Back To School

Not his school face.

Today is the first day of school. Max starts at a new school this year because of our move. So not only does he get a new teacher, he also gets: all new kids he doesn't know, all new environment to get used to, and new rules. I was wondering the other day why most adults seem to assume that kids are excited to go back to school? They're always asking kids "So, are you EXCITED to go back to school?!"

Why not? What's so great about summer vacation; staying up late, playing with friends, your parents getting tired of having you home 24/7 and consequently letting you play as many video games as you want, sunshine, sleep-overs, sleep-ins, and trips to see old friends across state lines? Wouldn't everyone rather be going to school...doing homework, following rules, and sniffing that industrial school floor scent?

I did not love school. I loved having new clothes in the fall and new school supplies. The only part of school I really loved was sharpening pencils and putting them point down on fresh notebook paper to write. That first moment when you don't know what will come out of your pencil, when all the world is waiting to be recorded, it is a carefree and lovely moment pregnant with potential.

I didn't hate school though either. Not until high school. So I don't expect my boy to love school. I don't think it's a sign that he's a bad kid that he would rather be home playing Legos. Though I can see why any teacher would prefer kids who are happy to be in the classroom.

I don't get weepy about my kid going off to school. You know what made me feel bad though? His pants are almost three inches too short for him. I've been having such a hard time getting clothes, socks, and shoes for him that he will wear. He's not a prima-donna but he's extremely sensitive to textures so jeans are out. He won't wear denim. He wears sweat pants and sports pants (the kind that are made out of water resistant cotton) and he doesn't wear thick socks. The socks he usually wears got too small for him so I got him the next size up which were just a little too big for him so they lump a little in his shoes. So he's wearing no socks in his shoes. The only shoes he finds comfortable are the slip on Van's type of shoe.

So this morning he was wearing a sweatshirt that was about two sizes too big for him, pants that were 3" too short, and no socks. There's nothing like clothes on a kid that obviously don't fit them that makes me infinitely sad. Misfit. These things matter to other kids. As an adult, especially as a parent, we may look at it differently (rationally), but to other kids such an ensemble will signal: misfit.

Which is already how he feels. Which is what our family is. And now I've sent my wonderful bairne to school wearing clear signals.

So why send him at all? Why not keep him home as quite a few of my friends do? Because I am not a math teacher. I am not a science teacher. I could become one, of course. But I don't want to. It's enough just to help Max with his homework. Being responsible for his whole school education is not why I had a kid. Parents automatically are teachers of a lot of things and I'm satisfied to teach my kid what I know well and let others teach him the rest.

I send him because he needs the stimulation school offers him that I can't. I send him because unlike many of my peers (and my father in law) I believe in public education and even the teachers I haven't liked (like Max's teacher last year) have been good teachers who care about what they're doing and as a consequence Max is actually good at math and all summer long he's been reading both with his dad at bed time and by himself. He's learned to read at school but he gets his vocabulary from us.

I don't believe there's a better choice for us but that doesn't mean that it isn't hard sometimes.

Fall must really be here.

Congenital Misfits

It is only the beginning of the school year and already we are proving to be Max's teacher's challenging family. Not only is Max slower than all the other kids at doing pretty much everything, but his parents aren't alarmed by this fact and have actually admitted that they were the same way as kids. What can she do with that? What's worse is that Max comes to school mostly exactly on time or a little bit late but NEVER a minute early. EVER. Since he takes forever to do his morning tasks she has asked us to get him there early.

We are tardy slow people.

The crimes against us don't stop there though. Max took a spelling test that he failed and his teacher sent the offending test home to us with a note that informed us that all of the words on the test are ones that all second graders should already know and could we please practice with him until he learns them?

We are tardy slow stupid people.

This teacher is a six foot tall gorgeous amazon with the most startlingly white straight teeth, is fresh out of college, and has the fire of idealism burning in her breast. If there is any child that can dampen those fires and chill that idealism, it's Max. Something tells me she's not going to enjoy his special brand of charm and is going to insist on trying to squish him into the mold of student she wants to be teaching.

I do actually feel bad to be the one with the kid who's going to give her trouble all year long. I will actually try to help Max get along a little better by setting the alarm clock earlier and work on those words. I respect his teacher's desire to get the best education for the kids in her class and to expect them to keep up. But I also know that nothing I can possibly do is going to make Max into a kid he isn't. I'm different, perhaps, than many other parents in that I don't have a desire to force him to become someone he isn't just to satisfy other people's need for comfort.

My dad certainly tried to make me shape into someone I wasn't. Both my parents were driven witless by my own pace about things. You can't rush me. Even now. You just can't pressure me into becoming a comfortable known entity that I most certainly am not. I'm not going to like hazelnuts no matter how much everyone else does or how classic and universally pleasing the chocolate/hazelnut combo is. I don't like it.

