Archive for the ‘Rants’ Category

If you’re joining from the Living My MoMent Summer Blog Tour, welcome! Somehow I was lucky enough to be given the very last day of the tour. It’s been a long summer, with a lot of wonderful blogs to read, so I hope you enjoy this very last post on this very last day.

My newly revised elevator pitch describes Laughing at Chaos as “an eclectic look at the absurdities and insecurities of raising gifted kids. And a bunch of other stuff.” Today it’s just all about me. For a change, it’s not about the hell of home repair or how my sons are driving me batshit crazy or even the continuing saga of Princess the PMSing Laptop/MacDreamy/MacDreamy2. For the record MacDreamy2 is happy and healthy and loves me because I turn him on every day. Bah dum dum. Thank you folks, I’m here all week, try the veal.

No, today it’s about something else. Something more…sinister. <cue campy bad guy music>

I cannot freaking stand the book “The Giving Tree.” I never read it as a kid, so when Tom bought it for the boys several years ago I was all, “Meh. Whatever.” I’m more of a Dr. Seuss person anyway. And then I read it. Oh my freaking God are you kidding me? Did Silverstein have mother issues? The first time I read it to A I was horrified. The tree/mother kept on giving and giving and giving and what the hell ended up a stump. A STUMP! A stump that became a seat for the boy turned old man. Even as an old man the boy took advantage of the tree. Hey, tree! You don’t need to keep giving like that! It’s ok to tell the boy to go away, I promise he’ll survive the disappointment. You are allowed to refuse to give the boy your apples to sell for money, to refuse to give him your branches to build a house, to refuse to give him your trunk to build a boat. The little shit never visited except to ask for more and more and more, so it’s ok to say no.

Being a mom is a lot like that tree. (Really Jen? Do you worship at the alter of the Goddess of All Obviousness? Yes, yes I do.) Our kids want so much from us and they’ll keep taking until we say no. No, you can’t have that. Why? Because it’s mine and you can manage on your own without it. I will shelter you with my leaves and feed you with my apples but I’ll be damned if I let you destroy me for a house or a boat.

It comes down to self-respect, and that’s where I have such a problem with this book. I worry that moms reading it think they’re failing if they’re not giving til it hurts, but even more, I worry that kids reading it think that that sort of dysfunctional giving is ok. And it’s not. There are limits, and limits are good.

I’m torn between quietly removing the book and reading it with the boys again to see what they think. Given the vast issues we have here with intensities and overexcitabilities, methinks it would be best to take the book out to a farm where it can happily live out its natural life make sure it’s in the next donation box. I just don’t think I have it in me to explain just why this book is insensitive and insulting.

And then I will bring out The Lorax…again…and feed their insatiable appetite to fix all things environmental.

But for me? I will watch this Second City clip again and laugh…because it’s true.

Ohhhh Sarah, Sarah, Sarah… How can we miss you if you won’t go away? Wait. Hold that thought. Just go away, I certainly won’t miss you. The laughs I get when you open your mouth and the stupid falls out just can’t compensate for my brain cells threatening revolt if I don’t change the channel. They gave notice after the 2008 election; I must respect that. My sons and the wine I drink because of my sons are doing plenty to kill off the remaining functional brain cells, they don’t need your help.

Yesterday you gave what passes for a speech; I’m going with a direct quote here, ’cause trying to put your words into The King’s English is just not possible without an IV drip of pure fresh-brewed coffee:

“You don’t want to mess with moms who are rising up,” Palin said at the Susan B. Anthony List event. “If you thought pit bulls were tough, you don’t want to mess with mama grizzlies.”

Pit bulls? Mama grizzlies? What’s next, flesh-eating zombies? (Oh, pleasepleaseplease, talk about flesh-eating zombies. Then we’ll know you’ve totally jumped the shark and can go on with our lives in peace). You want Mama grizzlies to rise up with you and fight for…what exactly? A gun in every pocketbook? Not a fan, even with two boys in the house. Against abortion? Really, stay out of my uterus. Respect the fact that I can make the decisions about my own body without others’ intervention, just as you did. Drill, baby, drill? You gotta be kidding me. My nine year old inventor-to-be is a shrimp fanatic; he is greatly displeased by the current drilling clusterfuck and is even more dedicated to developing green energy, if for no other reason than he’ll have a greater supply of shrimp in his future.

