart feel like a two ton anchor.

One night, she came home even later than usual; almost 4 am. As usual, she reeked of booze and cigarettes, but tis time, she was drunker than I had ever seen her, and though I didn't realize it at the time, probably high as well.

The man she was with had to practically carry her up the stairs. She giggled and groped him as he tried to wrestle her onto the mattress that served as her bed. He offered to take me home, and looked at me in a manner I knew all too well. As usual, I declined. I walked the two blocks home alone, in the dark.

When I got home my Dad was waiting up. He told me tersely to go to bed and then he put on his coat. As I watched him walk down the street in the pre-dawn haze, I knew that although he was outwardly calm, he was very, very angry. There were many reasons for his anger that I couldn't understand at the time. Naievely, I thought it was because she had come home so late.

But my Dad was no dummy. He knew what was going on in that dingy little apartment. And the time had come to put a stop to it.

I never babysat there again.

Years later I found out that not only had he paid her a visit, but he had called the authorities and those little girls were taken away. He just needed to see for himself that he was doing the right thing. And he was.

So...what is the point of telling that story?

Well...you know...I read so many posts here in the blogosphere about our inadequacies as mothers.

I feel them myself.

I yell too much. I'm not consistent enough with discipline. I rely on punishments and lectures far too often instead of finding really positive and effective ways to teach my kids. I forget to check agendas, sign permission slips, send in supplies they need. I miss PTA meetings. I skip doctor appointments now and then.

On several occasions, I let my kids stay home from school because I just didn't feel like getting out of bed and facing the Herculean task of getting them ready. In my defense, that was when they were in kindergarten or pre-school. I don't and wouldn't do it now.

I don't always meet the challenges of parenting them with patience or good grace. Sometimes, I resent not having "normal" kids. Oh, they're smart and creative and just...fantastically unique. But they're not easy. And sometimes that pisses me off.

The list goes on. The point is, I can always find plenty to say about what I am doing WRONG as a mother. All of those things make me feel like a bad mother.

But do you know...just the simplest things we do, matter.

Putting fresh clean sheets on their beds.
Washing their clothes when they are dirty.
Making sure they have a coat when they need it.
Feeding them.
Bathing them and brushing their teeth (or, if they're older, making sure they do it themselves)
Reading stories.
Hugging them.
Giving them medicine when they are sick.

They are, to us, things unworthy of praise singing. It's just what Moms do. I don't think we realize that so many children don't have those things. And we don't give ourselves credit for doing something right by providing them.

Every morning, I get up with my kids, fix them breakfast, sit beside them while they eat, pack their snack, give them their meds and a vitamin, and supervise personal hygeine. I wait at the door, sipping my coffee and watching until the bus comes.

I wave.

And sometimes I think...if something happened, if they were taken from me, either by a person or a twist of fate...I know that at least I did that for them. In that small way, in those too short moments...I was a good Mom.

I fixed them breakfast and stood waving.

Such a big small thing.

I don't think to be proud of that, but I should. So should you.

So the next time you're folding clothes, or making a bed, or fixing yet another snack, or ferrying them to yet another appointment, stop and congratulate yourself on a job well done.

And try to remember that when it comes to Mothering...there is no such thing as a small thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks to everyone for the terriffic music suggestions! I can't wait to sit down this weekend and go through and listen to all the choices. There's a lot of stuff there I don't recognize, so I'm anticipating some new and wonderful discoveries.

I knew you wouldn't let me down!

The Sound Of Music

Well, my last two posts have been kind of deep and philosophical, so enough of that crap.

I need help.

I am in desperate need of some new music, you see.

I have an addictive personality; it's just part of my genetic make-up. So when I find a thing that I like, I indulge my penchant for that thing wholeheartedly.

With certain things, this can be quite beneficial. Being addicted to books is a good thing. Caramel Machiatos? Not so much. It's just a crying shame that I have not been able to foster an addiction to exercise or sex or housework.

The problem is, that after a prolonged period of complete and total saturation, that thing becomes so tedious and tiresome that I have to abandon it altogether.

Such is the case with my current iTunes playlist. Once, I played it so often that my offspring would roll their eyes and plead with me to play something, anything different. Now, it makes me want to clap my hands over my ears. I literally cannot stand to listen to it one more time.

Alas, even my beloved Mika has become wearisome. I wish he would come out with his new album (do we still call them that, even though albums are obsolete?) already.

So I've been browsing. But damned if I can find anything that really moves me. All the toplists seem to be full of hip hop garbage, R&B, and teenyboppers. I don't mind bubblegum, but I absolutely cannot abide rap. And it is dominating the top 40.

