Math vs. Reading

Today Amelia told me that math is better than reading. I almost rang the neighbor’s door and asked if they wanted an adorable 7 year old. That is how upset I was.


Amelia has become obsessed with Dr. Seuss books. As a kid, I wasn’t a fan because I believed Dr. Seuss lacked substance. He wasn’t really telling a story with a plot. He was rhyming and that bugged me.

For the last two weeks Amelia has read fox in Sox and One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish a million times. She is fixated on becoming a perfect reader. She gets this way a lot. When the kids in her kindergarten class started hula hooping she begged me to buy her one. She started practicing every day until she was able to get to the point where she could run laps around her schools playground while balancing a hula hoop on her hips. I am not exaggerating, she really did this. It was the same with the piano. Amelia is in a combined classroom of 1st and 2nd graders. The kindergarten teacher in our school provides piano lessons for kids in grades 2-8. Amelia is not old enough. Some of the kids in her class are. She has figured out what they are learning on the piano and has demanded that Aaron teach her. She has perfected the few songs she knows that the 2nd graders can play. I don’t get it. I have always been fine with being mediocre. Amelia, on the other hand, is not.

Back to English vs. math. I am afraid Amelia is taking a mathematical approach to reading which kills me. I don’t believe she is really listening to the story being told. Instead, she sees reading as a puzzle to decipher and perfect. That part she loves. I am alarmed by this. But, I am hoping with age this will change. I am going to continue to do our nightly bedtime stories in the hopes that she will cherish books.

Last days of school

After moving to La Mesa, Aaron and I thought about enrolling the kids in our local school but after much thought we couldn't do it.  We love their school. 

I love that I know the name of every single kid I see on the playground.  I love that the 5th grade girls have the tendency to braid Amelia's hair and tell me who their crushes are.  I love that Jacob was allowed to get half way through the 5th grade math book when his teacher realized that the 4th grade one was too easy and that Andrew's teacher gave his grade lots of projects to do this year because he realized that is where their strength is, and that Amelia woke up everyday excited to go to school. I like that if I don't feel like driving all the way back home to La Mesa after dropping the kids off at school I can stop by our principals house to have a midday margarita with his wife who is the most hilarious and inappropriate woman I have ever met. 

My kids school is like a little bubble--a fifties time warp of good manners, morals, and old fashion community love.  Last weekend was the 8th grade graduation ceremony and I actually cried because I will miss those kids and I have loved seeing them mature and grow.  My favorite 8th grader whose is moving to Arizona, stopped Andrew and Jacob when we were leaving a graduation party to give them a hug and to tell them how much he was going to miss them.   It's moments like those where I realize how lucky we are to have them in such a tiny school.  As much as I complain about having to pay tution and the traffic we sit in to get there, in the end I know that it is worth it and I know that they will look back on there elementary school days with some pretty awesome memories.

P.S.  My camera got wet during the end of school water ballon toss.  That is why the pics are hazy.

I just want to watch shitty TV and eat bon bons.

I am having a hard time keeping up with everything. My house is a total tornado. Well, I admit it, it always is but lately it's really bad. I should be cleaning it right now but I'm not because I don't even know where to start.

School is starting to stress me out. I'm doing decent. As of right now I have straight B's. They should be A's. If I worked just a little bit harder I would be doing better. On top of that I am sucking it over at Zelda lily. My articles have been half assed and just plain lazily written.

Work has finally started up at BK and I'm feeling pressure to live up to their expectations. This week I've been working on some of their advertising and marketing stuff which has been a really great learning experience. This website is their dream and I want to do my very best. I'm so prone to typos that I am nervous wreck. I am spending an insane amount of time combing through everything I submit to make sure it's error free. I'm going to end up with an ulcer.

Most importantly, lately, I feel like I am becoming a really terrible mother. I don't have the same amount of time to spend with my kids that I once had. It feels like I am always yelling and frantic. I don't want to be that person. My goal is try my very hardest to get all of my stuff done before they get home. I need to pretend like I have office hours. That way I can relax and enjoy the amazing little people that make my world such a happy place to live in. I don't want to look back and regret anything.

