I'm not a teacher nor could I ever be a teacher, and for many reasons. Not the least of which are my dislike of children and a hyper-sensitive sense of smell. I also find it unendingly irritating to have to explain myself more than once. Like I said, many good reasons for not pursuing a career in education.
So while I in no way consider myself any sort of educator, I do feel that there are a few areas in which those in the field should excel. Perhaps it's a bit bold of me to set my own standards for educators, but I think you may agree with me. For example, I personally feel that educators should have to prove spelling and grammar proficiency prior to being trusted with the growing minds of children. Crazy, I know, but my standards are high. I feel so passionately about this that I've taken the liberty to list a few specific examples:
*working knowledge and implementation of rules governing they're/their/there; to/too/two; you're/your
*ability to distinguish the difference betweens nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs
*knowledge of the parts of a sentence and the "job" of each part of the whole ie: how to put a fricking sentence together so it reads as it should
*a reading/comprehension level that exceeds that of your students, seriously
If you're nodding your head along with me, I'd hazard a guess that you've met a teacher or two who struggle with these challenging concepts. One of my favorite examples is the wide and wonderously tragic world of Facebook posts. Here's a tip to all of those Facebooking, blogging teachers: I read your posts. All of them. And then I know exactly where NOT to send my children for school. I'm a big advocate of alternative education settings and curriculums, but if you cannot read, nor spell, you have no business teaching anyone. Not even your own children. Especially not your own children. Mommy does NOT know best, in this instance.
I would love to say that I plan to homeschool my children but let's be real: I haven't the desire nor the capability to take their education into my own hands. I'm simply not equipped to provide them with what they need to move into life with the proper tools. I'm thankful for the two years that remain before I have to make the tough decision as to where and how my children will be educated. While I have no idea what "school" will mean for my children, you can bet your ass my first interview question will be: How would you use the word "your" in a sentence?
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Nice to meet you?
At what point does a somewhat awkward social situation go from uncomfortable to ridiculous? Let me explain: I have met a particular women in my community on no less than 25 separate occasions over the past four years. We've been introduced and chatted multiple times, she is a Facebook "friend" and she pretends she doesn't know me every time we are introduced. Again. For the umpteenth time. I mean, really. When, exactly, will this no longer be embarrassing for me and turn into embarrassment for her? Because four years in, we haven't reached that threshold and I'm getting real tired of pretending I've never met this bitch before. Particularly because I end up "meeting" her several times a year.
I know who her husband is and I've seen him on a few occasions, but he doesn't know my name (how could he? his wife has no idea who I am) and though we've never been introduced, he always greets me with the politeness reserved for the token Hello when passing someone you recognize. Perfectly acceptable; he doesn't know me but does recognize my earthly presence and treats me in kind. Not so much for his Very Busy and Important wife.
While I may be a passive-aggressive person by nature, I am usually good at controlling my natural instincts in public. That said, I'm sick of this shit and I've no doubt that I will once again be forced to "meet" this woman over the holiday season - if I'm lucky, maybe even more than once. Wheeee! I'm marinating some ideas for taking care of this situation once and for all. No final plans, but right now I'm leaning towards carrying a 3x5 index card with a list cataloging all of the times we've met and names of the organizations we've both been involved with. At the same time. Together. And feel free to brainstorm with me; I'm always taking suggestions.
I know who her husband is and I've seen him on a few occasions, but he doesn't know my name (how could he? his wife has no idea who I am) and though we've never been introduced, he always greets me with the politeness reserved for the token Hello when passing someone you recognize. Perfectly acceptable; he doesn't know me but does recognize my earthly presence and treats me in kind. Not so much for his Very Busy and Important wife.
While I may be a passive-aggressive person by nature, I am usually good at controlling my natural instincts in public. That said, I'm sick of this shit and I've no doubt that I will once again be forced to "meet" this woman over the holiday season - if I'm lucky, maybe even more than once. Wheeee! I'm marinating some ideas for taking care of this situation once and for all. No final plans, but right now I'm leaning towards carrying a 3x5 index card with a list cataloging all of the times we've met and names of the organizations we've both been involved with. At the same time. Together. And feel free to brainstorm with me; I'm always taking suggestions.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Seriously?