That isn't to say I won't ever like it, but if I change it will have to be on my own terms, in my own time and way. Philip is no different. Max is like a little reflection of us. So it's hard to rustle up the proper amount of concern about our transgressions against the educational institution.

We are CONGENITAL MISFITS.

Something that's been kind of nagging at my brain in a very insignificant manner is the fact that I cannot explain how come I like watching medical shows like "ER" and "House" and how it is that I can watch really creepy British mystery shows like "Prime Suspect", when at the same time I find the show "The Office" excruciatingly depressing, "Curb Your Enthusiasm" quite depressing as well, and "The Sopranos" too violent and coarse. All I can really boil it down to is that the shows I like have strong sympathetic* characters in them and/or there is a pleasing balance of things gone wrong and things made right. But honestly, I really can't say.

I've discovered that there is only one brand of bedding that I like: Charter Club's "Damask Stripe" sheet sets. I have two duvet covers and one sheet set of it and it is the very best in my closet and stained from old bloody nose incidents and worn from lots of use. They are not cheap and I wish they were. Trying to save money last year I bought a few sets of much cheaper sheets from J.C. Penny's and you know what? TOTAL CRAP. The sheets don't fit very well on our mattress even though they say they should. One of the fitted sheets is already shredding at the elastic corners. Oh, for the money to have a few more sets of the good ones. Does that make me a materialistic luxury seeking mistress of commerce? Is it too much to want sheets that fit even after four hundred washings?

Incidentally, Macy's socks pretty much kick ass too. I've had the same socks from them for about three years that are only now getting to the point where I'm going to have to retire them due to having worn really thin at the heels and balls of my feet. I have bought socks from a number of other sources that wore out in six months.

So I'm a fan of Macy's. So what? Does that make me a bad bad girl?

I'm sitting here at my computer writing and I keep staring out the window at the row of maple trees in my view that are changing colors-I keep soaking up the bright flecks of red on one and the completely fiery canopy of leaves on the one right next to it, waiting for more things to say because I don't really want to start my day. I'm in my pyjamas and it's almost 11 am.

Isn't that what Sundays are for? Besides fire and brimstone, obviously. For the record, Sunday has been my least favorite day for almost my whole life. That reminds me that someone (probably someone I know very well) stuck a little tiny wind chimey thingy in the planter box by my front door. I just want to say (for the record) that I AM NOT AMUSED. I keep meaning to toss it away or put it in someone else's yard. But it seems so cruel to do that. What if the person who left it there isn't aware of my very deep unbudgeable HATRED for wind-chimes of all kinds and meant only to be sweet? I don't want to be the curmudgeon that squashes the kindness in others.

If I give it to a little child will I be absolved of the crime of getting the willies every time the tiny tinkles reach my ears?

Well, I must pry myself from this desk and do something. I don't know what, but something. Maybe I should make those twelve jars of mustard pickles I was planning on making? With those vegetables that have been brining for 36 hours now...

Have a great Sunday wherever you are!








*To make matters more obscure than ever, what is "sympathetic" is extremely subjective and personal so we may never all agree on the definition of a "sympathetic character".

Winter Comes Swiftly

We now have no where to eat. I guess it's time to clean out the new big pantry space in the garage.

I love the way a sea of jars looks.

These pears are one of the best things we made last year. I'm relieved to have made more of them this year.

Anyone recognize these babies? Bread and Butter Pickles, which so many of you love. Lisa E. wanted to make some to try so I decided it was high time I see what you are all squawkin' about. I admit they sure are pretty.

I produced 33 quarts of canned pears, 242 fruit flies, and two pillow fights with Max in the last two days. Today promises to be productive as well. I have an apron to make and send by Monday, two Etsy fabric orders to ship out, and applesauce to make. I keep telling myself to put away the canner and be done with preserving for the year. It really isn't that easy. The thing people mention most with regards to preserving food is the "work" that goes into it. All that "work" must be daunting...why do so much "work"? I am putting "work" into quotations because I think that word has a negative connotation and for me, doesn't apply.

My friend Lisa K. totally respects the fact that preserving food is hard work. She kept mentioning how much work I've done to stock my "pantry"* with jam. While I love that she gives my endeavors the respect I think they deserve, I had to question her about her idea of "work". I told her that while it certainly took a lot of time and effort to do what I've done, I so much enjoy doing it I'm having a hard time making myself stop. I asked her how much she enjoys doing her work, which is waiting tables, and although she doesn't hate her job, she admitted that she doesn't love it either. I don't actually think about canning as being so much work as I think about it being one of the most satisfying activities I do. The more you love the work you're doing the less you think of it as "work".

