Relocation Sale: Everything Must Go!

What with the new job, I thought that it might be prudent to relocate to a new home (think "Witness Protection Program").

The Devil Made Me . . .

Before I make my lists, I want to thank everyone for your kind comments on my last post. Your well wishes, personal stories, and wisdom have been like fortunes from a crisp cookie--I have unrolled them and reveled in them and stuffed them into a secret compartment in my mental pocketbook to remind me, in the future, about what's important. I feel so fortunate that you were willing to share your own experiences regarding family . . . and grateful, too.

"Friends are relatives you make for yourself."
-Eustache Deschamps

Time for a couple of lists.

My list of compulsions: buying pocketbooks, watching Top Chef, reading, cleaning sinks (but not tubs), heavy eye make-up (used to love lipstick), exercise, googling, getting rid of things we've outgrown or no longer use, skimming the news and vital statistics and obituaries every morning while I drink coffee (black), turning off the air conditioning at night (it might catch on fire, so we can all just sweat in our sleep, thankyouverymuch), watching/manhandling/clutching my wee boys, perfecting salsa (still not there), eating a fresh jalapeno pepper and home fried potatoes every day for lunch, making soups, People's Court, not touching or stepping on anything sticky, saving money, redeeming coupons, researching via Wikipedia, listening to new songs from itunes (Eve--Tambourine) over and over and over again . . .

Things I wish I was compulsive about: writing, sending thank-you notes (there are about seven in a pile in the office, collecting a furry coating of dust), dusting, kissing, hand-washing my intimate apparel (snort), calorie counting, baking, shaving my legs, washing my face before bed, cleaning windows, walking the dogs, investments, stargazing, eating at home, trying new foods (like peeky toe crab?), and traveling.

Getting Rid of My Dirty Laundry

I'm at a funny place right, now, an edge of the crowd kind of place. I keep sliding my flip flopped foot into a forest of unfamiliar legs, trying to establish a toehold, but I'm feeling edged out, struggling, fumbling . . . and a bit mad.

I have been married to a lovely fellow for 12 years. Season to season, the temperature of our relationship warms and cools, but overall, we have created a climate of family. We are real and passionate and flawed. We do our best, and when we make mistakes, we acknowledge them, apologize, and generally, attempt to change our ways. There are lessons in everything, even the painful circumstances. We have lived about five hours away from our extended families since the genesis of our relationship, though we are both from the same town, our parents living only about twenty miles from one another. Not an insurmountable distance in this day and age, I feel. Not an insurmountable distance with cell phones and the internet. Herein lies the breakdown--

One of my in-laws is a blogger who paints her life with pastel hued, satin color. She writes posts which allude to the lovely attention that her mother, my children's grandmother, gives her and her family, and this is where my heart starts to ache: the disparity between the way my children (2 boys) are treated and the way the other grandchildren (2 girls) are treated is like the difference between a Yugo and a Mercedes.

The other grandchildren have been invited to grandma's house for sleepovers. My children were self-invited (via my husband and myself) to grandma's house for the FIRST TIME EVER last Summer (and they have yet to be invited back). The other grandchildren are apparently the recipients of continuous quality time. I would say that without a doubt, my mother-in-law doesn't even know the ages of my children, their favorite toys, the foods that make them gag, the sports that make their hearts race, etc.

Right now, my boys are four and five--they see this woman's picture, and while my eldest son recognizes her, the little one squints and says, "A lady?" They do not know this woman because she is simply a once a year visit (if that), in which she stands at the edge of the yard, watching the children swing and musing, "This is the life. This is what life is all about . . . my grandchildren. It doesn't get any better than this."

Hmmpfff.

Mac, in the vein of curious children trying to create a mental spreadsheet of relationships, asks about who my parents are, who his dad's parents are, and once established, he provides ongoing commentary:

"Your mom and dad are coming to see us next week, Mom," he sing songs before a visit.
"Your dad gave you a kiss," he delights after my dad embraces me in greeting.
"Why doesn't your mom come to see you, dad?" he questions, "Is she sick, or is her car broke?'

