ADD in our lives

It's been quite awhile since I said anything about ADD. Would you all believe me if I told you that's because it's not something that we deal with anymore? I didn't think so.

Grey at Second Verse has posted some entries lately that have hit so close to my heart. Her son has ADHD and they are struggling with finding a medication that will help him deal with the behavioral symptoms of the disorder. What's really hitting me about her writing is the raw emotions, the frustration and the helplessness, that she expresses as a mother. Like me, she writes that she feels as if educators don't understand that the behavior problems her son is having in school are a direct result of his ADHD and something he cannot just will into changing. The links to two of her most poignant posts are here and here.

As I have read Grey's words these last couple weeks, I felt as if I was reading my own words.

My journey as the parent of a child with ADD has been a difficult one. Not especially difficult, just difficult. In other words, being the parent of a child with AD(H)D is difficult. The disorder is not physically visible for all to see so that the child's challenges are understood. Rather, the symptoms of AD(H)D look like a typical bad kid. In my deepest moments of despair, I have wished that my daughter had a different disability, one that evoked more compassion and understanding from her educators, teachers, girl scout troop leaders, ballet instructors, babysitters, music teachers, family and friends, and on and on the list goes. With AD(H)D, I as a parent have heard a lifetime's worth of pejorative adjectives describing my daughter and more patronizing pep talks from others than I can count. If this is how I as the parent feels, imagine what the child hears and how she feels.

Serial Mommy published an essay by Emily Pearl Kingsley this past June, an essay about what it feels like to parent a child with a disability. When I read it, I felt like my feelings had been captured perfectly. Check out the link when you have time.

This school year is going well. Yes, Grace still deals with ADD. It's with her every day. Her friends comment all the time that she is the energetic and hyper one. But she's doing much better with her studies (all As and Bs since last March) and she's much better at coping with symptoms and advocating for herself now. By conversing with her teachers and guidance counselors, her pediatrician and other professionals, she has become much more aware of who she is and how she can accomplish everything she wants to -- with ADD. In the last six months, I discovered that two of Grace's closest childhood friends also have been diagnosed and that their respective mothers have gone through the same roller coaster ride I have. By no coincidence, the mothers are two of my closest friends. One of the things I wanted to accomplish by starting this blog was to find people who could support me and advise me on the struggle I had in parenting Grace. Thank goodness I found some.

That's a bit too personal

So over there on the left sidebar have been sitting the results of a brief poll I took during July. The question asked was simple: "Here at my blog, do you think I should delve into discussing issues that might hurt people I care about, even if such ruminations on my part might help me be a healthier person?"

It's something every blogger has to decide for themselves. Of course, the slant of a blog tends to dictate some of this; if you're writing a foodie blog, you're less likely to find yourself at a fork in the road where you must ponder the question. But if you're like me and write a blog about yourself, your past, your parenting skills, the way you were parented, your children...these things tend to smack you in the face more often.

I've decided not to write stuff that here that I wouldn't want someone to find because the bottom line is, sooner or later someone will find it. However, I could share some things without pointing fingers. And a bit of my thoughts without giving away all the secrets. And reveal things without risking hurting others.

I write a lot about political commentary and religion. Not that those two are necessarily intertwined, but they can be. And they have been intertwined in my life. And their intertwining oftentimes causes me to react.

I realized over the past couple months that I am not reacting to politics or religion primarily. If I meet someone who is devoutly religious, I don't damn them in my mind. If I talk to someone with differing political views than mind, I don't instantly judge them and write them off. Rather, most times when I sound off on an issue here at my blog, I am reacting to the source of these opinions. And many times the opinions are coming from...my mother.

I know, I know, I can imagine what you're thinking. This is everyone's plight, I'm just another middle-aged mom with a mother who is critical and disagrees with everything I value. I can't tell you how many times I've read bloggers who have banged out tomes on the same train of thought. But for me the friction I experience with my mother has a deeper root than her being a little cranky and irritable and disagreeable. Recently I realized, I don't have the strength to tolerate the banter. Why? It's because of the mixed past I have the source of the banter. When I get these emails from my mom, I don't hear "I disagree with your politics;" I hear, "I disapprove of you and who you are." And so I blog about the issue, believing it's the politics or the religious overtones that are at stake. But that's not really what's bothering me.

CoffeeYogurt has a great blog. Go visit it. I mention it here because she's a psychologist and there is one small tidbit there that will make you laugh. In her comments, she set the text to read, "Tell me about your mother..." Perfect, eh? I've never told her about my mother (I don't think), but man, if I did, I could say a lot. So thanks for the continual source of amusement for me, CoffeeYogurt!

OK, so to the point. What has this got to do with my blog and my decision not to discuss issues that could be hurtful? Well, I realized that some of my ranting here is a little out of place. Do I believe God exists? I don't know; I'm a trained scientist, so I don't know how to even answer a question that can't be answered through research. So I'm not an atheist. Would I ever consider going to church again? I would, especially if I found a church that was "right" (and I don't mean that in the US political sense). It's just been hard to find that. Would I ever lean to less liberal politics? Hell, yes. I value equal rights and a strict separation of church and state (even if the state church is my own), however, I'm a bit concerned about liberal use of money these days. For the record, I was concerned about it when it was a Republican administration that was spending so much too...

So I think I'm going to stop using this blog as the outlet of my frustrating relationship I have with my mother. I don't know why she sends me the messages she does or why she says the things she does. I've decided not to engage the conversation with her anymore. And I've decided to stop letting these messages affect me too. Including composing whole posts for my blog in order to vent my frustration.

Anyone out there who thinks I may get my emotions bottled up and burst one day due to the lack of venting, don't worry; I have a therapist ;-)

Could you give me your opinion?

To any and all readers who find themselves at this, my personal blog:

I am having some time in my life to introspect lately. I know, you're thinking, 'Heather, isn't that all you do given how this blog reads?' Well, not exactly. I mean, sure, I try to think through things and make sense of them in a way that makes the facts around me and my emotions come together. But I don't always feel like I get to an 'a-ha' moment. You know, like when you see things in a way that you never saw before?

I rant about God a lot. I also rant about politics sometimes. And, as the title of my blog reveals quite transparently, I ruminate over my childhood. I got some issues with my self esteem. And now, NOW, I find myself able to reflect on this stuff more. It's coming together in ways I didn't see before.

Here's the controversial part I find myself unsure how to deal with, the part that I need your input on. I could easily write days and days of posts on what is on my mind re: self-actualization. But (and it's a big 'but'), that would require me to dish out some details about people I love. No it's not my husband or my daughter, but it is other people who really matter. Several of my bloggy friends out there (hi, bloggy friends!) have recently had the experience of having someone find their personal blog and go a little ballistic on them. I'd like for that not to happen. Still, something inside of me is tempted to dish out all this stuff because I think it would help me reason through all of it.

Can you give me you advice, and can you vote in my poll on the right, about whether or not you think I should delve into these issues and risk some emotional outbursts should the relevant parties ever find and read this blog?

Thank you, all.

How the grades go

Grace, my husband and I met with her vice principal and another teacher at school a week ago. This was the follow-up meeting to our first meeting in January to address Grace's troubles in school. Originally the meeting was scheduled for mid-February, but at that time it was clear that she still had not figured out a way to keep up with her work and keep track of missing assignments. By the end of the term, she had managed to complete all her missing assignments and her grades for term were actually not bad at all.

However, there was a lingering problem that no one seemed to be able to solve. Tests. Quizzes. Examinations. We couldn't figure out what to do about it. Her Algebra teacher, very dedicated and helpful, was throwing up her hands in befuddled confusion. The basic idea is that no one could seem to figure out how Grace seemed to know something at one time and then completely forget it a very short time later. So our meeting a week ago was focused on figuring out this answer to this unsolved mystery.

Though it may seem obvious, the strategy we settled on was to have Grace take control of the situation. When she found out a closed-book exam would be given in any class, she has to find out from the teacher what specific concepts will be tested, what the format of the test will be, and how long the test will be. Her task at that point is to prepare a review sheet and have her teacher look at it, adding things she may have left off. The final step is for Grace to find or create a practice test that is as close to resembling the actual test as possible. The afternoon/evening before the test she takes the practice test just like it was the real test. Whatever she doesn't know, she then finds the answer to and commits it to memory.

It assumes that nothing will keep her from learning, that there is no learning disability that would hinder this process (aside from ADD which is being treated medically).

I'll admit it, I was nervous leaving that meeting. We arranged to let 4-5 weeks pass and then meet to review what the results were. At that point if it was still clear that the tests were a problem, then we'd have something concrete to go on. I guess I didn't realize that getting assessments done at the high school level takes a lot more work than it does at lower grades. My biggest fear walking out of that meeting was that Grace wasn't capable of doing what she was being charged with. My husband said I shouldn't worry, that he felt she was quite able to do it and that if she valued the results that would come (good grades), she would do it. Still.

One week later. Grace has taken a test or quiz in four of her five classes this week. The results?