On a less food related topic, I thought I'd mention here that Max has now gotten two bloody noses in his other nostril. What's that about? He never gets them from that side. Does his body want to bleed so bad that it will find whatever outlet it can? They weren't bad ones though, I'm thankful to say.

Thursday his school had its fund-raising "jog-a-thon". I hate school functions. I especially hate school functions meant to raise funds. I just do. I'm a grumpy old man and I feel intensely out of place amongst a huge crowd of people all having tons of fun doing something that I hate doing. Plus, crowds of people inevitably make me choke up. It's a reflex I can't control and it embarrasses me.

Being at big school gatherings gives me plenty of opportunity to observe my short comings as a parent. I watch other moms and dads light up and just absolutely relish running around with huge herds of little people. They beam with pride and they all volunteer themselves to help out and there I am, wishing I was hiding away in my little haven of quietude, frowning because I'm obligated to "jog" under the still-hot canopy of fall sunshine. I don't jog, of course, because of my hip. I did my bit though, no way am I going to let Max down by not showing up. But someday he's going to notice just how uncomfortable I am at these events.

Maybe he won't care. When I asked him how come he doesn't want to join the soccer team he tells me it's because he doesn't really like being around a bunch of people he doesn't know well, and continues to tell me how he doesn't like crowds of people either. Like I've mentioned before, my little apple fell right at the trunk of our genetic tree. Poor kid.

More rambling... I thought some people might be interested to know that I haven't bought myself a gossip rag for over a month. I'm not on a campaign to clean up my sorry magazine loving gossip enjoying ass, it's because it's an expense that I feel could better be used for other things. Last night Philip surprised me with a new copy of In-Touch. Does my man know me well or what? I haven't read it yet, but it's so delicious to have a copy waiting for me.

The weather is turning. Colder and edging towards rain. I love this time of year. LOVE IT. I love wet weather. I love the cold. I love fog, mist, frost, snow, and giant storms that whip at your hair and takes your voice away, carrying it off through the bare trees to eerie corners of neighbor's yards. The trees are beginning to change color. I feel my blood coming alive. I feel the wild weather stirring my spirit. It makes me want to go and play.

I think it's time to bring in my winter squash. Before it gets too wet.

This weather also makes me realize that I have a quilt I need to make that I started. I want to have a full size quilt to wrap up in this winter. I'd really like to have a closet full of hand made quilts. To be a real homesteader you can't have other responsibilities such as a job a JoAnne's Fabrics. I have a ton of house projects I would like to work on. Especially now that fall is truly under way. It makes me want to dig my hands into fabrics. I can almost see putting the canning pot away if it's to be replaced by yards and yards of fabric projects. I've been looking at what many of my blog friends are working on and I feel a little envious. So much craft productivity and I have my head buried in eggplants and pears.

There are so many fun projects to do here at home, in the domestic sphere, I really don't see why so many people choose (I mean when they don't strictly have to) to work elsewhere. Modern women often think of staying home as a boredom inducing life. HUH?! I do understand that not everyone loves doing what I do, and I respect that. Some women have brilliant gifts to offer the world that would be wasted if they cooped themselves up in a life of domestic pursuits. But the idea that staying home could be boring is totally an alien concept to me. I'm never more satisfyingly busy than when I stay home. When I stay home and don't have to make a living at it.

My happiest life ever was being a housewife and stay-at-home-mom before I tried making a business of the things I love to do. A business seemed a natural way to share what I love with other women, but in the end, this blog has proved a much better way to share it. Maybe some day I will get to do it again, keep house without having to also worry about how I can contribute actual money to the coffers. For now I'll do what I can and be thankful for all the support that comes my way through my web-store and my Etsy shop.

I hope all of you out there are doing things you enjoy today. Engaging in activities that help you look forward to playing in the cooling air or that will help you keep cozy inside while the winds blow against your winter windows.




*Pantry is in quotations because right now my main pantry is my dining room since my actual pantry is already full. My big pantry is not ready yet. To be ready I will have to empty it of the rest of it's contents first and then clean it.

Back To School

My plan for this week was to go to the gym every single morning since I am now a free woman. I went yesterday and it felt great. I was all set to walk my dog with my friend Lisa B. this morning (she didn't know I was going to bring the dog) when I felt a searing pain in the foot. Upon investigation I found that the skin on my burn blister has somehow torn itself off. Now I have a wound of open flesh on my foot. The wound is not large, lest I sound overly dramatic and you are imagining an E.R. type scenario, but it hurts and is bloody. I've decided not to give myself second degree burns any more. The thing is, I can't put any shoes over that exposed flesh. So no exercise today. My hope is that if I keep it exposed to the air all day it will form a scab and tomorrow I can resume my exercise efforts.