I shouldn't be surprised. For the first seven years of my marriage, I was able to tell surprised friends that my parents had never met my mother-in-law; she did not express any interest in ever meeting them. I was able to tell people that when I expressed upset that my mother-in-law never acknowledged our marriage with so much as a card, she thrust a check into my husband's hand, called him "money hungry," and snapped that she had had to second mortgage her home to give us that gift. I was able to tell people that, because of an argument between my husband and his mother (from which they had apparently "made up"), he was blacklisted from her wedding. I was able to tell people that she has NEVER invited us to a family event, not a catered birthday celebration, not a barbecue, not even for dinner. If we call and say that we will be in the area, doors are apparently open, but the sentiment is as casual as if we were a crew of Fuller Brush salesmen and the carpets needed sweeping. My mother-in-law calls about four times a year, and I guess we should be grateful for that. She says she's been busy. She references crisises and slumps, but point blank refuses to provide details, leaving my husband to have to research with other family members to find out whether or not she is sick (seems like everyone was told what was going on except us). I wonder how often she calls her other grandchildren? From the way it's described at the other blog, grandma doesn't even need to call. She's too busy spending REAL TIME with them. A pillar of love and support and encouragement, that one is.

But let me make this clear: what makes me angry is not entirely the lack of effort. It's the hypocritical stance ("family is my everything," she gushes). It's the excuses ("I couldn't get in touch because I've been working twenty hour workdays."). But more than anything, it's the differentiation of treatment.

I am tired of going through the motions and pretending. We have tried to do our part, but one sided phone calls, one sided invitations, and one sided interest have grown very old. My husband has discussed our feelings with his mother--

If you aren't interested, don't call or don't visit, but don't keep telling everyone how your family is everything. Don't make excuses that obviously don't apply to other facets of your life, he says.

The phone works both ways, she retorts, all puffed up with a lion's mane worth of indignation.

Yeah, but I don't have two grandsons living with you, he finishes, I would think that you would want to call and find out how they are doing. I guess I'm wrong . . .

How do you make someone care? I am ready to acknowledge the situation for what it is, which means that I'm not going to continue to pretend that her reality is fact. To be a good grandmother, at the very minimum, you must show interest. You must care about all of your grandchildren in some way, not just a select few. Grandchildren are not assorted chocolates; you do not get to select favorites by preference. I spend a lot of time saying that I am a writer, but the simple truth is, to be a writer, you must write. To get credits on your resume, you must accomplish something. To keep most jobs, you have to show up. To be a good grandmother, you must, in some fashion, mother. It's not about the number of photographs on your office desk or the way you muse that "grandchildren are what it's all about."

I had one grandmother that lived 2 hours away and another that lived in Ireland, and I felt that I was of equal value to each. Ireland Granny wrote me weekly letters and States Granny came to visit at least twice a month. I am sad that my boys have been shortchanged, but I am grateful that will be learning this lesson early--that there is more to life than rich bullshit--that action counts for a lot. My boys have my mother, a beautiful sock-knitting granny who telephones them daily and clamors for opportunities to drive down to our house to visit or to have them at her house for a few weeks in the summer. They have many "aunts" in the form of my girlfriends, who know enough about my boys that they actually have favorite anecdotes ("Cap'n Baby" and "Pirate Mac"). "Cousins" come to stay and evenings are filled, watching The Muppet Show and eating ice cream. They even have a surrogate grandmother from their school--she sponsors them for Jump Rope for Heart and applauds at their award ceremonies and invites them to her house almost daily in the summer to spend time in her pool.

This is about hurt feelings. This is about being treated like a "non-entity." This is about feeling somewhat "not good enough" and "unworthy." It's about wondering why our wonderful little guys don't count, can be as easily disregarded as colorful wrapping paper after a birthday party.

There are people in the world who don't have much to offer, but they are, at least, honest about that, and hopefully, fair. I have great respect for people who admit, "It's my turn, now. I don't owe you anything," but I have a hard time abiding by different treatment for different people. especially children. It's one thing to say, "That's just who she is" but it's another to say, "That's just who she is with our boys."

My dirty laundry already feels fresh and cleaner. A multitude of blessings and the fragility of life, indeed.

With father's day tomorrow, we remember how important family (whether biological or created from scratch) truly is, and we take action--today, tomorrow, every day--to make sure that the ones that we love feel valued. That is what I wish for you, as well as for my own family.

Serendipity

Serendipity
Originally uploaded by cate141971.

When Lou and I were in NYC last August, we did all of the fun tourist-y things, like hanging out all morning in front of the NBC studios so that we could be on The Today Show, dinner and dancing on a cruise ship, MoMA, and . . .

frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity 3. The frozen hot chocolates were good, but even better was our waiter, who insisted on taking our picture at our table because it was the same one where John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale sat together "in the movie."