I'm going to a networking event in a few weeks and after I registered I realized that one of the men speaking at the event happens to be someone I was "matched" with online. I vaguely recall drooling over his pictures and fantasizing about our perfect future as a family of travelling foodies. And because I'm really, really bad at meeting men in general, let alone dating, I've blocked out what was certainly an embarrassing fail in the form of an online greeting that received no response. Awesome.
This event is important for my career and future and I really want to attend. But my pride (what little still remains) is almost certain to be completely shot afterwards. It would be good for me if he didn't recognize me, (or remember my terrible attempt to meet him online) and that's very possible, because I have a generic face. I'm not asking for pity, folks, I just have a really common face. Every single day at least one perfect stranger tells me I look familiar and they're sure they know me from somewhere. Every day. And if I had a nickel for every time someone waved furiously and wondered why I didn't wave back? Well, I'd probably have a couple of dollars by now. But back to the upcoming humiliation. It would be less embarassing if he didn't recognize or remember me. It would also reaffirm my deeply-rooted conviction that I am utterly forgettable. Although, that may serve me well in this case.
I could take another track and dream up ways that I could win him over in person. Perhaps I'll charm my way through the room and he'll seek me out and beg to buy me a drink after we discuss Very Important Things and network with lots of Very Important People. And if by some lightning strike of luck this were to actually happen, I'm pretty sure I'd have spinach in my teeth and I'd trip over the leg of a table after inadvertently offending a cause that he's dedicated his lifes' work to. Maybe I could even knock over a beautiful centerpiece full of glass marbles and hundreds of dollars of rare flowers while I'm at it. Oh, the possibilities are endless.
I'll be back with a full report in November. Because it wouldn't be fun if I took the safe road and just didn't attend. Plus, I already registered and you can bet your ass I'm going to get my mediocre hotel-fare lunch out of the deal. And who knows, maybe they'll have good pens in the swag. I really like a great pen.
This event is important for my career and future and I really want to attend. But my pride (what little still remains) is almost certain to be completely shot afterwards. It would be good for me if he didn't recognize me, (or remember my terrible attempt to meet him online) and that's very possible, because I have a generic face. I'm not asking for pity, folks, I just have a really common face. Every single day at least one perfect stranger tells me I look familiar and they're sure they know me from somewhere. Every day. And if I had a nickel for every time someone waved furiously and wondered why I didn't wave back? Well, I'd probably have a couple of dollars by now. But back to the upcoming humiliation. It would be less embarassing if he didn't recognize or remember me. It would also reaffirm my deeply-rooted conviction that I am utterly forgettable. Although, that may serve me well in this case.
I could take another track and dream up ways that I could win him over in person. Perhaps I'll charm my way through the room and he'll seek me out and beg to buy me a drink after we discuss Very Important Things and network with lots of Very Important People. And if by some lightning strike of luck this were to actually happen, I'm pretty sure I'd have spinach in my teeth and I'd trip over the leg of a table after inadvertently offending a cause that he's dedicated his lifes' work to. Maybe I could even knock over a beautiful centerpiece full of glass marbles and hundreds of dollars of rare flowers while I'm at it. Oh, the possibilities are endless.
I'll be back with a full report in November. Because it wouldn't be fun if I took the safe road and just didn't attend. Plus, I already registered and you can bet your ass I'm going to get my mediocre hotel-fare lunch out of the deal. And who knows, maybe they'll have good pens in the swag. I really like a great pen.
Letting Go: The Real-Life Dangers of Preschool
As a woman who has been a stay-at-home-mom since the birth of my first child, I found it both liberating and devastating to send my children to daycare/preschool for the first time. After having gone back to school it became clear immediately that I would need some quiet time in my home in order to get my work accomplished in a (rarely) timely fashion.
It was bittersweet to drop my two-year-old son off and watch him run to play with his new friends and learn from a new environment. I was so excited for him to experience new people, places and things while also struggling with my lack of control. For his first childcare experience I was lucky to have found a lovely, brilliant woman with the patience of a saint and the like-mindedness I needed in regards to food, education and life in general. It was everything I could have asked for; in a word, Perfect. She was truly wonderful. The other kids? Not so much...
