Archive for the ‘FAIL’ Tag
September 13 2011
I took the kids to school early since there was a Problem-Solving Meeting scheduled to discuss Buzz. It was a formal discussion with a table full of different teachers, their laptops open, ready to explain the many evaluations that were soon to take place as we forge ahead to the next stage of an IEP. All in an effort to obtain the additional help my son needs, since his speech delay can now safely be classified as a communication disorder.
It was difficult to get to the group, however, as my son had a grip around my leg and wouldn’t let go.
The time came for the meeting to begin, and as I peeked in on the room where it was to take place, I saw Buzz’s kindergarten teacher waving me in. I must have shot her a look, because she stepped out to evaluate the situation at hand.
Taking notice of what I was dealing with, the teacher instructed me to lead him into his classroom where one of her assistants were waiting. Which would have been a wonderful idea, he’s been there for 3 weeks now and it’s familiar with toys!, save for the fact that my child had removed himself from me and was now hunkered down under a cafeteria table, in tears.
Nope. Nothing to see here. Not at all.
“I see they marked ‘separation from parent’ as another problem”, the Life Skills Superintendent read when I finally made it in after literally dragging my son to his classroom by the hand, then turning my back without a second look while he cried for me to come back.
“Yeah”, I agreed. “I think we still need to work on that, too.”
May 05 2011
Was today’s activity helpful or interesting? This was the top question on a survey handed out Wednesday during the family luncheon at Jedi’s school. Along with getting to sit in a loud cafeteria and eat a rather bland turkey and cheese wrap with my son, we were also assigned a stretch of land in their garden to dig for planting and seeds.
Does that seem like just an excuse for free labor to anyone else?
Now, I’m not a big garden person. I don’t mind getting dirty, but I don’t really know what I’m doing. We walked in front of a plot of land, though, with a packet of magnolias and some kind of fragile leafy concoction in a container. All the while, Jedi’s complaining because the sun was in his face. “I want to go back to class”, he even whined.
“No, I came here for this. We are going to plant flowers and have fun”, I hushed sharply.
“It’s too hot and the sun is too bright. Maybe I can go back to speech class”, he wondered as I knelt over with a small hand trowel, which is the class they called him out of when I arrived. He pronounces some of his r’s like w’s. I used to do the same.
“No, you’re here with me”, I kept insisting, trying not to take his resistance personally.
“Where’s Miss Cassidy? I want to go with Miss Cassidy”, he looked around, still whining. When we were finally done, he couldn’t bolt for the door fast enough.
So was today’s activity helpful or interesting? Not in the way intended, no. We’re not going to rush home to begin a family garden anytime soon. But it did make my son appreciate his fluorescent light and temperature-controlled classrooms more, so that’s kind of helpful, right?
March 29 2011
Knock, knock, knock.
It was the afternoon, my daughter was just stirring from a nap and Buzz was watching a movie as quietly as he can be in the back room. I had my netbook in my lap, leisurely taking in the moments of relaxation until it was time to gather everyone together for our daily jaunt to meet Jedi at the bus stop. I still had about an hour to go until then, though. When there was a knock on the door.
I pried myself off the couch to peek out the peephole. I looked and looked again, but I didn’t see anyone there. Figuring it must be someone trying to sell something, or stupid neighbors, I began to walk away. But then it knocked again.
Knock, knock, knock.
Fine, I heaved a loud sigh as I reluctantly answered the door.
When I did, there he was, still too small to be seen by the viewfinder.
“What are you doing here? Are you OK?”, I asked, looking around for a car or some way he made it home.
“You FORGOT ME at the BUS STOP!”, as Jedi’s face curled into almost-cries. “I waited for you for 10 MINUTES!”
“I…. What?! But…. Oh! An hour early! You got off an hour early today!”, you could probably see the light switch on from my forehead.
“YOU FORGOT ME!”
I don’t think that was the best time to tell him that I almost didn’t answer the door for him, either.
February 03 2011
This goes on the list of things I’ve been terrified of happening that actually happened but by the grace of God could have been worse, though we could have avoided any injury at all if my kids would just listen to me.
Yeah, that list.
The list that before this included:
1. Jedi choking on a chicken nugget when he was 2 (little bites!)
2. Jedi falling 6 feet on to a metal platform, headfirst (watch where you’re going!)
3. A big screen TV falling on a barely 1 year old Abby (what can you say to that, really)
(For some strange reason, none of these include my local hell-on-wheels, Buzz. Maybe that’s because every day with him seems like a near-death experience.)
I can now add one more:
4. Abby falling off the couch hitting the side of her head on the sharp edge of a table (be careful!)
I was never a dangerous child growing up. Sure, I’d climb trees, and I had a run-in with the pavement after falling off my bike a couple of times, but I never broke a bone or needed stitches. I knew Abby’s wound wasn’t deep, but the placement, above her temple on her hairline, and width made me unsure if it made a trip to the ER necessary. Luckily, my parents were already on their way over. My mother helped me clean the gash and apply a cold compress to combat swelling along with a bandage. I watched my daughter like a hawk for the rest of the day, but soon enough she was back to her old tricks, like it never happened. Kids, they’re a resilient, crazy sort.
She also still doesn’t listen to me. I wish they’d realize that I don’t say “be careful” for nothing, you know.
January 10 2011
My oldest son has recently become accustomed to asking who it is whenever there’s a knock on the door. All well and good. This is a step up from his previous approach, which was just to drop whatever he was doing and run like a herd of elephants to get me in whatever room of the house I happened to be in. Either way, they’re going to know we’re home.
Though we don’t get many visitors. The only person who really knocks is J, and that’s when he’s running back inside really quick and left his key in the car ignition. Thus, “who is it?” has morphed into “Daddy, is that you?”.
Which has been fine, since it usually is.
Until it isn’t.
The other day, J had run out to the store or somewhere when shortly after Jedi heard a rustling at the door, like someone fumbling about. Thinking he would be nothing but helpful, he ran up to the door, expecting to turn the locks for his father.
“Daddy?”, he asked, his voice rising in implicated anticipation. “Is that you?”.
His question met by silence from the other side. And probably a quick scan of all the women he’s been with and any unknown children he may be responsible for.
Because it wasn’t.
And that’s why I’m now embarrassed to say hello to our mailman.