Science: quiz, 93%
English: quiz, 90%
World History: quiz, 100%

and...


AND.....

.....

Algebra: test, 95%

That's right, friends and neighbors, for the first time in FOUR YEARS, Grace passed a math test. And not only did she pass it, SHE GOT AN A.

I know that it's not like everything is fixed and we'll never have troubles with her schoolwork again. I'm sure we are on a peak now and the valley will come. But GOD ALMIGHTY, I cannot BEGIN to tell you how awesome of a feeling it is to realize she took four exams in a row and got an A on every single one.

The next time I start complaining about her here, someone remember to slap me upside the head comment-style, ok? I think everyone else had confidence in her, including herself, except me. And for once, I didn't voice my skepticism to her. She is a victor, my friends. She knew it, she just made a point of letting everyone else know it too.

****Of course, maybe this was all a result of her getting her hair cut. What do you think?****

How to get over the hurdles

Sometimes in academia, I feel like I don't fit in. It's not all the time, and it's not a big deal. But it has to do with the typical person who chooses a career in academia and how that is a stark contrast to me.

I was not a valedictorian. I didn't get any special awards when I was a student. I didn't get on the high honor role or earn scholarships to college. I was just an ordinary girl. Most people thought I was smart, and my family told me I should work hard. For the most part, I spent my entire educational career at the bottom of the top. Get it? Yeah, I got into the honors classes, but I was at the bottom of those classes. And I got into the honors program in college, but I dropped out within the first year.

This is not what the typical person in academia is like. They are who you'd expect they would be -- very bright, very successful academically, and very driven. Like all professions, personalities vary. Some people are arrogant, while others are humble. A few are out to prove something, but others are more aptly described as curious knowledge seekers. There are workaholics and people who take their breaks and vacations and weekends without any guilt. But overall, they all succeeded academically.

There is a certain group of people in academia though, not so different from myself, that irk me. It's those that come from a privileged group -- smart, affluent, successful, mentored -- and the belief among these people that all they've achieved is directly related to who they are and their hard work. Let me explain. I went to private school all through grade school and high school. I used to find it so funny when the school publications would go on and on about how much higher the average SAT scores of the student body was than the country average. Really? You charge outrageous prices for tuition and require an entrance exam for admittance, and you thought that the average scores would be, well, average? Of course not. If the school's student body had been a fair cross-section of the county's population, then I could where this would be quite impressive that the scores were so high. But it wasn't a cross-section at all. They did the same thing with percentage of students who were admitted to four-year colleges, got scholarships, etc. I know, it's PR, they have to do it because they have to sell the school to prospective students. But it sets up a deceptive image in the minds of the students there. They start to believe they are better than average, and it's all because they have been pushed harder, they have worked harder, and they just did it better than everyone else out there. Those who didn't do as well as they did just didn't work as hard or weren't as smart.

Vicious, isn't it? No mention of how much harder it would be if you were trying to achieve these academic accolades while also working 20 hours a week to help support your family and living in a less than savory neighborhood. And you hadn't gotten the chance to take private music lessons. Or traveled to Europe when you were 14 with your school chorus. It's easy to see how these students didn't see that their higher achievement over other students didn't exactly boil down to who was brighter and harder-working and more deserving. I sure didn't see it that way.

I wasn't exactly a member of the privileged class. Though my parents both graduated from college and my dad made a good living, we didn't exactly come from elite roots, you know? We were raised to work hard. We got piano lessons and such, but my parents didn't treat it like something that we had to do to stay ahead. They encouraged us to work hard and they made opportunities available. But if we said we didn't want to take the lessons or be on the sports team or go on the youth group mission trip, they didn't insist. When my sisters and I applied to college, we didn't really have any legacy to rely upon. My parents and teachers didn't know any big people who would write a letter of recommendation for us to guarantee our entrance into the college of our dreams. We just put our SAT scores and our transcripts into an envelope and mailed them off to colleges hoping we'd get in. And we really believed it came down to who was the best. Little did I know at the time how sorted to situation becomes as to who gets in and who doesn't. Who succeeds, who soars to the top because of who they are and who soars there because they truly are dynamic, this is all a mixed bag. The bottom line is, colleges want to admit students they know can handle the work and that are likely to stick with it to the end. Once that criteria is met, they are fortunate to consider questions of who is likely to bring valor back to the institution. Like it or not, students who are well connected tend to meet these criteria. So if you are not well connected, you have to compete with the rest of everyone who's just trying to look as good as they can on paper and convince a board of admissions that they've got what it takes.

You'd think with as much exposure as I have had to colleges and admissions and all the rest that I would be perfect at looking at my daughter objectively and helping her steer her way through the educational process. She wants to go to college, there's no question about that. But she's not your typical honor roll, eager beaver student. It occurred to me when she was very young that I would need to think outside of the box with this one. She wasn't going to make it to college by playing by the rules. Despite this enlightenment, so to speak, I regret to say I've come at the task in a somewhat naive way. When it comes to Grace's performance in school and her grades, her interaction with teachers, the way she dresses, the activities she's involved in, all of it, I think inside the box. I think, you have to work hard and get good grades. You have to take the right classes and soar above the rest. You have to go, go, go and not stop because it's hard to get where you need to go. And the message she's gotten, loud and clear, is that mom wants good grades and success. If there's not success, mom will probably not be happy.

During the last few days, I was reflecting on my feelings towards people and their success in my own field. I often times find myself listening to someone's tales in academia and tiring of the overabundant evidence of privilege. I think to myself, what have you overcome in your life? What were the challenges put before you? It gets tiring. I sometimes meet undergrads and read their personal statements on scholarship or grad school applications. I'll hit one that cites all the ways their great family, great school, great community, great activities, and great teachers have made them so excited about learning. And I think, that's kind of boring. What did you do other than receive all this greatness? What did you draw on that was inside you that I can see? In the end I think, I want people who are interesting to be at the university. I want the people who have faced a challenge and overcome it. I want my professors to be people who have gone to the other side of the mountain and back.

I'm not tooting my own horn here, because I'm not sure how well I fit this description.

And then suddenly, like a gift from heaven, it occurred to me. I want someone like Grace to succeed at college. She's the kind of person who has faced some real challenges and overcome them. She's failed classes and kept her chin up. She gets a lot of negative feedback, and yet she's never thrown in the towel, never given up on school, never said her effort doesn't matter, nor changed her life plans because she thinks she can't achieve them. She is passionate, and despite everything negative that gets thrown at her, she perseveres. I've said here that I admired her confidence. I've said that I thought she aimed high. But I've never realized that these qualities are exactly the ones that make her the kind of person you want to keep around.

She's faced a diagnosed disability, discrimination, a broken home, tough financial circumstances, the illness of a parent, and move after move after move after move. She's traveled the world, but not the posh world. The third world. And she completely takes in the whole experience and thinks it's normal.

In the end, she looks great to me. I mean, really, it's shocking to me when I think about what her life has thrown at her so far and how much she looks like girls in her school who have lived in the same tree-lined suburb since they were conceived. I realized at the beginning of the swim team season this fall, Grace was the only member of the team who didn't live in an owned home (we were renting an apartment at the time). It doesn't seem like much, but of course when a sport requires practices 5-6 days a week and early morning pick ups and $50 suits that must be replaced every 3 months and year-round training and team fees, it weeds out a lot of the single parents, financially-strapped families, and others. I just use this as an example of how the rich get richer, and if Grace is diligent enough to keep on keeping on despite not having certain privileges, well, hurrah for her!

So that's my great thought of the week. My kid is not someone to worry about in the long run. She's facing challenges and tough challenges they are. But in the end, she is a great person who will triumph. Like everyone, she'll face moments when she feels like she doesn't measure up. She'll have to decide whether to quit or keep going. But so far in her life, she's done pretty well. And who am I to tell her that she can't do something when she believes she can do it?

Multiculturalism and being American

On this St. Patrick's Day, it just so happens that my thoughts have been primed to talk about emigration to the US. As it turns out, the most recent ancestor of mine to emigrate to the US was a great-great-great-grandfather on my father's side who came straight from Ireland. I don't know much more about it than that. I don't even know his name or what part of Ireland he came from. But I do know this: it's been a long time since anyone in my lineage faced discrimination in the US on the basis of race or language.

Not so with my immediate family. My husband is an immigrant to the US. Now when I put it that way, it makes it sounds like he scraped together his pennies from an early age, dreaming of the day he would cross the seas and arrive at the promised land where he heard that all his dreams would come true. But that would be a fairly bad characterization of the whole thing. Before he decided to come to the US, he had a good job, he had a master's degree, and he spoke three languages fluently. His life wasn't bad at all. When he decided he would leave the country of his birth, he was trying to decide whether to continue in his graduate studies in the US or Europe. The US turned out to be the better option, and so he came. Though he says the US ain't bad, it's not like he sees it through rose-colored glasses.