Even Madonna has succumbed to this cacophonous musical trend. Frankly, "4 minutes" is about three minutes and 58 seconds too long.

Who the hell is Timbaland and why does he think he belongs on the Billboard Top 100? Why does anybody? And Justin Timberlake? Puh-leez. WHY is he so popular? He's not awful, but he is lamentably mediocre.

I don't know...it just all seems so....done. Nothing new, nothing original, nothing inspiring.

After nearly a week of prowling iTunes, Yahoo, Billboard, and Amazon for ideas, I have found a grand total of 5 songs:

Bleeding Love, by Leona Lewis
When You Were Young, by the Killers
Hey There Delilah, by the Plain White T's
Pocketful of Sunshine, by Natasha Bedingfield
I Don't Wanna Be, by Gaving DeGraw (not new, but I like it and didn't have it)

So. I need suggestions. My taste is fairly eclectic, so don't judge by the above selections. Those are just a couple things that caught my ear. I generally prefer more upbeat stuff, but that's not a hard and fast rule.

Basically, if you like it, I want to hear about it. Unless you're a hip hop/rap fan, in which case, we need to strap you down and subject you to a steady stream of Neil Diamond music until you are sufficiently deprogrammed.

On a related note...my oldest son is cracking me up with his latest musical "finds". The other day he came to me, iPod in hand, and exhorted me to listen to his newest downloads.

"These songs are so COOL." he enthused.

I put the earphones in, prepared to underwhelmed. Often I enjoy his musical discoveries, (he did turn me onto The Killers) but lately his tastes have become much heavier, and sometimes a little too "Shout At The Devil" for my aging ears.

To my surprise, this is what he had downloaded:

Cherry Pie, by Warrant
Cult of Personality, by Living Color
One, by Metallica
Sweet Child of Mine, Guns N' Roses

I laughed.

"Dude...Cherry Pie is so 1987! ALL of that stuff is! I listened to every one of these songs in high school."

"What??" he said indignantly, "You did not!"

"Did so. Google 'em."

He was aghast. But that's what happens when one get one's music selections from Guitar Hero. He took my advice and turned to Monsieur Google, only to find that almost all of his new favorites were 20-25 years old.

"That just means they're classics." said Husband. "They will always rock because they can stand the test of time."

Speaking of classics, did I happen to mention that in 9 days, we will be going to see the Eagles in concert? Yes. THE Eagles.

Husband got a nice bonus not long ago, and dutifully put a substantial portion into one of several investment vehicles we have. But then he spent a ridiculous amount of money on a 50 inch flat screen plasma television. And, then he decided to fulfill his nearly lifelong dream of seeing the Eagles in concert.

All that was fine with me. The man never buys himself anything. I have to be stealth personified if I want to dispose of his holey underwear.

The day, nay, the second, that the tickets went on sale, he was at his computer, credit card in hand. It was touch and go for a while. Those seats were going FAST and every time he pushed submit, his request timed out due to the heavy traffic. But, by sheer luck, just seconds before he processed what he declared to be his very last attempt, they opened a second show, and he scored us some sa-WEET seats.

They were ridiculously expensive and Husband suffered a pretty good case of buyer's remorse afterwards, thinking about all the other things we could have and should have done with the money.

BUT....you see, we are taking the boys, and what we have bought are not merely concert tickets, but memories. Diminutive One will someday be able to say that the first concert he ever saw was The Eagles.

How cool is that??

My first concert was the Violent Femmes. Cool music no doubt, but not legendary.

Anyway, enough rambling. Help a musically bereft sister out here. Pretty please?

A Question of Freedom

If you've been reading my blog for any length of time, you know that I am a rabid defender of separation of church and state.

I think that here in the South, where religion is particularly pervasive, and sometimes quite extremist, it is especially important to maintain those boundaries.

A while back I took issue with an incident that ocurred at Diminutive One's school, wherein he was castigated by another child for not being a Christian. Ultimately, the situation was resolved without too much drama. But since then, there has been a distinct chill from the other room parents as well as the teacher, and a subtle but unmistakeable exclusion.

This is nothing new to me. I've experienced this kind of thing time and time again.

On several occasions, fledgling friendships that I had hoped would turn into something really special and enduring, fizzled and died when I realized that I was just another soul to add to their tally. Once they found that I wasn't interested in being saved, I was dropped like a hot potato.

And, a time or two, I'm sure I was dropped because it was decided that I wasn't worthy of someone's friendship because I didn't share their beliefs. Because I was being judged as less of a human being. Because it was assumed that I did not have a strong moral bearing.