I think I need to give something up. I have way too much on my plate. It's obvious what that needs to be. I'm a little sad about it.

Amelia's First Day of Kindergarten

I had a vision in my mind of what Amelia's very first day of kindergarten would be like. I imagined waking up early and enjoying breakfast together as a family. There would be picture taking and a long tearful good bye at her classroom door. Upon picking her up form school she would happily greet me and go on and on about how great her first day was.

That's not what happened.

I attempted a family breakfast this morning but Jacob was cold and insisted on wrapping up in a blanket and collapsing on the couch, and Andrew was thoroughly grouchy. Amelia was the only one slightly chipper, although she was peeved that one of her butterflies in which we decorated her kindergarten bag with had gotten smooshed by Jake's backpack.

Once we got to school there was no time for pictures because school was set to begin in two minutes. Amelia's kindergarten teacher wanted to know where her morning snack was and why I hadn't placed it in a separate bag, hadn't I remembered this from when Jake was in her class (3 years ago!). Didn’t I read about it in the kindergarten handbook (I arrogantly ignored because I have already had two kids go through kindergarten) I was flustered by the time I left her at school.

When three o'clock rolled around I couldn’t wait to hear about her day. Upon picking her up in her room so had a mini melt down "why are you here so early, all my other friends are still in the classroom!" She fumed.

Before long she ran off to the playground to play with the other girls, only to have another temper tantrum on the playground when another kid accidentally kicked her. She left school in tears demanding that we stop at seven eleven to buy her a Slurpee.


I demand a redo! Maybe we can pretend that tomorrow is her first day?

Mission trails

This week I have chaperoned not one, but two field trips for Jacob's combined 3rd-4th grade classroom. Today we headed out to Mission trails where Jacob acted as if he had been raised by wolves and was part tree person. He insisted that everyone follow him because he knew all the very coolest secrets that the park had to offer.  I love that kid!

I am not a team player

It was Monday when I was accosted by the mom crew at my kid’s school. They were standing near the picnic benches in their yoga pants and mesh hoodies. The short one with the thighs that could split my body in half asked if I had plans Thursday night. I hesitated. She swooped in “We need moms for the mother daughter basketball game. We are short a couple of players. Sally has a back injury and Kris had knee surgery. We are doing it for the kids.” There was no getting out of this one. I buckled under the pressure. The next day I saw Emily, my car pool partner, wincingly agree to play as well.


When Thursday rolled around I put on my tennis shoes, grabbed a water bottle, and headed out for what I imagined would be a humiliating night. My family is not a sports family. We are outdoorsy people. We hike, camp, and swim. We enjoy beach trips but when it comes to team sports we are a mess. My husband and I are the parents hiding in the back row of the bleachers as our kids’ day dream on the court or field while their teammates sweat it out.

Upon arriving at the school I joined my fellow moms to practice shooting hoops. I was alarmed when after 15 minutes of attempting a basket I had yet to make a single one. Spectators began arriving. My friends David and Grace took a courtside seat and began heckling us through fits of laughter “slam dunk it Siobhan.” David shouted. I was starting to sweat.

When the game began Emily and I cowered in our seats hoping to go unnoticed. She was called in first since her daughter was on the opposing team. When she got the ball it looked promising, only she headed in the direction of the wrong basket. I laughed so hard I nearly cried. Then I was called in. I was told to guard a lanky 6th grader who was about my size. I was surprised to find that this 11 year-old was quicker than me. I stumbled around the court not sure where to go. My teammates kept passing me the ball and I would throw it in the direction of the basket. It never came close to going in. Collectively the moms would groan. I could hear David chuckling. I was a disaster out there.

By the fourth quarter most of the moms were breathing heavily, there were ice packs and complaints of sore limbs. One of them was limping. Emily and I were once again put into the game. She got the ball and made a basket, a beautiful nicely executed swishing one. I was impressed. Not wanting to be one upped I stole the ball from a pig-tailed 8 year old. I dribbled it down the court and threw the ball up towards the basket. It didn’t even come close to getting in.