There were some drawbacks for him in emigrating the US. Let's take racial discrimination. He grew up as the privileged class - white male. Sure, he wasn't wealthy, but he was a good student and nothing really held him back but maybe irrational government policies. As soon as he arrived in the US, he realized he was considered to be part of a racial minority. Bummer. And there was also the thing of speaking English with a foreign accent. It didn't matter how fluently he spoke or how perfectly he understood the situation, there were always times when people assumed he was stupid or uneducated because he wasn't a native English speaker.

What must it have felt like to be Irish at the time when being Irish held some stigma? You opened your mouth and people assumed you were stupid and uneducated. Your name gave you away.

Last night my mom and I were talking on the phone. I don't know how it happened so fast, but the conversation moved from what baby furniture I was buying to how immigrants today don't teach their children the values that immigrants used to consider essential. Those values are (1) to work hard, (2) to behave properly, and (3) to do things the American way because that's why the family came to the US in the first place. She said she couldn't figure out why the hispanic immigrants' children didn't understand this. It never occurred to her in the conversation that my child-to-be would be considered one of those children she was talking about.

I'll just say this in my mother's defense -- she has a remarkable ability to maintain certain views of the world despite the fact that the current reality may conflict with that view.

I made up my mind long ago that I wasn't going to try and enlighten her on this stuff. While we were talking, I mentioned that the teens she was talking about, the ones who were bilingual and were latino, might be second or third generation Americans, having very little connection with any culture other than American. I also asked her what American culture was if it wasn't what hispanics experienced (currently more than 12% of the US population is hispanic). I also briefly mentioned that it was possible that only one of these kids' parents were immigrants, and that some of them may have ancestry in the US going back to the Mayflower. (Huh? Multi-ethnicity? Bi-racial? WHAT?)

My husband's and my kid(s) will be bilingual and have an indisputably Latin surname. It's hard to say what ethnicity they will be pigeon-holed into based on their appearance alone because in addition to having a latin background, they also will have strong northern European genes and some native (South) American and African roots. They're going to look like the new generation of American kids, the ones who don't necessarily have two parents with identical backgrounds, the ones that American Girl doesn't make a doll for. If they swear that they have Irish roots, which is true, they may be laughed at as much as Barack Obama is. But Barack Obama is more Irish than I am.

So Erin Go Bragh, or whatever they say in Ireland on this day, top of the mornin' to ya, and all the rest. Five generations have passed since my last forefather left that motherland and all I've got to show for it is a handwoven Irish wool scarf that I wore to work today. My mom ordered it for me from a catalog five years ago. For me, St. Patrick's Day in the US is really about how your culture is important to hold on to. So don't expect the Cuban-Americans and the Puerto Rican-Americans and the Mexican-Americans and the Colombian-Americans to start shedding their Latin ways and acting European just because the Irish and the German cultures are currently accepted in North America. As for us in our house, we'll celebrate with some green cupcakes tonight and then move on to the next holiday, Holy Week and Easter. Because I'll tell you one thing, the Irish Catholics don't hold a candle to the Latin Catholics when it comes to doing the Easter thing. If you're going to observe Lent, for God's sake celebrate Carnival for a week before Ash Wednesday and then live it up 40 days later on Easter. (Heeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyy, how the Irish Catholics do St. Patrick's Day in such a drunken way anyways since it's always in the middle of Lent? Hmmmmm......)

More hair updates

I got my hair cut a couple weeks back. Everyone keeps saying in looks great. I feel ashamed, thinking that all these people around me actually thought I chose to have my hair looking the way it did before the haircut. I feel like I must have been walking around town with people looking at me wondering why a woman of my age would let herself get so far gone. But that's just the way it goes.

It's longer than it has been in the past when I had short haircuts. A typical example was the below photograph, which I posted a few weeks back.


This is what is looks like now:


So hurray for me. I did something good for me. Maybe in a couple weeks I'll do something about my attempts to relax, like seriously do some deep breathing every day for at least 5 minutes. Or maybe attend at least the first free class at a close by yoga place.

In perhaps the weirdest twist to this whole story, Grace came to me last night and asked if she could get her hair cut short. Now, this may seem like no big deal, but I haven't really talked about Grace and her hair in any real depth here before. She has hair, ladies and gentlemen. It is thick and wavy/curly, and she likes to have it long. Right now I would estimate it is halfway down her back. She has refused to have it so much as trimmed since before the current recession began. Every day she washes and conditions it, towel dries it, pulls it back into a ponytail (a HUGE ponytail that really looks like a pony's tail), and then puts in a handband around the front. If she wants to straighten it, which she does occasionally, the task requires a ceramic plated flat-iron and takes about an hour to complete at the shortest. It takes at least 90 minutes if she really wants it all flat. Needless to say, she only does this for very special occasions. Here's a sample:


I have no idea where she got this hair from. Mine is flat, straight, and ash blonde. Hers is like her dad's, more or less. But where he got it from is another mystery. Grace's dad hails from roots like mine, English and German mostly. And the Germans in his clan don't have that wavy type. My husband says it's latin hair. But to go into that speculation would be a whole other blog altogether...

Anyways, Grace is really into Audrey Hepburn. Here would be a typical look of Audrey that she loves:


Grace would love to get this look. I realize that Audrey most likely had her locks pulled back in this photo, but nonetheless, the best way to achieve this pixie look is to indeed have your hair cut short. So Grace asked me please if we could schedule a hair appointment for her. At first she was worried that cutting her hair short would make her ears stick out and make them look big. I told her no worries; if they didn't stick out and look big when she has it in a ponytail constantly, they definitely won't get this from having the hair actually fall around them.

I feel like I've been a bad hair role model for my daughter. Such a shame, really.

Ash Wednesday

Lent is here. Here's what I'm giving up for the Lenten season:

• Deeming Christianity a religion that has few redeeming qualities due to the prevailing social values associated with most who practice the religion in the United States.
• Concerning myself with my spiritual state as it relates to other members of my family of origin.

These seem to be things in my life that are interfering with any relationship I might have with God. The explanation of the first sacrifice can be found in some of my previous posts. Instead of making you go through all of the posts tagged "God and Religion" to understand it (if you want the explanation), here are the "best hits" on that topic that I think sum up my feelings about flaws within the Christian church.

more women going to hell (May-30-2008)
If I were ever to consider praying again, it would be at times like these. (Aug-30-2008)
Hypocrisy (Oct-8-2008)
Gay marriage (Nov-13-2008)
Searching for love (Nov-14-2008)
God and Me (Feb-11-2009)

The point is, I think I need to get over the problems that people on earth create if I think God is God. The question of whether I think God is God is one I just hold out there; it can't be answered. There's no way to prove whether God exists or not. So I'm just living in suspended disbelief and going with the whole thing on faith. If God exists, then there's a philosophical argument that leads me to the conclusion that God must be unflawed and good. Given this, the flaws that exist in a religion that claims to follow God are the flaws of people, not God.

That's about as philosophical as I can be in one sitting, so let's move on to the next sacrifice of mine for this Lenten season. This one is much more of an emotional issue. I've recently come to realize that my family is somewhat entrenched in conservative religion. Only a few short months ago I thought differently. I thought maybe my mother was the only one who was still doing that 1980s religious right stuff. But there's a new brand of conservative religion that has swept through my generation and I didn't recognize it. It's the kind of Christianity that permits Sarah Palin to say she's a feminist. Well, it seems that I'm the only one in my family who thinks WAY outside the box on social issues as they relate to Christianity, much less the one who has the guts to question the whole enterprise as a valid pursuit. In such a climate, I find myself judgmental, deeming people to be short-sighted, simple-minded. Shallow.

Now, I'm going to be careful here. When I first started reading blogs and blogging myself, I quickly saw a big hole bloggers sometimes unknowingly dig themselves into. You put a blog out there in the vast sea of the world wide web, you're anonymous, and you're venting. You say all kinds of things. About your mother and your brother and your neighbor. And your boss. And then...someone finds it. It spreads like wildfire. The next thing you know, everyone you never thought would find you blog is reading post after post, becoming more and more incensed by the minute. Given this, I'm not going to go on here about my family and how I disagree with their views in general, much less their individual views on God and religion. As it is I'm already a black sheep given my views on God and religion, and the members of my family don't know the half of my feelings. The last thing I need to do is to start bad-mouthing each of them on my blog as well.

But what I put on my blog and what I do in my every day life are two different things. If I spend two hours on the phone talking to someone and debating whether contraception should be readily available based on what God intended for mankind, and then spend the next two hours angry about that, what have I accomplished? How have I grown?

The point is, I not only stunt my growth by doing this, I regress. I find myself running the same angry speeches through my mind and, in the end, I don't solve anything. If there's one thing about my family I can say for sure, each one of them is just as vehement about their beliefs and just as convicted to argue over their truth as I am about my beliefs and opinions. Further, I find myself defeated, feeling like an outcast. I feel like it's not ok to disagree and it's not ok to be a dissenter. Eventually, I feel devalued merely by engaging in the mental activity of considering how my values and beliefs differ from those of my family's.