See Sarah, Mama grizzlies are on both sides of the political divide. And the Mama grizzlies on this side are starting to rouse. A little thing about Mama grizzlies you may not remember, as you’ve been too busy to go hunting lately; they don’t like it when their cubs are endangered. They rise up, roar like the pissed off Mama grizzlies they are, and smack down anyone or anything in their path. They’re cute and cuddly ’til that point, then you might want to hope you have either good health insurance (what’s that?) or a pre-paid funeral plan. The Mama grizzlies I know also want a better future for their kids, and they don’t want your morals dictating what that future is. Ever read Margaret Atwood’s The Handmade’s Tale? Probably not; it’s not the Cliff Notes version of Go, Dog, Go. Maybe have a staffer skim it and give you the bullet points version. It’s uber-conservative morals gone political gone terribly, terribly wrong. It’s a future where even you, dear Sarah, wouldn’t have a voice. While I relish that thought, I also appreciate having a voice, so this dystopian future is not for me.

If you want a Mama grizzly showdown, you’ll get one. There are a lot of women out there fighting for women’s rights instead of paying mere lip(stick) service to them. There are a lot of women out there deep in the day-to-day raising of special needs kids, instead of using them as a political talking point. There are a lot of women out there who can put coherent thoughts together and will use them as they rise up and smack down anyone or anything in their path. Are you ready for that showdown?

Bring.It.On.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

Many thanks to Mad Eye Moody for the dead-on description of what it’s like to live with and raise gifted sons. People will watch them and comment, “Oh my, they keep you on your toes, don’t they?” Duh, random person making small talk, this is nothin’. I’ve been trying to stay one step ahead for the last nine years and failing miserably, so truly your comments are a paean to the High Priestess of Obviousness. Yes, it is terribly windy out. Have a nice day yourself.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

At home it’s ensuring they have not built a intricate fort of epic proportions, blocking the long-suffering dog from her crate. It’s putting double and triple security measures on the computer, so we don’t suddenly have an expensive paperweight. It’s preparing for a meltdown anywhere, anytime, because something has triggered the wiring in the gifted kid’s over-excitabilities sector. It’s being ready for a philosophical question at a moment’s notice, similar to the story Robyn shared at A 2E (Twice-Exceptional) Journey. I haven’t had that exact question, but I’ve had some doozies.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

At school it’s staying on top of everything. Everything. To the casual observer, I am a helicopter parent. That drives me to the brink of insanity, just daring me to jump in and get it over with. I’m not a helicopter parent, I laugh that I parent with benign neglect, but at 9 A still needs help remembering ABC and no amount of natural consequences work. Trust me, I’ve been to more parenting seminars that you can imagine. He just needs more guidance, and me emailing teachers so that we’re all on the same page.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

Part of CONSTANT VIGILANCE! is reviewing graded work that returns home because the boys sure aren’t running in the door with papers in hand, begging for them to be displayed on the fridge. A got his book report on Albert Einstein back the other day and he knocked it out of the park (helped that he saw a lot of himself in Einstein). His multiplication page was awesome; got all but four completed, but every single one was correct. Got a Theme Progress Test back and only missed one, but…what the hell? Ohhhhh…further proof that gifted kids think differently. Hm. How would you answer this question?

What does it mean to draw conclusions when you read?

1. decide the main point of the reading
2. use what you know and what you read to make a decision about the text
3. relate the text to other texts, your life, and the world
4. ask questions to determine the author’s purpose for writing

I see three arguably correct answers. A’s answer (#3) was marked incorrect. Tom and I can’t figure out which answer is the “correct” one. Now, it’s 3rd grade and it’s one answer on a test and I’m not going in to the teacher to argue it. That would be helicopter parenting. But I would like to know, for my own brain, which it is. Because I think #3 could be correct and because I can’t see an obviously correct answer. Unfortunately, because of the way public education is set up, where there are “right answers” and “wrong answers,” shades of grey (thinking) aren’t valued.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

I’ll be so glad when the school year ends in a few weeks. For the first time ever, I am glad that school is ending. For the CONSTANT VIGILANCE! will then be home-based for a few months.