Well, no sweeter words had ever been spoken to me, because, as I've mentioned before, I sometimes feel like my life is my own private motion picture, complete with a rocking soundtrack. I hadn't seen the movie, but I posed and smiled like I had been its star and was about to win an Oscar for my performance.

So, imagine my surprise when, this morning, after stumbling into the living room with a cup of coffee (sloshing onto and scalding my wrist) and organizing some school files into a lovely little paperwork picnic. I clicked on the TV and the movie was playing.

And, imagine my toe curling pleasure upon realizing that this was it, this was THE SCENE (okay, not quite--it was the scene where Kate Beckinsale and her friend, Molly Shannon--not John Cusack--sit at the table in front of the fireplace at Serendipity . . . but close enough!). To draw a parallel, I was Molly Shannon and Lou was Kate Beckinsale. I don't know what the hell that Molly and Kate were talking about because I was so excited to finally be privy to the scene that I started shrieking for Lou to come downstairs and watch it with me.

It lasted all of fifteen seconds.

Oh, the joy. A brush with celebrity. I sat in the exact same spot as Molly Shannon. I could practically BE HER (haha--or more appropriately, Mary Catherine Gallagher).

A little Serendipity, by chance?

Snip, Snip

I hadn't really been paying much attention to what my hair looked like, so last night, when I finally glanced in the mirror and really scrutinized, I was bothered by the front. It's so much shaggier there, out of balance with the back, which is about half an inch long and tapered along my neck. So, during a commercial break during The Apprentice, I grabbed the kitchen scissors and began cutting----or should I say, hacking?

I'm not entirely pleased with the result. In fact, it looks no better than it did But I'm happy that I took action. I hate feeling stale. I hate feeling discontent-but-paralyzed. I hate making daily phone calls to my hair salon, struggling with my Fil-o-Fax and a dry pen and the receptionist's Charlie Brown teacher voice, attempting to negotiate a time that works for everyone, just to get my freakin' bangs trimmed. So, I cut it myself. And if it looks shitty after I shower this morning, I'll cut it again.

I used to have loooooonnnnng hair that people either loved or hated. No neutrality as far as my hair was concerned--no sir. I was called "Julia Roberts" and I was called "Michael Landon." I was once stopped at an airport by a screaming girl who thought that I was Jami Gertz from "The Lost Boys," and I was once attacked by a Rodney Dangerfield look-a-like at the video store where I worked who told me that my hair was "terribly unattractive," did nothing for me, and "should just be chopped off." I was so invested in that loooooonnnnng hair because I felt that my face just wasn't pretty and my hair was about all that I had going for me, looks-wise.

But then, I got older. And more trustful. And more desirous of a blow-dry routine that didn't take ninety-seven minutes. So, I allowed my hair guy to cut off a bit more during each of my visits to him, and eventually, after my second son was born, I shoved a photo of Selma Blair into his hand and said, "Cut it all off" and, like Edward Scissorhands, he did. And once again, people either loved or hated my hair, but I always loved it. Unless the bangs started to hang into my eyes, and I felt compelled to play beauty school dropout.

I wish that I could be as easygoing with everything as I am with my hair. I wish I could, without a care, hop planes to Ibiza or make PowerPoint presentations in front of three hundred colleagues or testify at due processes. I wish that I could bid at auctions or invest in property. I wish that I could stand up during open-mike night at the local coffee shop and read a poem out loud.

But right now, I can't. I'm just too careful about most things. Except hair.

April Monologue

So, April is usually my favorite month because it has my birthday tattooed on one of it's days, but this April, I'm even more excited because it's National Poetry Month and it's also National Autism Awareness Month. I've been loving all of the poetry being shared for NaPoWriMo (a poem a day, baby), and Oprah did a show on autism yesterday.

I am going to school for my advanced certificate in teaching students who have been diagnosed with autism, and I'm just over halfway finished. I think that there are so many misconceptions about autism--that people who have it cannot speak or that they are generally savants, like Dustin Hoffman's character in Rainman.

There are five different diagnoses that fall under the Autism Spectrum Disorders/Pervasive Developmental Disorders umbrella: autism, Asperger's Syndrome, pervasive developmental disorder--not otherwise specified (PDD-NOS), Rett Syndrome, and childhood disintegrative disorder. Each of these possess their own criterion for diagnosis (and can be hugely different), but the main characteristics of all include some type of impairment in each of three areas: communication, social skills, and behavior.