So in moving towards the purpose of growing as an individual and pursuing a relationship with God, I am giving up being judgmental for Lent. Instead I will focus on me and how my values work in a relationship with God.

figuring out the next generation

I like to think of myself as being in touch with my daughter's generation, sensitive to the changing world.

In a word -- hip.

But, it happened. I encountered something among Grace and her friends that really threw me for a loop. I mean, something that really confused me and I didn't quite know how to interpret it.

Update on facebook -- if you are a teen, you make it a goal to get as many friends as possible on facebook. If you have fewer than 100, you have got to be more social. 200 is decent. The teens who are getting elected homecoming queen? Try over 500. It is quite a feat, I have to admit. Adolescence is a time when everyone is petty and mean. You might ask someone to be your friend on facebook and they'd reject you. Just thinking about the whole thing makes me so grateful facebook wasn't around when I was in high school.

Grace has close to 400 friends on facebook. Granted, a large part of that is due to switching schools three times in three years. But she is a rather social girl, one who tries not to be in cliques or alienate people. One of her facebook friends was a very popular, very high profile, very privileged young woman she knew in 8th grade. She has over 700 facebook friends. Well, this girl posted a video message to one of her girlfriends on her facebook page. For those of you unfamiliar with facebook, this means every single on of the 700+ facebook friends could view this video. It was about 3 minutes long. She was in bed, listening to slow music, and expressing her deep, adoring, affectionate love for this girlfriend. She said she missed her. She said she wanted to snuggle with her. She said how much she loved her and loved spending time with her and couldn't wait to see her in first hour the next day at school. It went on and on and on.

I was thrown. Has it become commonplace among this generation for all expressions of emotion to become public to everyone they know? I've heard of people proposing marriage in a very public way, but this is something altogether different.

I asked Grace about it. I said, is she joking? Grace said she couldn't tell. I asked her, how do you know how to react to something like this? She said she would usually just ignore it. I asked her, what if someone said all these things about you on facebook? She said she'd kill them and then un-friend them on facebook.

Alright, let me just assure you guys, I'm not freaking out, just completely confused by the whole thing. I'm going back to my freshman year of high school and trying to imagine what it would have been like if the gossip had traveled at the speed of light. I feel the groan deep in my stomach just thinking about it.

Letting it all out

So, here's a moment in which I will bear my soul. I am so emotional over this stuff that Grace is going through at school, I can't hold the tears back. I've been trying all day to hold it in and think rationally and put it all off until later, but I can't do it anymore. I am so so so so so SO much hoping the best for Grace, and just so frustrated by the whole thing.

I was reading through my blog today and thinking, I wish the teacher that was there at the meeting yesterday could read this. No, I wouldn't send along the URL because I frankly don't think it's his business to really know the depth of my feelings towards Grace and about myself. But I just thought, can't he see that Grace is a person? Can't he see that she's struggling and that it isn't just a matter of will? If she's bored in class and puts her head down on the desk and complains that something is boring, it's part of what she struggles with. Yes, I know if she were an automaton she would be able to control these expressions, but she's not! That's the point! She has a disorder that makes it difficult for her to do otherwise. But instead what I heard from this teacher was disapproval and an annoyed tone.

If the student had a hearing problem, would you bring the same kind of attitude to the table in discussing the results of that impairment? What about if the child had mental retardation? Would you bring to the table irritation and anger in reaction to their difficulties in completing all the tasks put before them? Why is it that with a disorder that creates behavior problems, people cannot see past that? It's as if deep down they cannot believe that a disorder evidenced in behavior is something the individual has difficulty controlling. That somehow it's ok to bring an attitude to the table that accuses the individual. WHAT IS THE POINT?

Grace's math teacher is very worried about her. She is so encouraging to me. She goes out of her way to help her. But she very much wants Grace to succeed. When she sees me, she tells me likes Grace. When I email her, she always replies with the kindest, more helpful things. She's not a pansy, I think she just realizes that Grace needs HELP, not more JUDGEMENT!!!! She emailed me twice today and I was holding back. I realized that Grace didn't want to be singled out as 'special.' After telling the math teacher briefly what went on this week at the doctor and at the team meeting, I wrote this:

"There is one more thing I want to make I tell you because it is so important to Grace. She is very sensitive to having people see her or treat differently due to any disorder she has or any difficulty she is having. In all sincerity, she chose in middle school to be completely uncooperative in testing because the school psychologist and the co-teacher were so obvious about singling her out. It got so bad that the co-teacher just said there was no point in having her treated differently at all because the intervention was actually hurting her more than no intervention would. Obviously this was detrimental to her performance in school, but for her it was straight-forward choice: she would rather try on her own and fail than have adults drawing attention to her in what she perceived to be a negative way in the hopes that she might do better. For the last year to year and a half, my husband and I and Grace have spent countless hours as a family discussing how it would be best if Grace would go for help at school. My fear is that if she feels that she's being seen as 'special,' she will ditch the whole effort completely. In fact, given that she did it at a younger age, I can't imagine she wouldn't have this reaction. I assured her that everything regarding her having a label of ADD or anything different about the way she goes about her work and her school day would be entirely confidential. Obviously I know that you and everyone else at the school knows this, but in her case, this is especially important. Her ability to receive any extra help or intervention from the school without sacrificing her self-esteem is of utmost importance to her, and I have to respect that."

It was then that the tears began to fall. I couldn't hold back. I love this kid so much and I feel like her ability to do what she wants to do in life is hanging precariously by a thin thread. One wrong move by someone at the school and she's going to react. It's too much for me to just be cool about. Yeah, I cry a lot about her, I really do. She affects me so much, not in a negative way, though. It's not like she does things and I cry because they hurt my feelings. No, I cry because I just can't let go of wanting the best for her. Her struggles hit me straight to my core. It breaks my heart to see her not get it. Yeah, it's like a mama bear thing, but not in a stupid, 'don't mess with my kid' kind of way; it's in a way where I just long for her to be able to overcome her challenges and it kills me to see her meet hurdle after hurdle and not be able to make it over. And I just can't be objective.

So I'm crying and letting it all out right now. And that's that. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. But right now that's where I am.

Hair

Well, my posts of late have been heavy, no? Are you guys ready for something a little more trivial? Something that reveals who I REALLY am in my daily life? Something that makes you think, 'wtf?' Well here is that post.

My hair is long now. It's the first time it's been long in a VERY LONG TIME. Actually, I'll be sincere with you out there, I don't think my hair has ever been as long as it is now. I can pull it back into a ponytail with no effort and there are no loose hairs anywhere. Here's a picture to show you how long that is.



Did you notice how I'm completely comfortable posting a picture that blatantly displays a chin mole and also makes me look like I have a double chin? I thought so. I'd like to say I'm comfortable with my appearance. Oh wait, I'm off topic. Back to my hair.

It's very long. Up until I started growing it out (18 months ago), I really didn't own a brush. I didn't need one, because my hair always looked like some variation on this:



Chic, no? I was very hip. But now? Not so hip. And the truth of the matter is, even though I am entirely aware that the ends of my hairs are like straw, and that this is no doubt a result of not having had a haircut IN OVER A YEAR, I can't bring myself to going to get it done.

Here's the shocking part. I lost my hairbrush two days ago. I have no idea where it is. I just wash it, blow it dry, and put it in a ponytail for work. Sure, I look like a typical brainy type who doesn't have time for beauty and appearance, or that I'm so wrapped up in my research that I can't even begin to notice that my hair looks a bit raggedy. But the truth is, I notice. And while it would be well and good to notice and think, "I wish I had more tools at my disposal to make myself more presentable," I can't even find my hairbrush. The ONLY tool I use to style -- LOST.

I need help, people. Not ideas, but motivation. Well, maybe ideas too. I fear that 7 months from now I might be a very pregnant lady with stringy hair halfway down my back that hasn't been brushed since 2008. I also need a stylist, which I haven't had in YEARS. The really chic short haircut above was done by me. Really. I cut my own hair into that hairstyle with no help. But I really don't have what it takes to go from what I have (a mop) to something chic. I need a plan. I need a model. I need someone I can pay who does this well. But I don't have someone in mind and if there's one thing in the world I can't stand, it's paying someone $60+ after realizing that coming to them was a huge mistake because they are not really that good.

Information that will hopefully be helpful

I have to do a public service announcement for a disorder Grace has: Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome. She was diagnosed with the disorder after presenting symptoms for over three years, being hospitalized 5 times by that point. For the first time since her diagnosis, I just this week saw mention of it in the media. Other than the doctor who diagnosed her, I have never met someone who knew what it was before telling them myself.

When Grace was four years old, she was hospitalized for two days with symptoms that had no apparent explanation. It was a traumatic drama. By the time she was seen by a doctor at the ER and her blood tests came back, Grace was close to going into a coma and it was revealed that she was close to kidney failure due to extreme dehydration. The attending physician took it upon himself to lecture me about how I waited too long to come to the ER and how I was being negligent in my care of her. I replied angrily, that's not what your triage nurse said when I insisted she needed to be seen immediately and then waited in the waiting room for four hours. Grace was hooked up to an IV, given anti-nausea medication by injection, and spent the next two days getting her strength and color back.