As I am convinced that this here little blog is a megaphone to the universe, and Murphy and his little Law in particular, I offer up a slew of apologies (but no sacrifices, I’m fresh out of goats) in hopes that they will reverse the multitude of SNAFUs, FUBARs, and  other situations that involve the words “f*cked” and “up.”

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Dear sons,
I’m sorry I totally broke down last night. There was no real reason for me to lose my shit, scream at you, and burst into tears. Yeah, Daddy is out of town until tomorrow night, but I usually hold it together better than that. Plus the stress is noticeably lower with him gone right now. I blame it on standing outside at the Cub Scout picnic for 2 1/2 hours, freezing my ass off and trying to crawl into the coals of the BBQ to stay warm. It was long past your bedtime and I just wanted you guys to get a bowl of cereal and go to bed. Farting around and being typical little boys wasn’t exactly the best plan. You were both so sweet hugging me and loving on me, but you didn’t deserve that from me.
I’ll do better in the future,
Mom

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Dear right wrist,
I’m sorry I wasn’t wearing asbestos gloves while making spaghetti sauce the other day. I’m sorry I grabbed a towel and pressed it into you when the oil popped and nailed ya good. I’m sorry that rubbed off the burnt skin. I’m sorry it’s gotten cold and now I have to wear long sleeves. I’m sorry you’re going to have scars from this:

I’ll do better in the future,
Me

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Dear Denise,
I’m sorry I haven’t been contributing to Colorado Bento as much as I should. I have pictures on my iPhone to upload and write about, but that’s as far as they’ve gotten. You’re carrying too much of the weight there.
I’ll do better in the future,
Jen

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Dear blog,
I’m sorry I haven’t been keeping up with you. I’m sorry that code has gotten all janky and the left sidebar is wonked. I’m sorry that more janky code is making linked text the same color as the rest of the text. I’m sorry that I haven’t been writing more. I’m sorry I haven’t developed the community here that I wanted to create (BlogFrog, I’m talking to you here). I’m sorry that I haven’t set up my blogroll. I’m sorry that I haven’t put together a page of gifted/twice-exceptional resources, like I had planned. I’m sorry I haven’t figured out how to do more with this little writing project, that I want to expand. I’m sorry that I feel guilty when I do work on you, because it means that something else is falling by the wayside.
I’ll do better in the future,
Me

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Dear house,
I’m sorry that I haven’t been keeping up with you, to the point that I now have 3 1/2 pages of repairs and improvements that need to be done. Some are more urgent than others, some are considerably more expensive than others, but they all need to be done. All require massive amounts of time. I’m also sorry about the dust bunnies having wild orgies in the middle of the floor. I’ve spoken to them about it, but they just laughed and went back to their crazy humping.
I’ll do better in the future,
Me

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Dear all the fantastic ideas and plans in my head,
I’m sorry I can’t keep up with all of you. Please be patient.
I’ll do better in the future,
Me

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Dear  body,
I’m sorry I am back and forth about taking good care of you. Exercise is up, but this week so is mayo/peanut butter M&Ms/wine consumption. And while I’ve been wanting to get off the anti-depressant, things have been so bad lately that instead I may want to consider mainlining Prozac something a little stronger. Bear with me.
I’ll do better in the future,
Me

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Dear anyone who has ever commented here and has his/her own blog,
I’m sorry I haven’t been by to read and comment. Special apologies go to Christina at Ends at 8741 (been going through hell and I haven’t been able to give her much blog love), Nancy at Away We Go (I love her writing), Missy at Loving Your Gifted Child and Much Much More (so much in common), the crew at So Over Everything (again, too much in common), and Big Mama Cass at The World Through My Eyes (love her writing too). You guys have come by here and left comments and have been wonderful and I haven’t reciprocated. I feel terrible about that. More apologies to Deborah Mersino; I haven’t been able to participate in the #gtchats that I love (THE happening place for gifted info) lately because life is giving me swirlies right now. Still more apologies to Eileen at Giving Her All She’s Got for passing along the Honest Scrap Award several weeks ago. Thank you, Eileen. I would show the picture here, but more code on the blog is janky and I can’t upload pictures. Sigh.
I’ll do better in the future,
Jen

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Dear life in general,
I’m sorry for whatever I did to piss you off. Please stop. I’m done. I’ll even search out a sacrificial goat if that would help. Enough with the ongoing little things that eventually become heavier until you can’t deal with it anymore. Enough with not wanting to get up in the morning. Enough with the guilt. Enough with hating life and wanting to run away. Just…enough.
I’ll do better in the future…if you will,
Me

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Be sure to visit 3 Bedroom Bungalow to see other participants, and have a great weekend!