Sometimes, that really hurts my feelings.

But most of the time, I'd rather not have to deal with people who would judge someone based only on their religious beliefs and I count myself well rid of them.

That's neither here nor there, really. But it is yet another argument for the fact that religion has no place in schools.

What I really want to talk about today is this:

State Legislators Seek Bills to Allow Questioning of Evolution Theory in Schools

Go read it, I'll wait.

You're back? Okay.

This disturbs me a great deal. Because although it is being pandered as "academic freedom" to practice "critical analysis" of evolution, it's really nothing more than a thinly veiled attempt to once again introduce creationism and intelligent design into a secular learning environment.

It's tacitly ridiculous.

I have faith that this bill will not pass in most states where it has been introduced. But the really frightening thing is that although I don't think it's likely to pass here either, I suspect that it will get a great deal of support.

Kathy Cox, Georgia's Superintendant of Education, got a LOT of support in 2004, when she proposed the prohibition of the term "evolution" in Georgia schools, in favor of the term "biological changes over time" which would open the door for teaching theological concepts in conjunction with scientific ones.

She was quoted as saying:

"This wasn't so much a religion vs. science, politics kind of issue. This was an issue of how do we ensure that our kids are getting a quality science education in every classroom across the state."

Translation:

"This was an issue of how do we ensure that our kids are being taught widely accepted religious theory without violating constitutional precepts that protect against such abuses?"

Thankfully, a coalition of teachers, legislators and parents lobbied successfully to defeat the proposal. But it was too close for my comfort. Frankly, the fact that such a proposal was even made raises my eyebrows. The fact that she wasn't laughed right out of office on a tide of public disapproval and personal humiliation is enormously disconcerting.

I am lucky enough to have a group of wonderfully intelligent women with whom to discuss such things. Several of them are women of faith. They never fail to give some well-reasoned perspective minus the judgementalism and righteous indignation.

One of those women, who knows how to diffuse my outrage by appealing to my irrevent sense of humor, quipped:

"Next they will throw out Einsteins's theory of relativity in favor of 'God did it'."

Another, whom I would love to quote but won't because it was a private conversation and because I have not asked permission to use her words, played devil's advocate by asserting that they are all in essence, just theories. So why not allow other theories to be taught? Not to promote a religious agenda, but to provide a more well rounded perspective on ALL the plausible theories?

That was a good point, and I really had to think about it.

First, I don't believe that creationism or intelligent design are plausible theories. Not to mention that there is not one iota of proof to support these substantiations.

Teaching creationism and intelligent design in schools would be like teaching a course on Fairies. While I certainly believe that magic and whimsy have their place, and a valuable one at that, I most emphatically do not want my children building a belief system upon them.

Evolution is, if not entirely proven, at least supported by the fossil record, human or pre-human remains, and mitochondrial DNA sampling. Though I do not believe in the literal personification of Eve as described in Genesis, I do think that theMitochondrial Eve theory makes a great deal of sense. And, once again, lends credence to the validity of evolution as a scientific reality, rather than a theological flight of fancy.

Which brings me to my real objection to teaching Creationism and Intelligent Design in schools.

Evolution is a SCIENTIFIC theory. It has been studied and advanced by scientists. There is signficant physical evidence to substantiate that theory. It makes sense to teach evolution under the auspices of scientific understanding and awareness of human genesis.

Creationism and Intelligent design are RELIGIOUS theories. They are advocated by theologians. They are not, to my knowledge, supported or substantiated by anything other than faith in the written word of God as interpreted and set down by Man.

The purpose of school is to teach secular ideals, scientific principals, and established academic concepts. It is not for promoting religious theory. Period.

We don't attend church because I am not interested in exposing my children to an environement where those religious tenets are being espoused as irrefutable facts. And I shouldn't have to worry that they, along with children of other faiths, are being force fed a diet of Christian idealism outside that environment.

People often argue that this country was founded upon the principal of "One Nation Under God" and therefore, prayer should be allowed and encouraged in all aspects of our lives and the bodies that govern them.

But that's not true at all. This country was founded upon the right to religious freedom.

You have the freedom to choose your own religious beliefs, and to celebrate those beliefs in your own home, your private life, and the church of your choosing.

I have the freedom to choose differently, or to choose not to believe in anything at all.

And my rights are no less inalienable than yours.

I don't really know how to wrap all this up, except to say that...If you don't teach creationism in my schools, I won't teach evolution in your church.

Fair enough?

The Last Frontier

The brain is a fascinating thing. I have always been amazed and intrigued by the mysteries that it harbors.