As the nurse took her from the ER to her room, she remarked, "she looks like a peaceful angel, she's so white." I guess she didn't notice that Grace's eyes were so sunken into the sockets that she looked like a Halloween ghoul.

Let me go back to the beginning of the story, though. The 24 hours before I encountered the scolding attending physician went like this:

In the spring of 1998, when Grace was 4, she and I were visiting family in the midwest. The night before we were to fly home to Texas she fell asleep for a five hour nap, woke up vomiting, and then fell back asleep. The next morning when she woke at about 4a, I gave her water to drink. We boarded our first flight home at 6a, and she vomited two more times before we landed in Cincinnati. At this point I realized something was very wrong. I called her pediatrician in Texas. He called in an anti-nauseal suppository that we could pick up as soon as we were back in Texas. By the time our second flight landed in Dallas, she could not be roused. I told the flight attendants I needed help, a wheel chair, something. I asked the baggage personnel to watch all our bags until I returned from the parking lot with my car. Then I took the airport people mover to the remote long term parking lot with Grace fast asleep in my arms, loaded her into the car, raced back to the terminal to get our bags, leaving her asleep in the back seat of the car on the curb while I hauled bags back and forth to the trunk.

About 10 minutes later, Grace woke up and vomited green bile. I stopped at the first pay phone and called the doctor.

"Should we go to Children's Hospital in Dallas now? I can't rouse her out of a sleep at all."

They said no, drive back to Waco, get the medicine, and she'll be fine. The two hours it takes to get home won't make any difference.

8 hours later, she still couldn't stop vomiting, and had begun having diarrhea. The doctor told us to go straight to the ER.

(don't ask where my now ex-husband was during all this.)

I think every parent has a story like this to tell. Some moment in which you thought everything was fine and you did everything right, but then without any warning disaster struck and you found yourself facing something scary. Something that endangered your child's well-being. After I recovered from the scare and Grace was seemingly healthy again and I returned to work, I thought to myself, what just happened? I spend all day as a professional working with small children who have developmental delays and all manner of health problems. I've been to that hospital 100 times with other people's children. How did I make such poor decisions when it was my own child?

The answer to this self-doubt came years later. I didn't do anything wrong. What Grace was suffering from that day she was hospitalized wasn't even diagnosed for three more years, and then only because I went to the pediatrician intent on finding out why my child kept having this problem. The cause of all this was the now identified disorder, Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome. It appears to show in families with a history of migraines. The patient, with seemingly no cause, has the urge to vomit. Once they start vomiting, they can't stop. Grace has an very interesting way of knowing an episode is about to start -- she actually gets a migraine beforehand.

Aside from the pediatrician who did the research and diagnosed her, I had NEVER found another mention of the disorder. Every partner in the pediatric practice, every school nurse, every provider in every ER, two more pediatricians, NO ONE had ever heard of it. Now, that in and of itself is not so unusual; children have odd disorders of all sorts that no one's ever heard of, so what's so special about this one?

Before this was diagnosed, the doctors didn't believe us at the ER. They thought she had food poisoning. They thought I was a bad parent. I had one resident tell me at an ER, "kids just don't start vomiting for no reason. There's something you're not telling me." And then there were the speculations that she was causing the vomiting intentionally. She wanted attention, or she was stressed out, or she wanted to skip school. During her adolescence, I've been cautioned that maybe Grace is bulimic.

The scary part of all this is that while you're trying to convince people that the kid really has a problem and to stop looking for all the regular suspects, your kid is suffering. Actually, worse than that. Your child's body is shutting down. When Grace had her first episode at age 4, she had lost over 25% of her body weight in 24 hours. Even now that she's full grown, severe dehydration is something that happens fast in these episodes and she desperately needs someone to treat her, not continue to question the cause of the situation.

And what does it do to child's self-esteem and confidence when everyone around them keeps doubting that their symptoms are genuine?

So here's my public service announcement:

Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome (CVS)

It is estimated that CVS affects 2% of children worldwide.
There is no known treatment.
It is unclear what the etiology of CVS is.

The sickness is not "in the patient's head," and they can't just will "mind over matter."

CVS is no longer considered a childhood illness.

The primary symptoms are that the patient feels the urge to vomit, usually does so, and once they start they cannot stop. Trying to give fluids orally during an episode not only doesn't help the situation, it actually worsens the symptoms by inducing more vomiting. This is true even for water or pedialyte.

If you know child who has these symptoms, maybe a child who insists they are not doing anything to cause the vomiting and adults aren't believing them, maybe they have this syndrome. Here's a website you can visit to get more information. And here's a story about the disorder that abcnews.com ran last week.

Coming to terms with who I am

I've written about my frustrations with organized religion. In a separate vein, I've written about my frustrations with my daughter and her difficulties in school, personal organization, emotional development, and maturing in general. Today I will bring these two together. Why? Because I realize that they are both exacerbated by the same mixed bag I bring to the table from my childhood.

Yesterday I wrote about parenting a kid with ADHD, how I realized it was like being in a desert in that I was dying of thirst for someone, anyone, to volunteer praise for my daughter. For more than 10 years of formal education, I've heard that she was "within the normal range of development in most areas," that there are things she "needs to work on," what her "areas of improvement" should be, and what her "developing skills" are. I've stood by teachers who gave her a stern talking-to, hoping that this one would be the one that would jump-start the maturity. I've concluded that, whereas the politically correct language used to address students with ADHD is better than the labels I got as a kid, as a parent I know (and I presume my daughter knows) what these euphemisms really mean. They mean that something is wrong with your kid and it needs to change. It means the kid isn't what the educational system wants, really. What they want is for your kid to be different than what they are.

Through a series of comedic errors, she's never officially been diagnosed with ADHD. Oh, if I told you the whole story, you would laugh out loud. It seems as though the teachers who complain the loudest and most frequently are also the slowest at taking action when you ask them to objectively report on the student for the purposes of diagnosis by a physician or psychologist. I'll save my many stories because, frankly, there are too many to mention and I get so angry just thinking through the whole saga. After more than a decade I discovered that it made no difference whether Grace had a label of ADHD or not. It made no difference whether there was an IEP or a special ed folder or not. Grace does well in a classroom when a teacher is willing to see her for who she is and adapt to her. And Grace does terribly in a classroom when a teacher decides that Grace needs to conform to the rigid way school has always been done.

Inevitably when I think through these things, I realize I am not objective in my thinking. No, I don't mean that because I am Grace's mother I can't see her shortcomings, er, ah, I mean, challenges accurately. I mean that many times when I watch her and hear what her teachers say about her, I find myself instantly taken back to childhood. Most of us over the age of 30 never even considered ADHD or ADD until we were parents, which leads to a looming question: what does an adult with the disorder look like? I don't know, but I do know that many times when I hear what Grace's educators say, I think, you just don't understand because you've never felt it. It doesn't feel wrong or flawed when it's your mind and your actions; it just feels like who you are. You can't just BE different; you are who you are.

As a child (and a teen, and a young adult, and...) I talked too much. My mind wandered in the classroom. I was hopelessly disorganized. This all led to a poor performance in school, both academically and behavior-wise. I remember one year especially well, 5th grade. My trouble started with unfinished schoolwork, but once I was realized where I was on the scale of good-to-bad based on not turning in schoolwork, my behavior in other areas declined as well. My class ate lunch outside on picnic tables and then got to play after eating. However, if you hadn't turned in an assignment, you were "benched" for lunch and recess time. This meant you sat at a table with the teacher, eating your lunch without being allowed to talk to anyone, and then worked on schoolwork. I was benched the entire year. No, really! I didn't have lunch with my friends once that year. It quickly became clear that I was at the very bottom of the barrel in terms of getting into trouble. No one was benched as often or scolded as much or behind in as many subjects and assignments as I was. I was the worst.

It didn't take long for my enthusiasm for school to wane completely. I faked being sick a lot just so I wouldn't have to go. I avoided my teachers completely. I stopped doing schoolwork altogether unless someone forced me to do it (and yes, there were some drastic measures taken to get me to do some of it). I virtually dropped out of academics entirely and went to school only because I was forced to. This attitude pretty much prevailed for another school year. By the end of 6th grade I was failing half of my subjects. Somehow by the time I started middle school in 7th grade I felt it was more socially beneficial to do well in school and changed gradually.

To this day I look back on that point in my life and realize that was when I felt there was no advocate. I was alone, and completely screwed up. And though I survived academically, I'm not sure I survived emotionally and spiritually.