I've learned that you can choose your preschool setting with the utmost caution and only after hours upon hours of research, only to be introduced to Nasty Child whom your Perfect Child immediately connects with. And Nasty Child will have an undue amount of influence on your child, and thus your entire life. Seriously, he will leak into every waking moment of your life. Probably even your dreams. He's a soul-sucker, that one.
(it would be wise for you to prepare yourself for the coming onslaught of highly judgemental criticism of other parenting styles, and no, I won't be apologizing)
You see, Nasty Child lives in a world that my children can only dream about. One with unlimited and unsupervised time in front of the television, a host of video games violent enough to offend even me (notoriously non-offendable me), a bevy of scrumptious snack options whose only identifiable ingredient is sugar, no bedtimes, a complete lack of parental coaching on such trivial subjects as manners and respect, and a house full of furniture whose sole purpose is to function as an indoor trampoline and a place to spill their red Kool-Aid.
Among his other lovely quirks, Nasty Child has learned some spectacular vocabulary from home and he won't hesitate, not even for a moment, to share this delightful new language with your child. For while he may not be capable of sharing in the context of polite society, he's more than happy to share his oodles of life experience and impress upon your child the ways of a Cool Kid.
Save for hermetically sealing my home and rejecting society as a whole, pretty sure I can't find a way out of this unpleasant situation. In fact, I'm expecting that it will only get worse as time goes by. Awesome. So for now, I'll leave you with a few of my favorite phrases that my son has brought home from preschool. Enjoy, knowing that you aren't alone.
"Mom, go take a shower. I see some dirt on you. And you have a stinking butt."
"I'm going to kill you."
"The cops will come and blow your head off if you don't get off my bike."
"I'm going to kick your stinking butt." ("stinking butt" is the phrase of choice for October)
"The cops are gonna come and take your mom away forever if you don't give me all the train tracks." (cops: current favorite threat)
Believe it or not, my child isn't actually violent nor evil. Quite the contrary, actually. He's normally a sweet, empathetic child. I figure by first grade the son that I carefully molded and guided will be lost to me forever, in his place a sarcastic, unimpressed potty-mouth.
Wait, that sounds like someone I know... A little close to home, eh?
It was bittersweet to drop my two-year-old son off and watch him run to play with his new friends and learn from a new environment. I was so excited for him to experience new people, places and things while also struggling with my lack of control. For his first childcare experience I was lucky to have found a lovely, brilliant woman with the patience of a saint and the like-mindedness I needed in regards to food, education and life in general. It was everything I could have asked for; in a word, Perfect. She was truly wonderful. The other kids? Not so much...
I've learned that you can choose your preschool setting with the utmost caution and only after hours upon hours of research, only to be introduced to Nasty Child whom your Perfect Child immediately connects with. And Nasty Child will have an undue amount of influence on your child, and thus your entire life. Seriously, he will leak into every waking moment of your life. Probably even your dreams. He's a soul-sucker, that one.
(it would be wise for you to prepare yourself for the coming onslaught of highly judgemental criticism of other parenting styles, and no, I won't be apologizing)
You see, Nasty Child lives in a world that my children can only dream about. One with unlimited and unsupervised time in front of the television, a host of video games violent enough to offend even me (notoriously non-offendable me), a bevy of scrumptious snack options whose only identifiable ingredient is sugar, no bedtimes, a complete lack of parental coaching on such trivial subjects as manners and respect, and a house full of furniture whose sole purpose is to function as an indoor trampoline and a place to spill their red Kool-Aid.
Among his other lovely quirks, Nasty Child has learned some spectacular vocabulary from home and he won't hesitate, not even for a moment, to share this delightful new language with your child. For while he may not be capable of sharing in the context of polite society, he's more than happy to share his oodles of life experience and impress upon your child the ways of a Cool Kid.
Save for hermetically sealing my home and rejecting society as a whole, pretty sure I can't find a way out of this unpleasant situation. In fact, I'm expecting that it will only get worse as time goes by. Awesome. So for now, I'll leave you with a few of my favorite phrases that my son has brought home from preschool. Enjoy, knowing that you aren't alone.