It’s really been a craptastic three weeks. The fan got tired of being the target and started throwing shit back at us. Now I know how the fan feels. Poor fan. But, God willing, things will calm down in the next week or so. In the meantime, allow this little bit of primal screaming…

• Um, extended family member? I’ll take financial and budgetary advice from you…well, never. Medical advice, perhaps. But the chance of either me or my husband taking financial advice is zero. Zilch. Nada. Kinda like your portfolio.
• Boulder parking? Perhaps you should check the dashboard for the PAID receipt before issuing me a $15 parking ticket. Bet your sweet ass I’m going to contest it, but seriously, you made me cry. Frustration leaking all over the MomVan. Next time I go to the acupuncturist, I’m taping the receipt to the windshield with a big ol’ note “SEE? PAID. MOVE ALONG NOW. AND GET YOUR EYES CHECKED, YA IDJIT!”
• Dearest oldest son, if you leave chocolate in your room for the dog to eat one more effing time, you won’t live to see nine. I don’t care that your birthday is tomorrow, I will wring.your.neck.
• Rosie, stay out of the chocolate.
• Wind. I am not a fan. Go away. Bring warm temperatures.
• Murphy. Get the holy hell out of my house. You were gone for a long time, I didn’t miss you, didn’t answer your emails and let the machine get your calls. You were not invited here and it’s time for you to get out. Take the wind with you.
• School district, you will kindly give final approval to the charter school tomorrow night. The state told you to do it, and do it you must. Yes, you can deny again and the state will then mandate the school, but you’ll look like fools and we’ll have to postpone a year. It’s bad enough that I have to go to a school board meeting on my son’s birthday, let’s not give him bad news right at bedtime, m’kay?

<deep, cleansing breath>

I feel slightly better now. Not great, barely good, but slightly better. Baby steps.

If you would just get up off your 21st century butt and do it? Not “what would you do if you knew you would not fail.” That’s a cop out. If I knew I wouldn’t fail, I’d steal a dirigible and float to the moon.  I’m talking about what would you do if you just went ahead and did it. Failure a possibility. Embarrassment a probability. Uncomfortable change a certainty.

I have three friends who have made, or are in the process of making, significant changes in their lives. Tiffani and her family sold every last thing they own and moved from a OhMyFreakingGodPerfect house in Colorado (no, seriously, I shouldn’t covet a house so) to a 30 foot RV on a California beach. Dawn, my self-professed “cranky middle-aged butch lesbian” friend has felt the call to attend seminary, and will be starting soon. And Denise, one of my first blog friends who became a real-life friend, is streamlining her family’s life so they can move back to Boulder (and unless you live here, you may be wondering why this is a big deal. Boulder is ungodly expensive to live in. We lived there for a year, loved it, and moved out to the suburbs so we could afford to continue living in Colorado).

I’m feeling the pull to do something these days. Part of me wants to do what Tiffani did; sell off everything and take off. And then I realized I’d no sooner live in a 30 foot RV with my crew than run down Colfax naked while quoting Shakespeare. I have no desire to go to seminary, or return to any kind of schooling. The mere thought makes me lightheaded. I already have three degrees I’m not using.

Part of it revolves around our house. For a not-even-seven year old house, there’s an awful lot of work that needs to be done. For that I get to thank our builder, for cutting corners and allowing shoddy work. The “stone” on the side of the house is sloughing off in sheets, and part of the “stone” trim has disintegrated. The sidewalk has cracked in several places going up to the front door, and I’m pretty sure the house is settling. The appliances are croaking one by one and need me to disassemble and repair them all. The carpet is so poor it can’t be cleaned, has rolls worse than the ones around my waist, and has worn around the tack strip to the point you have to be careful where you step or it’ll draw blood.

