I type this as I consume a vodka and lemonade. When I was a teenager and a twenty something, I was a very accomplished party girl and one vodka and lemonade would have a) had very minimal effect and b) turned into many vodkas and lemonades.
This week has finally come to the 'end' and all I can decide on for my dinner, with any kind of clarity, that is, is this icy vodka and lemonade.
This week was tough for us, I've been in a state of panicky anxiousness for most of it, the Jelly Bean had his developmental assessment with the paediatrician, I have reports due, exams to mark, VCE papers in such a towering pile of looming disaster that I wish I was an ostrich that could breathe under sand, I had to get people I don't normally ask to look after the Bean when I had school commitments, I had to have a difficult talk with a parent about their teenager who has talked to me about difficult things, I cried in the Assistant Principal's office, I've had to learn how to do budgets for subjects at work, I've had to vacuum and clean and pay bills and wash dishes and hang out clothes and blah blah blah.
We all have this shit every day.
But my shit is just shit.
I have two friends who have lost or are losing family members.
This week.
A friend has told me that his 3 month old isn't responding to visual or aural stimuli. That he has been at the Royal Childrens' Hospital.
This week.
Another friend is lonely.
This week.
Another friend is having panic attacks. Again.
This week.
My son might not be as mature as 'the others'. My son might not listen to instructions as well as 'the others'. My son might not go to school next year with 'the others'. My son might not write or draw or cut or paste or paint or ride a bike as well as 'the others'.
But I have no idea what 'the others' are dealing with.
And my son is safe and happy and healthy and has food is his belly and clothes on his back and a roof over his head and trips overseas and good books. He loves sharks and cars and dinosaurs. He watches cool movies and rocks in the car to fabulous music.
And he has said some hilarious things.
This week.
Things the Jelly Bean says:
1. TB: Mama, I'm going to squash your brains and your veins!
2. Alarm goes off on Friday morning. The Jelly Bean has already been in my bed for approximately 7 minutes. This is a daily routine. (How does he know when it is 7 minutes to the alarm?)
TB: It's Friday, we have to stay in bed. See that sign, it says 'Stay in Bed'.
Me: I've gotta go to work, dude.
TB: Nah, I've closed the gates, we can't get up.
Me: What gates? I need to open them.
TB: No you can't, they're stuck to the bed.
3. There is a giant pile of sand on my couch.
Me: Look at all the sand on my couch.
TB: We need a sweeper truck.
Me: I think if you take your shoes off that might just help.
TB: Nah, the truck'll do it.
4. Looking at my Phoenix tattoo.
TB: I want a tattoo.
Me: Not until you're a big man.
TB: But I want one, now.
Me: No babe, it's very dangerous to get tattoos when you are too little.
The Bean cries. Properly.
5. The Bean had a run in with his dangle. It wasn't as bad as There's Something About Mary, but it wasn't pretty either.
Me: Can you put your slippers away please?
TB: I can't, Mama, it'll give me a sore dangle.
6. The Bean holds his hands at weird angles and tells me to do the same. It is for a story.
TB: And the sea monster is like this, and it comes up out of the rocks. Make some rocks with your hands, Mama.
Me (makes rocks with my hands)
TB: And then the sea monster goes over and crashes into the boat. CRASH!
Me: Whoah.
TB: Then the sea monster goes back under the rocks to eat his dinner.
Me: What do sea monsters have for dinner?
TB: Vita Brits.
7. The Bean is reading a book on the couch. I lie down next to him.
Me: Wow, what a busy week.
TB: At work?
Me: Yeh.
TB: I had a very busy week at kinder, too.
Me: Did you? What did you do at kinder today?
TB: Oh just some painting and pasting and reading on the mat and playing outside. It was very busy.
8.
TB: Sea monsters don't fit in tea cups, Mama.
9. I was lying on the couch and The Bean was pretending to cut my hair (involves pretend scissors and lots of messing my hair all over the place).
Me: I'm very tired.
TB: Well close your eyes then.
Me: Oh bless. You are lovely.
TB: Thank you... Now close your eyes so I can cut your eye hairs off.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Parent/Teacher Interviews
Every teaching job I've ever had was preempted with an interview. I had to answer questions, communicate my understanding of the way students learn, display my knowledge of my subjects, my ability to be adaptable, convey my charming and enthusiastic personality. I had to prove myself.