I want to fall to my knees with fists in the air, a la Marlon Brando, and yell into the torrid air "Why...Why...Why do these things keep happening to me??!!!" Unfortunately this would require touching my burn to the floor which would be a stupid thing to do. I'll have to save my sweaty drama for later. I could go down to the tracks to enact my rage at life's Dickensian twists...I'll think about it while my burn scabs up.

Wouldn't this make great dinner conversation?

I had to fill out a survey on Max to give to his new teacher who I would totally have had a crush on if I was seven years old and was her student. She's about fifteen years old, stylish in the way that teachers are urged not to be, has raven hair, and seems pretty nice. The purpose of the survey is to help her get to know your child, his medical issues, his strengths, his challenges, etc. I find these surveys interesting. I find it interesting that I have difficulty describing my child to a stranger in a reserved and brief manner.

Under medical issues I had to mention the bloody noses because in all likelihood Miss Danielson will be sending Max to the nurse almost every day in a mess of bloody tissues. Maybe if he had little ones it wouldn't be disruptive, but he has gushers. It's very distracting to try and teach kids about conjunctions when someone is bleeding out of his nose like a gunshot victim.

It's ironic that the one thing I didn't manage to procure on his supplies list was tissue. Something he will use far more of than any other child in that classroom. Don't worry, I got some to bring today.

That's my boy! A total bleeder. So what else can I say about my child that is relevant to the teacher in the context in which she will get to know my interesting offspring? Should I tell her that he is not interested in joining groups because there aren't any groups in which he can share his love for collecting interesting trash like flattened dried out dead possums? Should she know that he has attitude problems? One of the questions asks what I hope my child will learn this year. How strange a question is that? I hope he will learn what a second grader is supposed to learn, obviously.

I also hope he will learn not to threaten suicide anymore when he's feeling bad about himself. All the things I hope he will learn don't have anything to do with school. He will learn in school whatever he is supposed to learn because even though he hates homework, he's super smart. All my hopes for my son are based around my desire for him to learn how to cope with the world that he lives in and the fact that he is always going to be a little different. Or a lot different, depending on who you're talking to.

Anything special about Max? Yes. His mother takes brain medication and has been known to alienate other parents through her not-so-secret life as a writer and she doesn't play games and refuses to join the PTA for very compelling reasons of her own. His father is a wacky artist who should take brain medication, but likes to live on the emotional edge. Max has a cat with FIV. He doesn't have a family clambering around him to shower him with attention as many kids do. They've all been kind of busy doing their own thing and they all live too far away to want to just hang with him anyway. He feels it and it bothers him. They're all crazy too, incidentally. So he lives in a very adult populated world. He wants to build a time portal, that's pretty special.

Other than that, he's just like any other kid.

It just got harder to feed the kid. Since the night before last he claims that everything tastes bad, that it, in fact, all tastes like coffee. He claims Philip let him taste coffee years ago (since he's only six and a half I have to laugh at this) and that's how he knows what coffee tastes like. He thinks there's something wrong with him and demanded that if everything still tastes like coffee today, we must take him to the doctor. Off the list of things to consume: ice water (pretty much the only beverage he drinks regularly), crackers, corn dogs, and...well, that's pretty much all he eats now anyway. Shit. Is there a disease for which the leading symptom is a coffee taste in the mouth?

He also made me comb his hair for lice before he would get in bed. I keep telling him he has a slightly dry scalp which is why his head is sometimes itchy. He appears to be a little freaked out by the whole idea of lice, not that I blame him. I fear the day there is an outbreak at his school.

The main computer is still broken. I really need it fixed. There's information I can't get to from my laptop. Information and pictures. It's at the shop, so hopefully we'll have it fixed soon.

So I guess it's time to bag my wound and take a shower. What should I do with my day? Should I ride out to my favorite farm and get a bunch of eggplants and tomatoes? Or should I make a couple of comforter covers using all my flat sheets as the back? We don't use flat sheets, I hear this is the European way of making the bed. We simply use the fitted sheet and duvet covers. So every time I buy a sheet set, I have unused flat sheets. It just so happens that duvet covers are really expensive and I can't afford to buy any. But my current ones are starting to get super shabby. (Hey, could that be the next permutation of "Shabby Chic"? Should I start a store and call it "Super Shabby"? Or maybe "Angelina's Super Shabby Emporium"?)

I made Max a duvet cover using two flat sheets. It worked great and was really easy. So my plan is to make a top out of great cotton prints and rick rack, and then sew it to a flat sheet. Perfect! I just can't decide if I should spend my day preserving food or doing a sewing project for my house. Maybe it will come to me over eggs and toast.

This is Super Shabby signing off...

Happy back to school everyone!!