Part of it revolves around the fact that my husband is so stressed out that I can barely stand to be around him. (And this is where my mom reads this, freaks out, and calls. Hi mom!) I won’t go into this further because it’s not fair to him, but suffice it to say that I have had many moments of wanting to give it all up and leave, except I have nowhere to go and no job to support the boys.

And part of it is end of winter misery, complete with a two hour shoveling marathon this morning. Nothing like an unexpected snow day, 12 inches of heavy wet snow, and shoveling in a t-shirt and gloves.

I need a change. I just don’t know what kind of change. I’m tired of this life I have here. I’m tired of the stressed husband, of the overwhelming boys, of getting up in the morning and my first thought being, “Oh. Joy. Another day.” I’m tired of being the emotional dumping ground; it doesn’t go away, it just pollutes my soul. I’m tired of taking care of everyone else. I’m tired of having so much I want and need to do, and hardly any of it getting accomplished. I’m tired of not having the patience to play with the boys. I’m tired of being envious of other moms who love snow days and love having their kids around unexpectedly. I’m tired of my life being “have to.”

What would I do if I would just get up off my 21st century butt and do it?

I don’t know. How sad is it that my first thought after that question is “how would I fit it in?”

I need a change.

Do you love them enough to ensure they’re eating properly?
Do you love them enough to make sure they’re buckled into your car safely?
Do you love them enough to make sure they’re wearing a helmet when they’re on anything with wheels?

Do you love them enough to do all those things yourself?

It’s a beautiful day here in Colorado today. Insanely gorgeous for March. And so moms are out on bikes with their kids enjoying the sunshine. Coming back from the rec center this morning I passed two different bike-riding moms; neither one was wearing a helmet. The mom pulling her kids in a trailer didn’t have helmets on the kids either.

Besides the battles those women are going to have with “do as I say, not as I do” in the future, they are putting their families at risk. I rarely go off on other moms here. RARELY. I think we all have our own personal hells to deal with as parents, and I’m not about to criticize another mom’s parenting decisions. BUT. This is pure safety. How’s the life insurance, mom? Paid up? Do you have enough coverage that your family can replace you with hired services? Have you marked yes to organ donation on your drivers license? You look young and healthy; I mean, you’re pulling kids behind you uphill. Those strong lungs will go a long way towards healing someone on the transplant list. Hope you have a good support network, too. Your kids are going to miss their mommy. You know, the one who used to take them on bike rides…before…

There is no excuse, none, for not wearing a bike helmet. If it doesn’t fit over your ponytail, take out the damned ponytail. If it chafes, don’t ride until you get a new one. If you don’t have one, don’t ride until you get a new one. All it takes is a distracted driver, blinded by the bright Colorado sun, to change your family’s lives forever. I’m more than happy to share the road with cyclists. I pull over as far as I can, often into the other lane, to give them room. I recognize that I’m in a well-protected vehicle and they’re sitting on top of a metal frame with nothing covering them but wind.

So. Moms. Put on the goddamned helmet. By not wearing one, you’re not only putting yourself at risk, but your family as well. You’re teaching your kids that they don’t need to do what you say, because you don’t even do it. Hypocrisy is not a lesson you want to teach your child. Shut up and put on the helmet.

Then go enjoy this beautiful Colorado March day.

Dear 2006,

What did I do to you? Seriously, did I pee in your Cheerios one morning and not know it? February is over, 2009 has blessedly passed, and yet…things are still askew. Thinking back, waaaayyy back, I came to the conclusion that things started going awry when it was your turn to lap the sun. Let’s recap, just in case you plan to play all “Wha?” with me.

I started off that year with a month-long regimen of Prednisone, for a sinus infection I didn’t have. Oh? When in that year? February, of course. I packed on 20 pounds in that short month…and my body has grabbed onto an additional ten, just for giggles. I’m fairly convinced that was the trigger event that pushed me into gluten intolerance, and am starting to believe that the drug managed to jank up my metabolism so well that weight loss may be harder than it should be. I’m working out more than I ever have, don’t eat crap, and yet I can’t drop the pounds. Pretty pissed here, 2006.

Once the doctor determined that it wasn’t a sinus infection giving me such face pain, but the fact that I was clenching my teeth so hard in my sleep that I was pushing a tooth into my sinus cavity, I got a bite guard. I have now chewed through aforementioned bite guard and will need to replace it this summer.