I didn't have the benefit of an educational system that understood or adapted to this. I was deemed to be a troublemaker, a slacker, and one who was "not living up to her potential." The school endorsed, embraced, and implemented at every turn a philosophy that children were to be molded into good and proper and righteous individuals. This meant children were to be hard workers, submissive to authority, and well-behaved, constantly being reminded that they are God's representatives on earth. Accordingly any deviation from good behavior was deemed "un-Christ-like" and an appropriate punishment was issued. The system was based in classical conditioning, most specifically that negative enforcement (=punishment) would result is a cessation of un-Christ-like behavior. I guess no one there knew that behaviorism died in the 1950s with the cognitive revolution, but hey, they were traditionalist so maybe they didn't mind.

I won't say my experience was all bad. A few times everything came together and I was able to benefit from the efforts of my parents and my teachers. But one thing was massively clear to me: my shortcomings, the issues I struggled with on a daily basis, were not minor. They were sins and I was sinful for not changing them.

"Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not stray from it." It's Proverbs 22:6. I'll have you know, I heard that bible verse so many times that I didn't even have to look it up to include it here. Granted, reading it now, there is nothing about this passage that necessarily means you must constantly punish children in order to get them to conform to the way you think all children should be. But as far as I can see that was the interpretation of the school I went to and the adults around it.

Two things came out of this experience. First I concluded that I'm not a good person. Given a doctrine of original sin, that's not necessarily a problem. But it is a problem if who you are, your very personality traits and tendencies, are deemed to be sinful. To say that a kid who talks too much and can't stop is sinful is as ridiculous as saying that a child who has a vision problem and can't correct the vision is sinful. But nonetheless, that was what I consciously concluded. Whatever it takes to be a good Christian, I just don't have it. So why keep trying at something that you're bad at? (I wish I could say that this conclusion was erroneous in my youth, based on the incomplete data set of just a few bad days at school, but alas, as an adult my uppity-ness still seems to get in the way of being a good christian woman. So I still ask, why keep trying to something you're clearly not cut out to do well?)

Second, I realized that education should not be all about getting kids to behave in a way that is deemed socially acceptable. Yes, you need some semblance of order to have a group of students together, but what if a child simply cannot stop talking and daydreaming no matter how hard she tries? I have sat through many parent-teacher meetings and marveled at how little some educators were able to imagine what it was like to be Grace. It was as if her perspective was irrelevant and the only one that mattered was that of the adults. Just so you know, I never go to parent-teacher conferences anymore. As of 7th grade, we have parent-teacher-student conferences and I encourage Grace to say what's on her mind while listening to her teachers.

There's a more important issue in all this, which is what impact this has on me. And that is what this blog revolves around, you see. When I see my daughter struggle, I so often see myself. When she is misunderstood or misjudged, when she is in trouble, when she is down, so many times I see myself. I wish I could say that I worked all those feelings out, but clearly I haven't. And my feelings drive my desire to want to shield her from the world, whether that's the best thing for her or not. So, I march onward trying to sort all this out.

Good teachers are a gift.

I recognize that my kid may not be the dream-come-true student for many teachers. She talks too much, she gets distracted, and she has a difficult time paying attention to something she doesn't find interesting. In many ways she is a square peg in the round hole that school presents to her. Thus when she gets a good teacher, I jump up and down in excitement because I know this one is worth their weight in gold.

Grace has an amazing collection of teachers this year. I really cannot say enough about this. You know, you go through years of schooling as a student and as a parent and sometimes you hit some real duds, so when you get a good one, you know it. I, for one, am the first one to tell a good teacher thank you. I know teaching has its ups and its downs and that on some days and with some students it is really a pain. I really cannot do enough for my child's teachers to encourage them that I really am appreciative for all that they do.

One teacher in particular stands out this year -- Grace's science teacher. I can't say enough about him. He is magnificent. He has so many excellent ideas about philosophy of life, er, I mean, philosophy of teaching (is there a difference?). This weekend when I read his weekly newsletter in my email inbox, I couldn't help but yell out in exuberance, "oh, YES!"

On the second page, with a bright red header, he included a short 300 word blurb about ways parents should encourage students who are less than enthusiastic about doing their schoolwork (read: slackers who text message and facebook all day instead of finishing their schoolwork). The teacher wrote, if a parent is threatening to take away privileges (like cell phone use) yet not following through on the threat, the parent is wasting their time. Rather, do what you need to do (like take the cell phone away) and say 'get to work and all will be good again.' Yes, teens will argue and yell and tirade about the swift actions rather than threats, however parents should use the line "I love you too much to argue." Similarly, the teacher uses the line "I respect you too much to argue."

I knew he was good before this tidbit, but oh, I was elated to finally see a teacher who wasn't just talking straight to parents about a philosophy of parenting but also implementing this philosophy in the classroom! Let me explain. Sometimes when I get a phone call from a teacher about a problem with Grace at school, I sense that the call is simply a gripe session. The teacher has called not just to inform me the parent of what the situation is, but to recuse themselves of the situation and place the responsibility for the events solely in my hands. While I agree that parents and discipline at home does have an effect on school behavior and performance, not every problem at school has its roots at home. When I sense that a phone call is developing towards a blame game, I ask the teacher, 'what do you do in your classroom about the situation?' If there is not a satisfactory answer, I explain what we do at home, and encourage the teacher that I will have their back if they are extra strict on my daughter in areas that are causing a disruptions in the classroom. That's usually the last phone call I get.

Word has it that in the district, I am a "tough" parent who "asks hard questions." That's good. I want teachers who ask hard questions too. I want cooperation between home and teachers and schools, not an assumption that teaching is all the school or all at home.

See, I am the parent who took away the cell phone. And the iPod and the Nintendo DS. And the Video Now. And locks the channels on the tv when I'm not at home. And password protects the wireless internet in the house. I limit phone calls on school nights, I make sure my kid dresses in a way for school that doesn't distract her or others. I'm the one who told her that no matter how much she wants to be a professional actress, she is not allowed to audition for a play until I see two consecutive grade reports on honor roll. And if she doesn't pass French this term with a B or higher, she's not even getting to take the theatre course.

I make sure that at every turn I remind her that her education is important and should be prioritized.

I had Grace read the teacher's blurb. About halfway through she started smirking. By the time she got to the end she was smiling. I told her I loved her and it looked like she had a super teacher who really cared about her success in school and in life. Then I emailed the teacher to thank him. He replied "Hey, thanks for the positive comment on the newsletter and my philosophy in the class. Grace is great in class."

Oh, YES!!!!!!!!! Grace is great in class! It happened! It finally happened! I contacted a teacher of Grace's and the reply was POSITIVE!!! YES YES YES YES YES YES!!!!!!!!!

I didn't realize how dry the desert was out there looking for a positive sign from her teachers. Over the years I have developed an ability to always find the silver lining in whatever her teachers communicate to me. Because all of what they communicate is negative. I never get a note home that says, "Grace is great in my class." I never get a teacher seeing me and approaching me to talk about Grace in a positive way. My correspondences with Grace's teachers have always been tainted with something that needs to be improved, changed, remedied, etc. I wish I could say that I am overgeneralizing on this, but alas, I am not. I have never gotten an unadulterated compliment of my daughter's performance or behavior or person from one of her teachers.

I don't think I realized how down I was about this. I'm sure Grace has felt my emotions about this. I'm sure it hasn't helped her to be working in an environment that projects this negativity upon her (both home and school).

So, two lessons learned. First, as a parent, stand by your kid. No matter how much negative feedback you get from the school, no matter how much you have to reprimand you kid to get them on track, no matter how frustrated you feel about the situation, stand by them and encourage them. You may be the only one who communicates this positive message to them. Second, as a teacher, remember that the problem student in your class may NEVER have had a teacher or coach or scout leader or counselor or anyone ever tell them they were good at something. If you approach them as someone who needs fixing, you just add to the negative message. You are not the one they have been waiting for who is going to send the right harsh message to get their butt in gear; rather, you are probably the 10th or 20th or 100th person to think you are so enlightened. These students especially need positive messages.

Tomorrow, I have a feeling we're going to delve deeper into Heather's experience as a childhood troublemaker.

Hurt and Anger

You know those girls in middle school that you disliked so much? The ones who traveled together in gaggles and always seemed to have something cutting to say to people who were not so well socially networked? One of those girls I met the first day of 3rd grade when I was a new kid. I saw her last when I was 21, newly married and visibly pregnant. I visited a church (I was church-shopping) and she spotted me. After the service she ran after me and called my name. Now mind you, I was over 1000 miles where she and I grew up and went to school together. I was stunned. She was nice enough and gave her phone number. I never called her back.

We're now friends on facebook. She seems healthy and happy. That connection has opened up access to the mean girls group, though. The pictures started getting posted last week. The poster of the pictures is a woman I have known was on facebook for weeks. I know who she is. I just don't want to have anything to do with her. I know she's a woman now and she's probably a much different person today than she was as a teenager.

The pictures aren't bad or mean or petty or incriminating. They're just snapshots of a bunch of not-yet-highschoolers enjoying youth. It's what I see in these pictures that's painful. I see these images and I suddenly become a 12- or 13-year-old again. I can see their confidence in numbers and smug contentment and not being alone. I can hear their snide remarks uttered quietly during class, designed to make you feel small. I can feel the heat in my face as I feel hurt, then angry, and finally defeated.