Some people's brains are terribly injured and cannot carry out the day to day tasks that most of us take for granted. But they can play any piece of music after hearing it only once. Or they can do mathematical equations of startling complexity in the blink of an eye. Or they can tell you upon what day of the week any given day in history fell.

Sometimes, people lose half their brain to injury or disease. And yet they live, and even regain some of the function for which the missing half was responsible.

Some people can do things with their brain that truly astound, but which also evoke profound skepticism. ESP has been a hotly debated subject for years. And yet who has not experienced a certain "feeling" now and again? A child in trouble. A loved one ill. Or just an inexplicable portent of doom?

Who has not, on occasion, correctly identified the caller on the other end of the phone?

Some people's brains are terribly dysfunctional; the chemicals and compounds that govern it hopelessly disordered. Once these people were thought to be posessed by the devil. They were subjected to "exorcisms" that broke them body and soul. They were shut away from the light of day and forgotten.

Some people's brains allow them to create masterpieces of astonishing beauty, write music that moves us in ways that are as mysterious as they are profound, solve puzzles and prove theories that have baffled mankind for centuries, and compose poems and stories that chronicle the human condition in all it's wonder and wretchedness. Those things transport us outside of ourselves.

And yet there is evidence that many of those people are "different". There is speculation that Mozart, Marie Curie, Albert Einstein, Charles Dickens, Napolean, Handel, Berlioz, Van Gogh...to name just a few, suffered disabilities such as Asperger's syndrome, ADHD, Autism, and Dyslexia.

Albert Einstein, like my Diminutive One, did not speak until he was three. Thomas Edison did not read until he was twelve. George Washington was barely literate.

How astounding. Some of the most famous, brilliant, and creative minds in history, were "unconventional".

Once, on a particularly bad and hopeless day, I wept copiously in the office of Diminutive One's therapist. What she said to me will probably stay with me the rest of my life.

"Listen..there isn't a famous person out there who wasn't a complete pain in the ass as a child. Artists, authors, scientists and war heroes...every one of them had a mother who tore her hair out in despair when they were young."

I often wonder how my unconventional child will make his mark on the world. I often wonder what mysteries his brain holds. Sometimes I can appreciate his uniqueness. Sometimes, I just wish for a normal kid.

And sometimes, I run across something that reminds me just how complex and uncharted the human brain really is, and illustrates to me that anything is possible, even for those who seem in some ways disabled.

The other night on American Idol, Paula called David Archuleta a "savant", which is a complete mischaracterization. I was trying to explain to Husband the difference between a savant and a prodigy, but I was having a hard time articulating my thoughts.

So I turned to that most wondrous of modern tools; Google.

This is what I found:



I find that so amazing and intriguing, and just...wonderful.

But I'm sure that if you asked his mother, she would rather he have a conventional brain and live a conventional life.

And yet, people such as Steven Wiltshire, Kim Peek, and Daniel Tammet give us a glimpse into the true potential of the human brain.

Perhaps someday, that potential will be realized.

Until then, we can only marvel at those who have a smidgen of true greatness within the dark and twisted runnels of their beautiful brains and hope that one of them will provide the key to the mysteries that lie within.

Space is not the last frontier. I believe that distinction belongs to the human brain.

At least we no longer torture and imprison, disregard and condemn the different, the unique, the retarded and the mad.

Such is the measure of our progress as a human race.

Problem Parent

You hear about those parents all the time don't you?

Whether it's sports, or school, or extracurricular activities such as Boy Scouts, there's always that one parent that all the others talk about. And there's always that one parent (or...twenty) whose name makes school administrators cringe.

They rock the boat. They speak their mind. They defy authority. They challenge convention.

They are usually not well liked, are they?

Well, I now find myself among their ranks. I also find that I don't really give a rat's ass.

For a lot of years, I tried not to be the boat rocker. But for a lot of years, I didn't understand the nature of my sons' problems. I thought he was simply "spirited". I let things happen that I shouldn't have because I thought that the school and the teachers knew best.

They are educated people, afterall.

I do not have a degree in education. I do not have a degree at all. And I let that stop me from trusting my own instincts.

No more.

You may have read about the incident that ocurred with my youngest son. It's just a couple of posts down if you haven't. In a nutshell, he said "Suck My Balls" in the lunchroom and they brought down the WRATH OF GOD upon him.

He had to eat lunch in the office for five days. He lost recess for five days. He lost Fun Friday that week. He lost the privilege of participating in Field Day.

For words.

He didn't hurt anybody. He didn't threaten to hurt anybody. He was not disrespectful to any of his peers or any member of the staff.