I trained for a 5k that year. Walked one in September because, dear 2006, I couldn’t train once A was in school. I was spending too much time in carpool. That changes this year. I signed up for a class at the rec center, training for a 10k, and a friend is talking me into run/walking a half marathon with her in August. I think I may do it.

Speaking of A, this was the year from hell, when all things hit. He started kindergarten (which wasn’t really prepared for a gifted kid), began occupational and vision therapy, had his tonsils out, and began ADHD meds. All.Of.This.Is.Still.A.Concern. You suck, 2006, for bringing this on. Really? All in the same year? I suppose you find it amusing that we’re still dealing with the vision therapy, that I now carry deep regrets about the ADHD meds and his growth, and that behavior/emotional concerns are still an issue?

Oh, and let’s not forget who came into my life that fall, dear 2006! Princess the PMSing Laptop! She sashayed into my home in November of that year and almost immediately started causing trouble. Bitch. But her reign of terror is now over, and in her place is a shiny new MacBook Pro (name TBD, though I really do like MacDreamy).

These were just the low highlights, 2006! There was so much else going on! We finished our basement (still paying for it), celebrated our ten year anniversary (miraculously still together), and started a home-based business (have since left). But the best part, dearest year from hell, was this blog. This little writing project was born that year, and has brought me more friends and supporters than I ever could have imagined. You can’t take that from me. Ever. The people who read here, who leave me comments, who carry me through the hard days when I just can’t do it myself…they are the best part of that year. And they have stuck around, God love ‘em.

So go blow it out your ear, 2006. You’re done here. I’m moving on. I will drop the 30 pounds you piled on me, I will run a half marathon, I will support and love and fight for my son until the day I die, I will dropkick Princess off the roof give Princess to my husband, and I will reach out to the people who have reached out to me. I’m no longer your pawn. So tell your little year friends, in particular 2010, that I’m back. And I’m not taking any more crap.

Love and kisses,

Jen

My mojo has gone missing. I’ve been searching all over the house for it, but it’s well hidden. I did find the 2 extremely overdue library books, but no mojo. I’m doing ok without it, I’m just floundering a bit. Things are taking considerably longer to accomplish, I feel a bit out of sorts–like things aren’t getting done, and I find myself cursing uncontrollably lately. Loudly. Repeatedly. Sailors are blushing on my behalf.

And then I figured out why my mojo escaped. Because of this:

That is Princess the PMSing Laptop. Don’t know if I’ve ever posted a picture of Her Highness the Bitch (thank you iPhone, with your reliability and grace). I can’t really explain how her slow demise is making my life miserable, but lemme see if I can try.

• Something inside the machine, under the left hand, has been making a wet (!) gurgling sound. I smacked it last night, rather hard, and it stopped. I can say with a great deal of confidence that the sound will return today.
• Click…1,2,3,4…28,29,30…window opens. And lest you think I’m counting quickly, allow me to remind you that I’m a professionally trained musician and can keep a damned (see, there’s the swearing again) steady beat at 60 bpm. The shortest count is about 4 seconds, the longest well over 30 and then she crashes.
• I’ve been working on updating my resume. Four hours on Tuesday, two and a half of which were just waiting for her to catch up. I tried to continue last night, but got so frustrated I went and started working on our taxes at 9:30 at night. I need to have Le Resume in tomorrow for a volunteer position I dearly want.
• Working on the taxes is taking forever because half of what I need is on this machine and getting it out is like pulling teeth from a rhino…difficult and painful. See the irony? As soon as taxes are in and we have a refund (pleasepleaseohGodplease), she can be replaced. Wait a second…methinks she knows this…hmmm…
• Supposedly I have wicked fast internet now. I have not seen any indication of this, simply because the computer is too slow. Swear to GOD once she is replaced I’m getting fiber-optic internet, just so I can dance like a wood sprite with the joy of it all.
• It’s a good thing I have mad touch-typing skillz. The letters are wearing off the keys one by one. Eh, who needs an “n?” I only have two in my name!
• Have I mentioned the constant crashing?
• I got my inbox down to zero a week ago; right now I have roughly 80 emails to process and/or answer. Same with posts in my reader, except there the number is well into the hundreds. I don’t like the feeling of my large intestine trying to throttle my brain because of the length of time it takes to accomplish a single email, so I’ve been avoiding it.