Despite being against elementary school children the moms were determined to win. It was a very close game but we won!

After the game Little Sophie, a classmate of my daughters, skipped up to me and said “I saw you miss all the baskets. You need to practice,” wise words from a four-year-old.

This morning when dropping the kids off I was high fived by three different moms.  "Great playing out there!"  Lindsay's mom told me.  "Liar!"  I replied. 

Thats what i love about our school.  It is so small that the day after our mother daughter b-ball game everyone already knows that Emily almost scored a point for the other team and that I can't shot to save my life.  It's like a tiny slice of the midwest right her in sunny San Deigo. Our little school with it's polite parents, reminds me of a Norman Rockwell painting.  It's a 1950's timewarp.

My least favorite person of the day

School is making a crazy person. I feel like I don't have enough hours in my day. Everything is piling up. I am worried that I won’t succeed, that I will not be able to keep up with math or Spanish, and that I will never get the hell out of Mesa. I tanked my first spanish test mostly out of laziness.   I am concerned that I may end up the only person alive to not make it out of community college. I fear that I am in idiot.

I have been short with the kids and generally disgruntled about life. I have tons of homework and the kids are in activities that require me to drive all over the place. There are bed time routines, and lunches, and dinner to be made, laundry to do, cleaning of bathrooms, and dishes, and the bathing of little stinky people. I feel like I cannot keep up. I need an attitude adjustment.

To make matters worse Aaron is currently my least favorite person EVER. I wish more people had been brutally honest with me about marriage. Why don’t people put it out there that their spouses can be the most excoriating pains in the asses? Why do people pretend that marriage is some 24 hour 7 day a week love fest?

I love Aaron. He is great and we laugh and have fun but there are moments when I don’t even want to look at his face. THIS IS NORMAL. Normal people are incapable of being consummed with love every moment of every day.  I am under the impression, that you cannot have a healthy marriage without some angst. Right now I am angsty with him. His voice annoys me, the way he gulps down cold beverages, how he can finish a meal in a minute flat, and the fact that he watches Glen Beck, irk me beyond belief. It really has nothing to do with him and more to do with the fact that I have too much on my plate and am taking it out on him.

I am thankful for this angst. Without angst we cannot grow into happier better married people. At least I realize that it is misdirected. Tomorrow I will get over it and he will once again be my favorite person. As for right now I will wallow in my grumpiness.

The Hell that is my Spanish Class

My Spanish professor always wears red; red shirts or red sweaters, red shoes, or bright red lipstick. She calls me Sue-bon. I am usually pretty cool about all the mispronunciations of my name but she is a foreign language teacher! Come on, say it correctly! Also, half my class speaks fluent Spanish. Did I mention it's a 101 class?

For the last two days we have been randomly paired up with other students. Each time I have been partnered up with a fluent speaker. Each time they have chuckled under their breath over my terrible pronunciation of Spanish words. Yesterday my partner was Israel, an 18 year old who didn't learn how to speak English until he was 7. While we were supposed to be working on telling time in Espanol he was texting his friends. However he did teach me the proper pronunciation of most of our vocab words. Also, he had the whitest teeth I have ever seen.

I sit in the third row from the door, five seats back. In front of me is a pregnant girl; behind me is another pregnant girl. I feel like they think I am a wise old lady there for the sole purpose of dispensing my parenting knowledge. Maybe they think I will offer them tiny nuggets of parental wisdom. They ask me questions about the kids, how old they are, did I have three kids so I could get a girl, do they fight, is it true that some women poop while in labor, did I breastfeed, where were they born, how long have I been married? They are fascinated. It makes me feel a little weird and really old. I think they are sweet though. I feel like I should adopt them and do their laundry and help them decorate their nurseries.

I wonder if they realize what they are in for; if they get just how drastically their lives will change. Do they know that soon their friends will be going to parties without them, heading out on Vegas trips, dating random guys, and that slowly their old group of friends will dwindle down to only the most loyal ones. That's what happened to me when I was their age. At the time I felt a bitter lonliness that was wrapped up in the most intense love of my life. Motherhood made me realize who my friends were. I'd like to see it as a gift instead of a sad loss of friendship. I have held on tightly to the ones that saw me through those early years of motherhood. It's always been hard for me to let people go so when my friends started letting me go it was really tough. I am thankful to the friends who stuck it out.