A couple of main points that I want to convey here--autism can appear in many different ways, and I think that parents can be simply knocked down when they voice concerns about their child and first have that "autism" label hurled at them. It's like--"He's speaking, he can't be autistic!" but there are so many different ways that autism can manifest itself. Some autistic people can't speak, but others are highly verbal, and there are many people in-between. Some people (not saying ME) think that Bill Gates has a form of autism (like Asperger's Syndrome), or that Albert Einstein had it, too. Temple Grandin is a woman who has autism who has written books about her experiences.

One of the biggest indicators of autism that I have learned about is an inability to participate in activities of joint attention (like when a mommy and her baby look at a toy together and the baby shows the mommy something with the intention of having the mommy actually look at it--children with autism don't typically do this--they do not attempt to draw other people's attention so that it aligns with their own).

The other point is that early intervention is extremely important and that there are many different kinds of treatment approaches available to children with autism and their families. Speech and language therapy is huge (shameless plug for my own profession)--I have had at least three students on my caseload in every school where I have worked who were diagnosed with some form of autism. For some of those children, I have targeted basic communication skills (asking for items, expressing emotions) and for others, I have addressed the social side (initiating conversations appropriately, maintaining topics, taking turns in conversation, playing games with peers, contributing relevant points to classroom discussions, understanding social cause and effect). These children also receive other special eduation services (like special academic support, behavioral support, occupational therapy), and I have generally seen growth. There is NOTHING better than watching a child with autism play with friends on the playground or independently tap your arm to get your attention, then verbalize his need or offer a comment. Nothing better.

I'm excited that autism is finally getting some attention (and what better attention than OPRAH attention?). I hope that money for more research and increased awareness result from this month. Tell someone about autism. Work it into a conversation. Get a dialogue going (or if you are like me and simply enjoy the sound of your own voice, feel free to monologue-haha). If you know someone with autism, share the experiences that you have had with that person. Google search "autism" and find out a little more.

Can you tell that I LOVE my field?!

And on that note, I found out yesterday that I will be returning to the school district full-time next year, to my own school. I'm extremely excited--the school that I believe that I will be working at has a preschool for special education students, and I love working with children that age who have significant speech and language needs. There are usually a few children with autism in those special education pre-k's, and we work on structuring the environment in ways that will encourage/enhance communication. I created a million spreadsheets and sample lesson plans yesterday, as I am just bursting with anticipation. I can hear the click of my high heels on the tiled school floors already (by the way, I have been working a day and a half this past year at another school, but it just wasn't the same--loved the kids, but the floor was carpeted--no click clack there!).

I have not been creative in recent months the way I tried to be when I first started this blog. My Morning Pages have (figuratively) fallen under the bed and I haven't written a short story in a long time. But I've been creative in other ways--trying to think outside of the box, trying to be original in my lesson plans, trying to be inventive in brainstorming/problem solving. This panics me a bit, but I am planning on starting Morning Pages again. There is a neon vacancy sign buzzing and flickering in my life when I don't write.

I hope that you have a relaxing Easter weekend. xo

An Assembly of Search Terms

I've been reviewing the key search terms that have led people to this little plot of property in cyberspace, and here are my conclusions:

For those of you who have arrived here looking for "benefits of a Giant Eagle Advantage Card," I'd like to fully endorse the club and let you know that on last week's grocery bill alone, I saved $27.83.

For those of you who have arrived here looking for lesson plans based on the works of either Sandra Cisneros or Lois Lowry, I'd like to stomp my feet and light a candle with enthusiasm for those authors and their work. Also, if you find anything more useful than my opinion in your world wide web travels, please stop back and let me know of some good activities that I can implement with my upper elementary students? Much appreciated.

For those of you who have been propelled here from fears over "benign twitching" and "benign fasciculations," I'd like to say that I have had random muscle twitches for nearly a year and a half now and since accepting them--albeit grudgingly--(they come in like high tide and then, they move out again), I have never felt better. "Nerve conduction studies" feel funky but do not hurt, and "benign" means exactly that: benign.

For those who are looking for "pictures of children in the naughty corner," I'd like to thank you for NOT searching for "pictures of adults in the naughty corner."

And for those of you searching for "Cathie Byers Hamilton," I would like to say that is my ultimate heart's desire that you are someone I went to high school with, who has realized, in your more mature years, how special and beautiful I was, and would like to make amends for picking me last for volleyball.