It's amazing, really. It was so long ago. The things that happened were so petty and lame. As an adult, I can watch the same things happen between middle school girls and think, what idiots. Despite the elapsed time and the decades of maturity that have ensued, I still see these photos and feel hurt.

I wonder what it feels like to be one of those girls in the pictures. What are their hurts? Who angered them? How did they resolve their feelings?

Superstar

When I was in 4th grade, I was a bit of a paradox in the school setting. Very messed up in some ways but very dynamic in others. I can remember some of my best kudos from teachers came from that year, and also some of my worst disasters as far as discipline. I'll talk about my successes today because that's more uplifting.

I started writing short stories and dramas in 4th grade. The first composition was a story about a girl named Alice and the story was aptly named, Alice. (I think I was getting my inspiration for story titles from Beverly Cleary.) I typed Alice up one Saturday afternoon at home on my grandmother's hand-me-down typewriter. Very schnazzy. In the story, Alice gets in trouble at school for making cherry bombs and in the end has a fun afternoon with one of her friends. Three pages typed, single-spaced, in a standard serif font. I brought the newly-created composition to school and showed it to a friend. She liked it. Another friend asked to read it. By the end of lunchtime it had made the rounds to 6 girls and afternoon classes started with me trying to covertly assemble a list for the three more waiting to read it next. My homeroom teacher realized something was afoot and wanted to know what was the buzz was about. When she found out, she stopped teaching science, asked for the story, and then read it aloud to the class. Oh, yeah. I felt like a movie star. A few weeks later in language arts, my teacher gave us the assignment of writing a short 10-minute or so play. From all the scripts, four would be selected and the author would cast, direct, and act in their play. At this point I was feeling a little high from my success of Alice, and I banged out a good sketch about a girl who has difficulty telling the truth. It was chosen to be performed, and I cast my good friend Beth to play the part of the girl. I, of course, as the director wouldn't dream of taking the lead -- I played the part of the mother. Also I was taller than Beth so it made sense.

Now I was a celebrated writer and playwright, at least by 4th grade standards. About this time came to icing on the cake: the elementary school spring musical performance. Every year the musical director of the elementary school would select one of those shows that included 10-15 songs, a quick drama sketch between each song, and add a few good spicy extras to jazz it up and get every single elementary school student involved. When I was in 4th grade, the show was the Easter story told from the perspective of the animals. Looking back on it now as an adult, it was a little goofy. I mean, it was the Easter story acted out by two donkeys, three sheep, a rooster and a hen. Oh, and a narrator. The students who got the speaking parts in the drama segments were hand-selected from one grade level. And when I was in 4th grade, my class got chosen.

Out of all the 4th graders, I and a few other students were chosen to read for a part, so I excitedly left the normal music class and went to a different classroom with a few other students to try out. I was handed a script and told to read one paragraph of the narrator. I thought, a narrator? Who wants to be a narrator? My friend Greg read after me and got the part. Then they asked me to read for the part of the hen. No contest, I became Hen.

The hen had the smallest, but undeniably the most unforgettable, part. She was the comic relief. I mean, let's face it, the Easter story is a little bit of a downer, right? The hen has to listen to a rooster talk about Peter betraying Jesus and the sheep lament the mystery of where the white one went to. You gotta throw a little entertainment in there to keep hundreds of parents from falling asleep. So here's how the scene with the comic-relief-Hen was written and directed:

The scene opens and the yellow lights come up. Rooster walks on stage and gives his familiar annoying "cock-a-doodle-doo! Get out a bed, you sleepy heads!" and a bit more of a poetic jingle that only a morning person could endure. Hen (me) trudges out on stage, yawns and gives her first line: "Alright! Alright! I'm up! I'm up! Almost three years of marriage and he hasn't let me sleep in once!"

I had 12 more lines in that scene, and then it was over, and then I could retreat to backstage and giggle for the rest of the show. We practiced twice a week. I had those lines down cold. I even started throwing in some of my grandmother's southernisms, drawing out my vowels and adding annoyed tones of womenly whining. By the time we got to showtime, I was ready.

Cut to the chase: lights came up, rooster gave his loud wake-up call and the audience sat quietly (bored). I walked out exactly as we had rehearsed and gave my first line.

"Alright! Alright! I'm up! I'm up! Almost three years of marriage and he hasn't let me sleep in once!"

The audience exploded into laughter immediately.

Huh? Laughter? What am I supposed to do with this? I just practiced saying my lines and getting the scene over with! I realized, I gotta improvise here and not say my lines quite so fast. I gotta give 'em time to take it all in! By the time we got to the end of the scene I realized I could just pause before my lines when all the other animals looked at me and the audience would start laughing.

It was a riot. The whole show was audio-recorded and broadcast on the school's radio station in the next week. It wasn't until I heard it again that I realized how well people reacted.

That line stayed with me until high school graduation. People remembered the lines, the costume, the southern lilt, everything. "Rooster's" dad taught at the school and reminded me of that scene over and over and over. I had never had so much fun in my life. It was my moment of "superstar."

When was your moment of superstar? That moment you believed you could do anything?

I have confidence in confidence alone

Do you remember the scene in The Sound of Music when Maria first leaves to abbey and travels to the van Trapp family estate? In the movie, Julie Andrews packs up her humble belongings and shows her reluctance in leaving. She is nervous and unsure. But throughout the action of the song "I Have Confidence" she sings to herself, smiling, reassuring herself that she is indeed ready for what she faces.

If only it were that simple and transparent. Rodgers and Hammerstein were so much better than to write such a trite ditty.

They made sure that if you listened carefully, you would realize that although the whole song and accompanying travel time are infused with stalwart posturing and broad steps intermingled with skips, it is in fact a front. Maria is scared and very unsure of herself. She doesn't resolve this insecurity by singing about it to herself -- she faces the reality that it exists. The lyrics go like this:

I HAVE CONFIDENCE

What will this day be like? I wonder.
What will my future be? I wonder.
It could be so exciting to be out in the world, to be free
My heart should be wildly rejoicing
Oh, what's the matter with me?

I've always longed for adventure
To do the things I've never dared
And here I'm facing adventure
Then why am I so scared

A captain with seven children
What's so fearsome about that?

Oh, I must stop these doubts, all these worries
If I don't I just know I'll turn back
I must dream of the things I am seeking
I am seeking the courage I lack

The courage to serve them with reliance
Face my mistakes without defiance
Show them I'm worthy
And while I show them
I'll show me

So, let them bring on all their problems
I'll do better than my best
I have confidence they'll put me to the test
But I'll make them see I have confidence in me

Somehow I will impress them
I will be firm but kind
And all those children (Heaven bless them!)
They will look up to me

And mind me with each step I am more certain
Everything will turn out fine
I have confidence the world can all be mine
They'll have to agree I have confidence in me

I have confidence in sunshine
I have confidence in rain
I have confidence that spring will come again
Besides which you see I have confidence in me

Strength doesn't lie in numbers
Strength doesn't lie in wealth
Strength lies in nights of peaceful slumbers
When you wake up -- Wake Up!

It tells me all I trust I lead my heart to
All I trust becomes my own
I have confidence in confidence alone
(Oh help!)

I have confidence in confidence alone
Besides which you see I have confidence in me!

If you're lucky to see a good actress play the part of Maria, it's the last few lines that give it away. "I have confidence in confidence alone." Then she repeats it realizing what she's just said. And then she says plainly, 'oh help.' If she's weren't a nun she'd have said 'oh damn' with just the same intonation. You can tell yourself anything you want, but Maria learns that this doesn't matter if it doesn't stick. If there's something deep inside of you that's standing in the way of confidence, you can't merely talk yourself into being confident. Sooner or later the rhetoric will catch up with you.

Grace is confident. She is sure of herself. I am not confident. I am not sure of myself. She believes she can do anything. I believe I can try anything and may fail. She is not afraid of her peers and walks boldly into tough situations. I get sick to my stomach just thinking about this.

I am more like Maria. Grace is more like, I'm not sure who. But there is one thing I know. In rereading what I have written here and what I have written in my personal journal, I have realized that I wish I were like here. I wish I had her confidence and her bravery. I wish I believed in myself the way my daughter does.

I've been wondering where this comes from. Is it a genetic thing or a nurtured thing? Is it possible to change yourself, or is the attempt to do so as futile as Sister Maria's confidence-building exercise is portrayed as being? I would love to know the answer. If I hope to get past this insecurity of mine however, I think I need to try without really knowing how to do it.

Lesson for life

I have a bachelor's degree in psychology. As many people know who have either attempted and/or earned a degree in the field, there's a big hurdle that must be jumped over early in your career: statistics. When I took introductory statistics, it was my first semester back at college after taking a two-year hiatus to get married and have a baby and to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had scheduled 8a classes for every day and had a full 17 hours load. I wanted to be done with this degree already. My Mon/Wed 8a was statistics lab, with the lecture in the afternoon at 1p. After the lecture, I walked home and hopefully found my daughter asleep at her nap.