I feel like I should fill the pregnant girls in, let them know what it is like being a young mother. Maybe I should tell them how older women will stop you in the grocery store and correct the way you are holding your own child, how people assume you have no idea what you are doing, the countless strangers that will stop you on the street and tell you how proud they are of you for choosing life instead of abortion, and the people who will ask in a tone of utter shock "is that really your kid?! How old are you!?". Maybe I should let them in on the heavy lonliness that is combined with such great all encompassing love. I wonder if they have any clue at all what they are in for. I think maybe I shouldn't bother them with the raw truth. They will work it out. I did.

A bunch of nerds

The kids have spirit week at school Monday-Thursday in celebration of the school's basketball teams.  Today was nerd day, tomorrow is hippie/disco day, followed by wacky day, and lastly school spirit day.  My kids get super into it which I find adorable.

P.S. I started school today.  My courses are dismal!  Spanish and Algebra, blech!

Back to School

There is something slightly humiliating about attending Community College classes in my thirties. Most of the other students look like prepubescent junior high kids whom have just sprouted arm pit hair. The first day of class I felt like I should’ve lathered myself in anti-wrinkle cream and worn less sensible shoes so that I would’ve stuck out less.

In my English class the teacher has us interview each other. When I tell the girl sitting next to me I have three kids she nearly screams, “How old are you?”
“30,” I tell her. She can’t believe it.

I am unsure if I should be flattered that she thought I was younger or insulted over just how ancient she thinks I am. There is nothing like a 19-year-old with blue eye-shadow to make you feel geriatric.


In my freehand drawing class I feel a little less out of place. This class hosts the largest senior citizen population I have come across at Mesa. I think retirees have decided to spend their leisure days learning how to draw. I sit next to a transgendered gal named Ruby who tells me she is pursuing a career in fashion design. Her hands are like mitts and I can’t stop staring at them.

My teacher is frightening. She wears turquoise jewelry and heavy silver bangles. She rolls her eyes a lot. On the second day she kicks a guy out of her class for leaving the room to answer his cell phone. She dramatically removes his equipment from his easel and spits out “Don’t come back in here!” when he attempts to re-enter the room. So much for the Zen art class experience I was hoping for, I think to myself. I feel like I am in a bad Saturday Night Live skit.

My drawing professor spends a good chunk of the class berating us. I cower when she passes my easel hoping she doesn’t stop. On Wednesday, when she sees me erasing something on my sketch pad, she swoops in.

“How far apart should those two lines be?” she demands pointing at my page.

I feel like it’s a trick question. I start to panic. When I say two inches she groans.

“I want you to envision two inches. Don’t tell me using words and measurements. See the lines in your mind!” She lets out a lengthy sigh and glares at me as if my existence annoys her.

Mid-way through the class we walk around the room to look at each others work. My sketches are pitiful. I was so preoccupied with the idea of my teacher helping me again that I spent an hour and half erasing and redrawing a small fraction of the still life that was set up in the room.

When I get home that day I check my art teacher’s reviews on www.ratemyproffessors.com. I am alarmed. Multiple students recommend not taking her class, one says she has no soul and another states that she is a complete and utter loon. I promise myself that in the future I will always check rate my professor before signing up for a class.

Today

In about an hour I will be submitting my very first article to the San Diego Reader. I have been working on it all semester. I am super excited! I am keeping my fingers crossed.

Out of my comfort zone

I haven't been updating my blog at all. There are a combination of reasons why. Mostly it boils down to being very, very busy.

I am taking three classes this semester that require a substantial chunk of my life. My favortie class is my journalism class. Our latest assignment required each student to do something outside of their comfort zone. I borrowed some material from a previous blog. I am really happy with how it turned out. My teacher really liked it. He even asked me to print an extra copy so he could bring it home for his wife to read!