I've had countless Parent/Teacher Interviews in my career (well, I could probably count them if I wanted to but my life is just too busy to try and hyperbole is one of my greatest skills) and during those interviews I've gotten excited about talking about the fantastic kids, nervous about telling nice parents about their hideous kids, worried about kids whose parents don't come, kids whose parents should have come, needed to come. I've given tissues to crying parents, whose kids aren't eating, whose kids aren't coming home, whose kids are taking drugs. I've joked with parents whose kids are hilarious or smart or endearingly odd. Teenagers are little balls of wonderful complications. Their parents are usually a window into why. I love my kids because of that.
I've recently indicated that the Jelly Bean's kinder teacher has had him assessed for learning difficulties. After the assessment report came back filled with details of the observer's day, of the things he can't do and recommendations of what the kinder can do, of him maybe needing to do kinder again, of him maybe struggling when he gets to school because of his social/emotional immaturity, recommendations of what I can do, my family, my friends with kids, the local park, what community health services I need to get him referred to can do, what speech pathologists he needs to see, occupational therapists he needs to see, school readiness programs he needs to get in to, his GP, a Paediatrician, my head started to swim.
And I started to cry.
The guilt that I'm a teacher and I should be teaching him. That I'm a parent and I should be parenting him. That I'm a Parent/Teacher and I should have a son that is perfect because if anyone knows their shit about teaching and parenting it should be me.
The guilt because of the justifications that sometimes he does just play with his cars or read his books or watch WALL-E or Cars or Chuggington because I have to do the dishes, clean our house, wash our clothes, hang out our clothes, fold our clothes, put our clothes away, drive to work, drive to kinder, do the grocery shopping, cook dinner. Or worse, when I want to read my book. Or when I don't want to, but have to, mark my VCE kids' work. Or write reports. Or plan my classes.
Because I'm a Parent/Teacher.
And yesterday I had my first Parent/Teacher interview. And he isn't getting better in lots of things from the assessment in February. I justified it because his appointment with the Paediatrician isn't until next week. He's on the waiting list for the speech pathologist, the OT, the school readiness program. We'd just moved house. We'd had an overseas visitor for a couple of months who had just left. I'd argued with my parents in front of him. I'd been stressed in front of him. I've gotten frustrated at him for being difficult. For not being quick enough. What if he's not all there? And then, I tried to prove how ace he is. He's lovely. He recites all of his letters to me. He can navigate mum and dad's iPad. He's can write his name and other letters and numbers on the blackboard (But I didn't tell her that we hadn't done his letters on the blackboard for a few weeks. I didn't admit to that aspect of my bad parenting).
I cried in the interview. And she didn't give me a tissue.
And I thought last night when I couldn't sleep because I don't know what to do and I don't know how to make it better for him and I don't want to be on his case like a teacher at home all the time, getting him to hold pencils with the proper grip or scissors in his preferred hand or ensure that he's drawing in the lines or drawing distinctive shapes or communicating properly or engaging with other kids or that he concentrates and focuses and doesn't go away with the pixies or fairies or pretends to be a train or a robot or a racing car, when I'd prefer to be his parent and not get so frustrated at him not getting dressed properly or eating properly or eating anything of substance or nutritional value at all and just give him cuddles because he's going to be too big soon and won't want any and I want to hang out with him and read books or bake cookies or cupcakes or muffins or go to the park.
And when I couldn't sleep and I wanted to be his mum and not his teacher I thought maybe someone should have had given me an interview.
I maybe needed to prove myself before being given this job.
Things The Bean has said:
1. Melbourne has been FREEZING cold of late but one day, when the sun was out.
TB: Mama, What a glorious morning!
2. When looking at our potential new house.
TB: This house is handsome!
3. I farted (sorry, not very lady like I know)
TB: Mama, hahahah, that was a bit of a hilarious fart.
4. TB: Mama when I'm bigger I want to turn into Thomas the Tank Engine and Kade can be Terence the tractor.
5. The Bean holds his hand out,
I've had countless Parent/Teacher Interviews in my career (well, I could probably count them if I wanted to but my life is just too busy to try and hyperbole is one of my greatest skills) and during those interviews I've gotten excited about talking about the fantastic kids, nervous about telling nice parents about their hideous kids, worried about kids whose parents don't come, kids whose parents should have come, needed to come. I've given tissues to crying parents, whose kids aren't eating, whose kids aren't coming home, whose kids are taking drugs. I've joked with parents whose kids are hilarious or smart or endearingly odd. Teenagers are little balls of wonderful complications. Their parents are usually a window into why. I love my kids because of that.