"Mom, go take a shower. I see some dirt on you. And you have a stinking butt."
"I'm going to kill you."
"The cops will come and blow your head off if you don't get off my bike."
"I'm going to kick your stinking butt." ("stinking butt" is the phrase of choice for October)
"The cops are gonna come and take your mom away forever if you don't give me all the train tracks." (cops: current favorite threat)
Believe it or not, my child isn't actually violent nor evil. Quite the contrary, actually. He's normally a sweet, empathetic child. I figure by first grade the son that I carefully molded and guided will be lost to me forever, in his place a sarcastic, unimpressed potty-mouth.
Wait, that sounds like someone I know... A little close to home, eh?
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Mrs. Schroeder-Firefighter, I presume?
I got up early today. Like, 30 minutes early. And I didn't hit the snooze button, not even once. In fact, I bounced up out of bed to the strumming of an obnoxious guitar solo that serves as the alarm tone on my phone and raced to the shower. You might be thinking, why do I use my phone as an alarm clock, when as a bonafide adult I should have graduated to genuine alarm clock ownership? Well, funny you should mention it. As a matter of fact, I am the proud owner of a bright green, LED color-changing alarm clock. And being such a lovely, and apparently juvenile, addition to my bedroom made it automatically the property of my scared-of-everything almost-four-year-old. Why do I even bother?
But back to my early-rising adventure. Today was a big day. A really big day. A day so full of potential that I was already daydreaming about the three C's (cut, color and carat) and where we'd honeymoon. That's right, ladies, today was the day I was going to meet my future husband. The man who would make me reconsider hyphenating my name and would insist on rubbing my feet every evening and playing with my hair until I fell asleep every night. And I only had a few hours to prepare; he was to arrive promptly at 9:00 am.
I took my time in the shower and my children, clearly having sensed the magnitude of the day, slept late allowing me to throughly scrub all my bits and pieces until I was as fresh as the morning dew. I even managed to make it all the way through makeup application and dressing my top half before I heard the first mumurings of my babes. I waltzed in to greet them with air in my step and kisses aplenty, for who could be blue on a day so full of promise? After I'd dropped the babes off at daycare I raced home to prepare my house for The Visit.
While squealing excitedly through a conversation with D I pleated my curtains perfectly, artfully arranged my magazines on the coffee table, (Time on top, Cosmo on the bottom) tidied up the kitchen and generally raced around making sure everything looked effortlessly casual and inviting. The coffee was on and I'd lit a vanilla-scented candle because I read somewhere that vanilla makes men want stability and committment. Hell, if vanilla makes him like it so much he wants to put a ring on it, I'll start bathing in Vanilla Fields. I mean, it couldn't hurt, right? Nevermind the fact that vanilla-scented anything makes me want to die - life is all about compromise. You don't have to say it; I know, I'm brilliant.
Back to The Visit and more importantly, The Visitor. You see, ladies, I was expecting a Firefighter. A real, live, in-the-flesh Firefighter and an off-duty one at that. And we all know that off-duty is code for single-gorgeous-deep-sense-of-moral-obligations-and-seeking-a-committment-with-a-witty-single-mom-of-three. He was coming to my home to inspect my fire extinguisher. I mean, is that caring and kind or what? I felt a deep connection with him already, being as he was looking out for the safety of my family. And on his day off? Seriously, be jealous - I would be if I weren't me.
As 9:00 approaches I start to tingle with anticipation. I'm going to be so charming and interesting that he'll fall all over himself in his efforts to secure a date with me and my dashing wit. And if all goes according to plan, I'll ring in the new year as Mrs. Schroeder-Firefighter with a giant Tiffany sparkler on my left hand. The doorbell rings, the sound a perfect trill that only adds to my excitement and certainty that Mr. Right Firefighter stands waiting for me on the other side of the door.
I wait a few seconds - I'm not desperate you know - and slowly open the door with my eyes cast down and casually toss my hair over my shoulder as I look up expectantly. Turns out that's not my best move. In all the excitement I've forgotten that my hair is pinned back and the "casual toss" ends up making me look like I have a stiff neck. But I recover quickly and look into the eyes of my dashing hero: a gruff gentleman not a day younger than 70. He pushes past me, rushing into the kitchen and grumbling about needing to check the fire extinguisher. Before I've even had time to catch my breath he is on the way back through my front door, calling over his shoulder that he'll be back next year.