Here is the finished piece:


I am wearing a sweater set. If I owned pearls I would be sporting those as well. I am going for a look that says normal, not seedy and sex addicted. So far I think its working. I look like a minivan-driving, meatloaf-cooking, housewife.

My first order of business is simple: purchase a douche and a feminine itching product; not a big deal, easier then lube, nipple cream, and extra large ribbed condoms. Embarrassing? Yes. Humiliating? It could be worse.

The feminine care aisle is located across from the pharmacy. There is a pharmacist in a white jacket peering at me as I scan the products. My paranoia leads me to believe that he is silently mocking me. You would think they’d situate this kind of aisle in a more secluded area! A couple of customers wander down the aisle; I pretend to study the different brands of tampons until the coast is clear.

I am amazed by the vast selection of feminine itching products. There is shelf upon shelf of tubes all in slick, shiny, boxes. Who knew there would be so many different varieties of creams? I am taken back by the sheer volume. Apparently there is a large market for this type of thing. Where do I begin? Some have bold fluorescent writing, others are more modest but all scream out exactly what they are for. Some have descriptions like anti-fungal (gross!); long lasting, soothing, and refreshing. I can’t help but wonder what sort of jokes the ad executives must have told while coming up with the packaging for these products. I can picture a bunch of dudes in suits cracking up, doubled over in fits of hysterics with tears in their eyes, all while discussing the marketing plan for the pesky feminine itch.

I decide to go with something that is obvious, something that the sales clerk will recognize as a cream used "down there”. Mostly I just want to hurry the process along in case someone I know finds me lingering near the Monistat 3-day yeast infection cream. I grab a mid-priced product in a pink and purple box. It has bold lettering and promises to sooth the “painful, burning, vaginal itch,” Ewwww! To make matters worse it is called Vagicaine cream.

Next up, the douches. I decide to go with Summer’s Eve because the brand is so recognizable. There is a list of ten warnings on the back of the box. “Does not prevent pregnancy or STDs,” is one of them “Use while on the toilet,” the directions state. Classy! If I weren’t so mortified I would find it hilarious.
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They’re in my cart; the douche and the itching stuff. They are taking up space in the vast red Target basket. I turn the vaginal cream on its side so that it can pass as anything else, Neosporin maybe or diaper rash ointment. The douche is tricky. There is no disguising it. On every corner of the box it brazenly announces what it is, “feel like a woman!” One side screams, “Fresh scent douche” is spelled out on the top. There are directions with a large diagram on the back side. Summer’s eve is not a fan of discretion! I should’ve stuck with one of its less slutty competitors.

I roam around the store for a good fifteen minutes avoiding the check out aisle. I imagine everyone I pass is gazing at the contents of my cart, laughing to themselves, labeling me as yeast infected. I am paranoid! I have to give myself a pep talk before heading up to the check out. I remind myself that it’s no big deal! Clearly people buy these products all the time. Why else would they have an entire aisle dedicated to feminine care? Why am I so crazy?

I scan the cashiers and notice that there is not a single male among them, all chicks. It has to be a guy, I remind myself. It’s not quite as humiliating buying feminine products from a woman. Most likely they have been there, done that. Guys are squeamish about periods and other girl problems. They don’t get it; they don’t want to get it. I consider putting everything back but I have come so far, I can’t give up now. Then I remember that there are cashiers at the photo counter. There has to be a dude there.


I spot the bald head of a man working the photo counter. I sheepishly spill out the contents of my cart. I can feel my face starting to flush. I can tell he is as mortified as I am. It is apparent by the way he shoves my products swiftly into the plastic bag that he is not used to dealing with feminine products. I swear that he has actual sweat beading up on his forehead.

“$12.87.” he mumbles, avoiding eye contact.

I am tempted to ask him what the big deal is; after all he does work at the film counter. I am certain he has seen worse, much worse! Instead I quickly swipe my credit card and hightail it out of sight.

For normal people this sort of shopping isn’t a big deal. I have never been normal. To this day as a grown woman I will not buy tampons from a male cashier. Also, I have always been embarrassed when buying pregnancy tests because a pregnancy test is actual proof that I do in fact have sex. Who wants that hanging out there in the air at a local drug store? Not me! It's almost like having the word "Hussy" written in black marker on my forehead. I have never in my life bought condoms, lube, or any other sexual items from a drug store. I am kind of psychotic. I blame it on my rigid Catholic upbringing.