After discussing it with my husband and with Diminutive One's doctor, we agreed that this was unacceptable, for a multitude of reasons. Also, we were extremely displeased with the way he was treated during the course of investigating the incident.

So I wrote a letter to the Principal. I was going to post it for you here, but then I thought better of it. To my knowledge only three people have read that letter, but with my luck, some secretary who picked it up off the floor after the Principal crumpled it up and threw it across the room in a fit of rage, reads this blog.

So anyway, this letter stated unequivocally that we did not consent to these measures and that we considered one consequence at home and one consequence at school to be sufficient.

In addition, due to his ADHD and related disorders (anxiety) he was absolutely NOT to be denied recess.

Specifically, I said:

"Therefore, we expect that he will continue to have recess according to the customary allowances for all students."

I made it very clear that this was a decision that his mental health care provider was completely in agreement with, which she was.

There was a lot more, but you get the gist.

I sent the letter in his backpack this morning, and then spent the interim researching advocacy groups here in Georgia that provide assistance and representation to parents of children with disabilities in these types of situations.

Luckily, I have a friend who is a veritable encyclopedia of state resources of this kind. Her autistic son has been in public school with my oldest son since kindergarten. My experiences are a cake walk compared to what she has been through.

Once, while trying to help a Mom from another state who was relocating to Georgia with her autistic son, I called my friend to ask if she had any advice for this Mom. Her response was:

"Tell her not to."

That should tell give you some small idea of what I'm up against.

The Principal called while Husband was on a conference call. When I got her message, I decided to wait before calling her back to find out if Diminutive One had been denied recess today.

He had.

I saw red.

That was a ballsy move, but I expected it. She is not a pushover this gal.

But neither am I.

Husband and I called her back. I made Husband do the talking because I was so angry I was afraid that I would not be able to articulate my thoughts without coming off as a carping shrew.

I'm good with words and writing letters, (my letter rocked; I really do wish I could share it with you. Thanks for your invaluable insight AA.) but Husband is really better in a face to face confrontation. So I suppose we make a good team.

Basically, it went well. She was pretty tough, but Husband was tougher. At one point, she stated:

"You do not get to dictate what punishments take place here at school."

Husband politely but emphatically disagreed. She was noticeably taken aback at being directly challenged in that manner, and from there on her tune changed somewhat.

We got what we wanted, although the circumstances are slightly different than what we had dictated in the letter. But that's okay. A small concession on our part was worth it to achieve our objective.

All of that is really beside the point, however.

Whether you agree with our stance on this or not...whether you agree with how we handled this or not...(several readers have very politely expressed disagreement, and I truly appreciate their perspective)...what I want you to know is this:

You are your child's only advocate in a world that doesn't yet grant them a voice. If you believe that your child is being treated unfairly, do NOT be afraid to get in there and stir things up. Do not accept the mandates of an authority figure simply because they are in a position of power.

Be your child's voice. Be your child's champion.

You lose nothing by doing so, but gain everything.

I have plenty of regrets in how I have handled Diminutive One's disability. I wish I had had him evaluated sooner. I wish I had gotten him medicated sooner. I wish I had yelled less and listened more. I wish I had fought harder for him those two years he had SUCK ASS teachers who did inestimable damage to his self-esteem and his academic progress.

I don't plan to add any more regrets to that list if I can help it.

So.

I, or rather, we, are the problem parents now. And proud of it.

Goddamn that's a load off.

Vindication

We watched "Charlie Wilson's War" this past weekend.

If you haven't seen it, do. It was an excellent movie. But then, I love Tom Hanks.

And I love Philip Seymour Hoffman.

I have a thing for quirky, intelligent, brash and ballsy men. I found him oddly sexy in Charlie Wilson's War, but I would totally have sex with him on given day, in any characterization.

Well, with the possible exception of Truman Capote. The man was brilliant, but unabashedly homosexual. And really, really short.

Here is Philip Seymour Hoffman in "Charlie Wilson's War" as Gust Avrokotos.

I know, that's a little disconcerting, but as I said, I have thing for quirky men. I would totally have sex with Tim Curry too. But only dressed as Frank.




Julie Roberts as an actress is just "meh" for me, and I have trouble listening to her atrocious Southern accent.

But here, she proves herself useful.

Watch what she does at :38.

Did you see? Did you?

Joanne Herring is obviously a woman of class, intelligence, principle and resourcefulness. She is someone we can all admire. So I find myself in fine company; that of otherwise intelligent women who do hopelessly stupid things in the name of vanity.

Ha.