What? You must be joking. That's it? That's IT? No gorgeous, muscular, environmentally concious hunk? Apparently off-duty is actually code for off-duty-for-life-because-he's-too-damn-old-to-light-a-fire-let-alone-fight-one.
So this one didn't work out, but that won't stop me from dreaming. And hell, I have two sons and a very competitive daughter, there's bound to be an incident or five in their childhood that requires the assistance of men in uniform. A mom can hope, right?
But back to my early-rising adventure. Today was a big day. A really big day. A day so full of potential that I was already daydreaming about the three C's (cut, color and carat) and where we'd honeymoon. That's right, ladies, today was the day I was going to meet my future husband. The man who would make me reconsider hyphenating my name and would insist on rubbing my feet every evening and playing with my hair until I fell asleep every night. And I only had a few hours to prepare; he was to arrive promptly at 9:00 am.
I took my time in the shower and my children, clearly having sensed the magnitude of the day, slept late allowing me to throughly scrub all my bits and pieces until I was as fresh as the morning dew. I even managed to make it all the way through makeup application and dressing my top half before I heard the first mumurings of my babes. I waltzed in to greet them with air in my step and kisses aplenty, for who could be blue on a day so full of promise? After I'd dropped the babes off at daycare I raced home to prepare my house for The Visit.
While squealing excitedly through a conversation with D I pleated my curtains perfectly, artfully arranged my magazines on the coffee table, (Time on top, Cosmo on the bottom) tidied up the kitchen and generally raced around making sure everything looked effortlessly casual and inviting. The coffee was on and I'd lit a vanilla-scented candle because I read somewhere that vanilla makes men want stability and committment. Hell, if vanilla makes him like it so much he wants to put a ring on it, I'll start bathing in Vanilla Fields. I mean, it couldn't hurt, right? Nevermind the fact that vanilla-scented anything makes me want to die - life is all about compromise. You don't have to say it; I know, I'm brilliant.
Back to The Visit and more importantly, The Visitor. You see, ladies, I was expecting a Firefighter. A real, live, in-the-flesh Firefighter and an off-duty one at that. And we all know that off-duty is code for single-gorgeous-deep-sense-of-moral-obligations-and-seeking-a-committment-with-a-witty-single-mom-of-three. He was coming to my home to inspect my fire extinguisher. I mean, is that caring and kind or what? I felt a deep connection with him already, being as he was looking out for the safety of my family. And on his day off? Seriously, be jealous - I would be if I weren't me.
As 9:00 approaches I start to tingle with anticipation. I'm going to be so charming and interesting that he'll fall all over himself in his efforts to secure a date with me and my dashing wit. And if all goes according to plan, I'll ring in the new year as Mrs. Schroeder-Firefighter with a giant Tiffany sparkler on my left hand. The doorbell rings, the sound a perfect trill that only adds to my excitement and certainty that Mr. Right Firefighter stands waiting for me on the other side of the door.
I wait a few seconds - I'm not desperate you know - and slowly open the door with my eyes cast down and casually toss my hair over my shoulder as I look up expectantly. Turns out that's not my best move. In all the excitement I've forgotten that my hair is pinned back and the "casual toss" ends up making me look like I have a stiff neck. But I recover quickly and look into the eyes of my dashing hero: a gruff gentleman not a day younger than 70. He pushes past me, rushing into the kitchen and grumbling about needing to check the fire extinguisher. Before I've even had time to catch my breath he is on the way back through my front door, calling over his shoulder that he'll be back next year.
What? You must be joking. That's it? That's IT? No gorgeous, muscular, environmentally concious hunk? Apparently off-duty is actually code for off-duty-for-life-because-he's-too-damn-old-to-light-a-fire-let-alone-fight-one.
So this one didn't work out, but that won't stop me from dreaming. And hell, I have two sons and a very competitive daughter, there's bound to be an incident or five in their childhood that requires the assistance of men in uniform. A mom can hope, right?
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