I decided I had a problem when a couple months ago my husband told me he was going to the store and asked if I needed anything. Tampons, I told him. He flat out refused.

“No way!” he told me.

At first I was annoyed and called him a caveman. Then I remembered that I too have issues with tampon buying so I got over it, a little.

I went to the store myself to avoid my husband’s fear of tampon buying. Before leaving, I asked him, just to be annoying, if he was worried that the cashier would think he had a vagina. He was not amused. I was.

While at the store I found the tampon aisle adjacent to the condoms, lubes, and feminine itching products. There was a man in the aisle, an honest to God, living, breathing, man, and he was looking at stuff. I was about to congratulate him on his bravery since my very own husband was hesitant to buy a simple box of tampons. Then I noticed that his arms were filled with lube, boxes of condoms, and other stuff that I was afraid to look at. Since I am prude I was automatically convinced that he was a sex addict. I envisioned one of those swings in his room, mirrors--lot’s of them everywhere, whips, and handcuffs. I was certain he was the type to have sex ads on craigslist, and that he hosted orgy parties on the weekends.

I snapped back to reality and realized that I might be the creepy one for staring and for thinking about sex swings. So there the two of us stood, he proudly and unashamedly searching for the perfect brand of lube, me humiliated over a box of tampons. I was definitely the freaky one. Oddly enough I found the Lube Man refreshing.

I am trying to be more like Lube Man when it comes to tampons and other sexual products. Seriously…what’s the big deal I keep telling myself? My mission is to buy as many humiliating products as possible—or at least look at them.

The condoms and lubes at the Food 4 Less in Clairemont are actually locked behind a glass door. I imagine this is because teenagers steal them or perhaps weirdoes like me pocket them to avoid the humiliation. Either way I am not happy that I will have to ask someone to unlock the sliding glass of sexual products for me. They have condoms that vibrate, a K-Y product in a black box called Yours + Mine couple's lubricants, and something called Finally in The Mood. They all look menacing. I scan the cashiers and wonder whom I will have to ask to unlock the door. What will I say? In the end I can’t go through with it.

I have decided that I will never be like Lube Man. It’s not in me. I don’t know how to be nonchalant about vaginal cream and lubricated-vibrating condoms.

Back to school

We survived the first day of school! Andrew was the least excited over the prospect of having to suffer through another year of learning. Secretly, I think deep down he was happy about getting back to school but he wouldn’t dare let anyone know it. Jake, like Andrew pretended to be beside himself with misery but he practically ran to his classroom when we got to school. Amelia had absolutely no separation anxiety. I thought she might be a little freaked out since it was her first day ever attending school. When I left her in her classroom she said a casual goodbye and that was that. The night before she said “mommy, when we go to school tomorrow do not say bye, bye to me.” At first I thought she meant that she didn’t want me to leave her but she continued, “Babies say bye-bye, big girl’s say bye. I am not a baby!”
She cracks me up. At three my little girl is already concerned over what the other kids in her class think of her.

All of them seemed to have good day. When I picked them up Andrew and his best friend Colby were running around laughing and smiling which made me optimistic that he will have a much happier year this year then he had the previous year. Amelia made a new friend named Sophie. Jake was ecstatic that there are way more boys then girls in his class. I have a feeling that this school year will be a great one.

The end of summer

This week has been my first week as a student again. I am taking sociology, anthropology, and philosophy. I really, really, love it so far but feel super old. Luckily for me there have been elderly folks in all of my classes making me feel a lot less decrepit. A woman in my anthropology class is in her eighties and just got back form traveling the entire world. I think she is awesome and will become my adopted grandmother. She told our class that her two favorite places in the world were France and India. She said she loves France because it is charming and India for its religion. I totally love her! Her face shakes when she talks and it freaks me out a little but I can overcome that due to her cool factor.

Here are some pictures of Amelia and her BFF Fletcher.