Dear Mom

Eighteen months ago, I became a mother.

And suddenly, I understand. That I will not ever be left alone in the restroom again. Ever. Unless Weeble is asleep or out of the house.

Honestly, peeing alone and getting to eat a hot lunch are sometimes the only motivation I have to get up and go to work in the morning. Especially Monday mornings. When I would be more than happy to walk in to my supervisor's office and let him know that I will not be returning--with proper notice and respect, of course--as the women who told me "It gets easier" were either trying to spare my feelings or just happy that they, too, could eat their food at the correct temperature.

Even now, when the four of us are all home together and Mom disappears, we hunt her down instinctively. Just to make sure we know where she is. At least we don't stick our fingers under the door anymore.

Mom, thank you. I finally understand all you gave up for us.

And hopefully, I can be as gracious about it as you are.

Even when my adult child knocks on the door, just to make sure I am not misplaced. And to ask for a _______, which is where it has been for the last 45 years.

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Call Me...

So, Weeble made a request last night.

While wearing her pink fairy wings and green and pink pettiskirt--over thermal leggings and shirt covered in remnants of her pizza lunch, of course--she looked me straight in the eye and said, "Call me 'Honey.'"

And she was serious. I know the look--I've seen it from my own mother several times.

Better Half and I just looked at each other.

We spent months coming up with her name.

And changed the front runner no less than three times. It's a name that we believe will grow with her, that she can take into a classroom or a board room or a research lab, or... You get the picture.

Over the last week or so, she has been referring to herself as Honey. Asking for us to sing "Rockabye Honey" instead of "Rockabye Baby" and requesting items for "Honey." We didn't realize how much she truly likes the pet name.

We checked to make sure she still identifies herself by her given name. She looked at us as if we had horns when we asked, and pointed to herself.

Hmmmm.

It could be worse. Better Half's sister wanted to be re-named Crystal.



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Let this be a lesson for me...

ATTENTION: To the parents of the little darling in the church nursery with the extremely runny nose...

Guess what I have been doing since last Wednesday?

If you guessed watch Weeble suffer from a cold that backed up into her right ear, you get the gold star.

If you guessed fighting valiantly against the same, you get another one.

If you guessed strong-arming Better Half into his own doctor's appointment, you have the trifecta.

So, because you had to go to church a week ago and leave your child in the nursery to spread "the germ of the week" you have taken my whole family out of commission.

Well played.


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Tissue?

Unlike most people, my food allergies were adult-onset.

As if I didn't feel strange enough that my body saw a peanut for the zillionth time, and its calm and measured reaction was to swell up and reject the evil can of Planter's, every doctor and specialist I visited mentioned
something similar as I sat in a paper outfit watching my skin pimple from the room temperature.

And while, overall, the switch to organic eating (because I am also sensitive to pesticides and food additives) has resulted in some great benefits, yesterday was Halloween.

When I was little, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Mr. Goodbars were my favorite things to find in my orange plastic pumpkin. My younger sister and I would sit in the middle of the floor and dump our pumpkins after an evening of tramping around our neighborhood. We would carefully count and sort our loot. Mom would check it and take her Reese's tax, and then we would carefully hide the rest of our chocolate from each other and Mom. Otherwise, the Reese's tax would become regressive.

So how do my Halloween experiences, peanut allergy, and last night's festivities connect?

Weeble trick-or-treated in a friend's neighborhood last night. To be more clear, she ran up and down the sidewalk as fast as her short little legs could carry her, as she chirped "hi" to everyone she passed. Better Half carried her plastic bucket and collected candy, and I kept her out of the street. (She trucked along as if covering as much pavement as possible was her job, never realizing that collecting candy was actually the point.)

When we returned to our friend's house, I checked her bucket. Everything was appropriately wrapped. There were plenty of Reese's. And my Mommy tax? A couple of sleeves of Smarties.

I guess Daddy gets the Peanut Butter Cups.

But I can mourn the loss.




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A Real E-Mail I Just Received

I just received the following e-mail from the institution of higher learning that I am currently attending. (Names/identifiers have been changed to ensure privacy.)

"Hey, y’all, hey!!

1. The __________ Halloween Party has been moved to Friday. Yes, it seems like last minute, but we had to due to a scheduling conflict with the venue. Also, Fridays are awesome, and you can sleep in on Saturday.

-We need your body at FILL IN YOUR FAVORITE BAR NAME HERE from 9-12 (where you take your body after that is your business) this FRIDAY!

-There will be drink specials! They are so special, you will have to wait to get there to figure out what they are.

-As always, you are strongly encouraged (and by that I mean I you need to dust off the old fishnets) to dress up as your favorite queer icon. Please go all out.

-The event is 21 and over. And you don’t really want me to approach you, demand your ID, and find out your real age. So, let’s keep it together, pretty people. PRIZES!!

Yes, there is only one number on this list. You can add whatever you want to, but this is already number one, at the top of the list.

All the best,
Guy Who Sent the E-Mail"

Technically, I am a graduate student. In the way that I haven't graduated with my PhD yet, but still pay higher course fees than post-bachelor work because I obtained a Masters seven years ago...

But definitely different than the typical 24-yr-old grad student. For one thing, at this point in my life my Friday night activities are a little tamer. Fridays mean sweats, a Disney movie, and possibly a soda. If I'm feeling really crazy, it might mean a half-glass of wine.

If I am still awake at midnight, it has been a not-so-good evening for Weeble, Better Half, and me. When my "body" isn't in my own bed at that time of night, I am experiencing a mixture of hopelessness and helplessness that isn't foreign to parents of toddlers.

I think this e-mail serves as a great reminder for list-serv makers to be very familiar with their demographics. But, I'm not sure this school is listening.

After all, this institution is the same one that sends letters to my home (where I pay the mortgage) addressed to "The Parents of..."

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True Grit

I need a massage. The muscles in my neck and back have seized, and make it impossible to look over my shoulder. Driving may be a little interesting today. It took me a little while, but I think I've discovered the reason (besides the hours I've logged on a keyboard since school started.) I am gritting my teeth again.

I've spent the last couple of weeks helping people (read: administrators) review data and statistics.

Please no one repeat the quote "There are lies, damned lies, and statistics." Just because you don't like the raw data, doesn't mean that it lies. (Commence gritting while I craft an appropriate response that pushes thinking instead of ending dialogue...) There's the distinct possibility that what you think is happening might not, in actuality, be happening. If you really want to know what's going on, ask the teachers. They know the issues, and can develop solutions that really work for them AND their students.

Or we can spend a lot of time and energy admiring the problem. We're pretty good at that...

It always comes back to collaboration.


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Collaboration

My definition of collaboration includes people working together, actively listening to each others ideas, and then working towards a goal that the team believes is worthy.

Unfortunately, my definition is not the most popular one. Some people use the word, but forget to add the phrase they are thinking in their head: "as long as we agree to what I wanted to do anyway."

However, this attitude immediately breaks any collaborative leanings a group may have. And, frankly, makes me twitch.

If I were suddenly turned into a K-12 student again, with the knowledge I have gained, I think I might be labeled oppositionally defiant.


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