I liked the class ok; I got a B+. The course was what is referred to in the trade as a "weed-out" course, though -- a course that is designed to challenge students at the start of studies so that only the strong survive. In a field like psychology it made sense I guess because tons of students come to college thinking psychology is what they want when it really is not. Nonetheless, stats was something you had to approach with gusto and courage.

The course was taught by Dr. Roger E. Kirk. He wrote the textbook used: Statistics: An Introduction. He headed the PhD program in psychological statistics. He was one of the most senior colleagues in the department and in his field. He was an expert in a field that charges a pretty penny for its services. He could have done anything other than teach 220 reluctant undergraduates introductory statistics every fall and spring semester. But he was clear to tell his large lecture every semester, he continues to teach the class because he feels it is important for him to teach beginning students.

The course material is dry and Dr. Kirk knew it. He was not a charismatic teacher, but he was sensitive to the attention level of his students. When he sensed that a good portion of the class was tuning out, he would stop and go down what he called "a bunny trail." He would tell us about his wife and a ballroom dancing event they attended together. He would tell stories about his own experience as a student and how he reacted to pretentious leaders of the field when they were less than kind (names withheld ;-) ) Or he would just say what was going on in his garden or some inconvenience in his daily life or a recent cooking experiment he and his wife cooked up. He cared that we as students were there and that we would likely not succeed if we saw our instructor as insensitive to our struggle to even pay attention.

Perhaps the best lesson I ever learned in a classroom I learned from Dr. Kirk. On the last day of lecture, at the very end of the lecture, Dr. Kirk set aside 5 minutes to give us one last lesson. He stood in front of the classroom in his same humble and reserved posture and addressed us all. As we had learned from him before, he reminded us that he had finished a bachelor's degree and a master's degree in music. He played the trombone or the trumpet, I can't remember which. He had thought his entire life he would be a professional musician. But he said that he realized he wasn't very good at playing the instrument. Yes, he could understand the principles he had learned, but he had to face the fact that he wasn't good at the career he was pursuing. It was at this turning point in his life that he applied to his PhD program in psychology and went on to become one of the leaders in the field of modern statistics. The moral of the story, he told us, is that we may have struggled through the class and found ourselves questioning our value, our worth, and our ability to do anything right. But the important thing to realize is that our success in one course in college is not indicative of our overall abilities. Maybe we just hadn't found what we were really experts at yet. He said, I am glad to have gotten to teach you, and I look forward to what each and every one of you will do in your life, regardless of what that is.

In all of my studies and training, I'm very grateful I got to hear that lesson. It helps keep everything in perspective.

First Homecoming

The dance is tomorrow night. I am more prepared now than I was a week ago.

Blue dress, halter top bodice. Black heels. Straightened hair. With a $150 flat iron, I might add. Oh yeah, we don't take this hair straightening lightly, ladies and gentlemen. If we're going to straighten our hair, we do it right.

I am not chaperoning the dance. Oh no, not I. I will trust Grace to tell me about what happened.

If I get through this, I think I will feel as if I've accomplished something. Like I've gotten into the groove of being the parent of a high school student.

A wolf is sheep's clothing. Or a sheep in wolf's?

There's Soccer Moms and Hockey Moms, and then there's what I apparently am -- a Swim Team Mom. Doesn't have quite the same ring to it as the others do, does it?

Up until about a year ago, I was a pretty generically "involved" parent. I wanted my kid to excel in fine arts, have a good GPA, learn a foreign language or two, and get into a good college some day. There was one major gap in the profile: athletics. I encouraged Grace to be involved sports, really I did, but it wasn't really working. After many years of effort, I just decided to concentrate my efforts elsewhere: girl scouts, piano lessons, afterschool art programs, reading club, dance class. And that's how I've defined myself: an involved parent, and one who doesn't even blink when I hear the phrase "booster club." We don't really do sports, you see.

It was clear to me very early on that sports and athletics was not gonna be a go. The first big sign was that Grace didn't like to get dirty when she was a toddler and preschooler. She didn't even like to make a mess at the table. She cried if something got on her clothing so there weren't many outings in which we made mudpies. At Grace's first field day at the end of prekindergarten, she conceded to participate in one event, the water relay. She and four other kids made up a team and took turns running towards a bowl of water, scooping water into a cup they were carrying, and then returning to the other side where they would dump the water into another bowl. First team to fill the second bowl with water won. All the kids understood that there was a trade-off between how fast you ran back and how much water would remain in the cup, but Grace was unique among her peers that day in that she also realized there was a relationship between how fast you ran and how wet you might get. The latter correlation won out, and she carefully, ever so carefully and delicately, walked slowly back with her cup 3/4 full and precisely emptied the contents into the bowl. The next runner practically yanked the newly empty cup out of her hand and begin the next leg. As you can well imagine, her team lost. But Grace was really not worried about that because she had accomplished her goal -- not getting wet.

When I tried to teach Grace how to swim myself, it was a disaster. After a few months I conceded to pay for group swimming lessons, yet there were still hurdles. She refused to get in the water and try. hm. They refunded my money. Finally, when Grace was 5-years-old, I begged my parents to have Grace visit their house for a couple weeks, hire a private instructor and use their swimming pool for lessons. It was drama. It was horror. She screamed and squealed. She hid from the instructor. She debated with him. It was like nothing he had ever seen. After 6 days she could swim like a fish, but make no mistake, she made sure everyone knew that she didn't like swimming.

So I gave up on local swim clubs and thought, what about soccer? Ah! AH! HAHAHAHAHAHAhahahahahahahahaaaaha. ha. haha. hoo. ee. Oh my. She was a defender in the fall season of 1st grade. Green t-shirts and black shorts. Oh, I bought all the gear -- cleats, shin guards, you name it. She spent the season missing the ball. I don't mean that she didn't quite get close enough to hit it; I mean that she didn't even notice there was a game going on. Her team was defeated, as in they never won. Not one game. She didn't play in the spring season. There was one last effort to get her to play softball. Again, all the equipment - softball, mitt, bat, I even bought a right-handed mitt for myself to play with her. She liked it ok, but she much preferred playing dolls.

She didn't want to learn how to ride a bike. After six months, we gave up. She can't ride a bike today. She's not ashamed of it; she'll tell you straight out, "I don't know how to ride a bike."

Well, I gave up on athletics. I figured, no biggy, I wasn't into athletics that much. I really hate exercising now, why would my kid like it? And then, then, without any warning, swim team. She joined the team in 8th grade and now she's on the varsity swim team. Which brings us back to where I started. Swim Team Mom.

In the last few days I realized that there is a whole culture involved with athletics that is entirely distinct from other activities. It's not bad, it's not weird, it's just different. They're competitive. For instance, when your kid plays viola, it's very weird to go to an audition and then talk with other parents about what chair your child placed in the orchestra. I mean sure, you're happy when they do well and you tell your friends, but there's sort of a code of conduct that dictates that you don't unnecessarily discuss your child's achievements. Not so with athletics. You're supposed to know what your kid's times are, their strengths, their Achilles' heel, and connect with the coach in order to find out what you should be doing. Uh, hm. See, I don't really know what a good time is, or even if it matters. I really didn't know until last week what her "event" was (it's backstroke). And now I realize that people care about these things because it dictates whether your kid qualifies for the state meet or sets a new pool record or whatever.

And there's extra things like team backbacks and sweatshirts and pajama bottoms and flip flops. This all is extra expense, but it's a team thing -- they're all doing something together as a team. This extends to parents as well. No one told me that I would feel a little awkward when I showed up at meets and didn't have the specially designed polo shirt in school colors with the team logo on it that reads "Our-High-School Women's Swimming." I'm now scouring through my closet trying to fish out all the items have that would pass for the right shade of blue. I cheer and yell and I love going to the meets, but even the way you're supposed to cheer is something I've got to learn, for cripe's sake!

I'm undecided whether to feel inadequate or misplaced. Maybe confused? Definitely uninformed. It's not that I begrudge other parents, I just feel a little behind, like I'm the new kid on the block or something. The other parents are really nice and sweet and I like them. I'm now starting to put together names with faces and their kids and realizing that the same person is on the PTA or works down the street from my office or lives in that neighborhood I'm considering buying in some day. But I still have this overarching sense of ignorance and social ineptitude. And I feel a bit like an imposter, like I really shouldn't be included among these parents who have been schlepping their kids to the pool and back for 8a practices since their kids took their first breaststroke. I feel like I should confess and say, 'I really don't know what I'm doing here, and you shouldn't think I've sacrificed as much as you have!'

What does it mean when Grace's coach meets her at the end of the lane after she races and walks around the pool with her talking? What do I say when I talk to other parents about the decisions of the booster club? Am I supposed to be doing something as a parent with Grace now that she's an athlete, like calling her "champ" and telling her to suck it up if she whines?

I'm unsure. I wish we had stuck it out through a few more seasons of soccer in elementary school, though.