So, all in all, I’d rather brush my teeth with a rabid porcupine than sit and work in front of this machine. And on top of it all? We have our “Come to Jesus” meeting this afternoon with the school about accommodations for A.

Applying keyboard to forehead in 3…2…1…

Dear parents and teachers of gifted kids,
There will be a Twitter chat on supporting gifted kids next Friday, hashtag #nomoremyths. If you’re not on Twitter, get on Twitter so you can participate. Hosting is the delightful Deborah Mersino of Ingeniosus. Keep an eye on her blog next week for further details, or just drop me a note and I’ll make sure you have the info. Deborah is fantastic at gifted advocacy and support, and hopefully later this month we’ll finally meet for lunch. She’s lining up all the experts she can, so it will be worth your time to jump onto this Twitter chat.
Giving you the super secret double pinky gifted handshake,
Jen

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Dear A,
May I ask just WTF you were thinking, going into Daddy’s office this morning? And playing with his phone? And accidentally calling his boss? You know, the guy who works at home and heard his phone ring at 5:15 am? I can see you now know how absolutely stupid that was for you to do, and I’m sure a weekend of no screen time will push the lesson home too.  Really dude, not a good way to start the day.
Do it again and we’ll superglue your fingers together (just kidding…mostly…),
Mom

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Dear Qwest,
Dudes, I don’t know what you’re doing, but keep doing it. I had to call a couple of times this week to make changes to our account and both times I had people who didn’t live across the world from me! And I talked to a real, live human being within 90 seconds! And I’m getting super faster internet and free unlimited long distance AND saving quite a bit of coin! Truly, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but calling your customer service was the best part of this craptastic week.
Keep it up and I’ll quit calling you Qworst,
The woman who can’t wait to have internet so fast it blows her hair back

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Dear, sweet Rosie,
I know you smell that ginormous ham in the kitchen. It’s making my mouth water too. But you even think of working that pea brain of yours to figure out a way to eat it, I will sell you. Ain’t no amount of lovin’ to make up for that, girlfriend. And your toxic farts are bad enough without a fresh 20 pound ham in you. Just sayin’.
Love you except the hair,
Mom

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Dear J,
Sweetheart, coming up to me at school when I’m volunteering and you’re supposed to be working and asking for a friend to come over after school and then starting up the whining when I say no isn’t going to get you what you want. It’s only going to tick me off. And after this week from hell, I really don’t need that. I don’t want to be responsible for another human being in this house this afternoon. Does this make me a bad mom? Probably, but frankly, I’m past caring this week.
Still love you but want some quiet,
Mommy

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Dear school,
Next week I start the process of being a thorn in your side. I have an 8 year old son who is having panic attacks over the state testing coming up. I wish I was exaggerating, but alas, no. I’m anxious to hear what you have to say, but my take on it is, give him the accommodations he needs or I will pull him from the testing and the school will show a big fat goose egg on its record. I can homeschool for a few months, or borrow money from friends and family to put him in the fantastic private school I toured yesterday. Your call.
She’s waking from her nap and not happy about it,
Mama Bear

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Dear universe,
Your current cranial-rectal inversion is really borking up my mojo. I’m tired of waking up in the morning afraid of what is going to be thrown at me and in what order. I’ve managed to survive the shit you’ve thrown my way recently, now it’s time to plant in the well-fertilized soul of my life. I want need a job. Preferably part-time, but will somehow juggle full-time if the right thing comes along. Something that will not kill my brain. I know I’ve been out of the workforce awhile, but good grief, pay me what I’m worth.  I need some guidance for my son, because I’m at the end of my rope and about to hang myself with what’s left. I need my husband back, instead of the half-zombie, half-kumquat I have now. I need to catch up on all the emails, paperwork, housecleaning, miscellany of my life before my brain goes on strike (complete with little signs and rhyming chants), making everything all the  more difficult. Cut me a break, will ya?
Rocking back and forth in the corner with her thumb in her mouth,
Jen (almost 5pm…almost 5pm)

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Dear everyone I owe an email response,
I’m so sorry. It’s coming. I hope.
Can’t type fast enough,
She who has a computer so slow that an entire line is typed before it magically appears

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Love and kisses, all!