I've recently indicated that the Jelly Bean's kinder teacher has had him assessed for learning difficulties. After the assessment report came back filled with details of the observer's day, of the things he can't do and recommendations of what the kinder can do, of him maybe needing to do kinder again, of him maybe struggling when he gets to school because of his social/emotional immaturity, recommendations of what I can do, my family, my friends with kids, the local park, what community health services I need to get him referred to can do, what speech pathologists he needs to see, occupational therapists he needs to see, school readiness programs he needs to get in to, his GP, a Paediatrician, my head started to swim.
And I started to cry.
The guilt that I'm a teacher and I should be teaching him. That I'm a parent and I should be parenting him. That I'm a Parent/Teacher and I should have a son that is perfect because if anyone knows their shit about teaching and parenting it should be me.
The guilt because of the justifications that sometimes he does just play with his cars or read his books or watch WALL-E or Cars or Chuggington because I have to do the dishes, clean our house, wash our clothes, hang out our clothes, fold our clothes, put our clothes away, drive to work, drive to kinder, do the grocery shopping, cook dinner. Or worse, when I want to read my book. Or when I don't want to, but have to, mark my VCE kids' work. Or write reports. Or plan my classes.
Because I'm a Parent/Teacher.
And yesterday I had my first Parent/Teacher interview. And he isn't getting better in lots of things from the assessment in February. I justified it because his appointment with the Paediatrician isn't until next week. He's on the waiting list for the speech pathologist, the OT, the school readiness program. We'd just moved house. We'd had an overseas visitor for a couple of months who had just left. I'd argued with my parents in front of him. I'd been stressed in front of him. I've gotten frustrated at him for being difficult. For not being quick enough. What if he's not all there? And then, I tried to prove how ace he is. He's lovely. He recites all of his letters to me. He can navigate mum and dad's iPad. He's can write his name and other letters and numbers on the blackboard (But I didn't tell her that we hadn't done his letters on the blackboard for a few weeks. I didn't admit to that aspect of my bad parenting).
I cried in the interview. And she didn't give me a tissue.
And I thought last night when I couldn't sleep because I don't know what to do and I don't know how to make it better for him and I don't want to be on his case like a teacher at home all the time, getting him to hold pencils with the proper grip or scissors in his preferred hand or ensure that he's drawing in the lines or drawing distinctive shapes or communicating properly or engaging with other kids or that he concentrates and focuses and doesn't go away with the pixies or fairies or pretends to be a train or a robot or a racing car, when I'd prefer to be his parent and not get so frustrated at him not getting dressed properly or eating properly or eating anything of substance or nutritional value at all and just give him cuddles because he's going to be too big soon and won't want any and I want to hang out with him and read books or bake cookies or cupcakes or muffins or go to the park.
And when I couldn't sleep and I wanted to be his mum and not his teacher I thought maybe someone should have had given me an interview.
I maybe needed to prove myself before being given this job.
Things The Bean has said:
1. Melbourne has been FREEZING cold of late but one day, when the sun was out.
TB: Mama, What a glorious morning!
2. When looking at our potential new house.
TB: This house is handsome!
3. I farted (sorry, not very lady like I know)
TB: Mama, hahahah, that was a bit of a hilarious fart.
4. TB: Mama when I'm bigger I want to turn into Thomas the Tank Engine and Kade can be Terence the tractor.
5. The Bean holds his hand out,
TB: Mama can you see Lightning the Queen, feel it, he’s in my hand.
Me: Inside your hand?
TB: Yeah underneath, he’s looking for something
Me: What’s he looking for?
TB: His tyre wheels, I swallowed them in my mouth and he’s looking for them.
6. Taking a friend from Ireland for a drive into the Dandenongs, we'd just had lunch and were heading to the tea rooms for Devonshire Tea.
TB: Mama, I'm full of lunch but there's still a hole in my body where scones can go in.
7. On one of the afore mentioned freezing cold Melbourne days of late.
Me: Would you like porridge for breakfast?
TB: Is your porridge delicious?
Me: I guess so, why? What does Ninna put in your porridge at her house?
TB: Onions. It's yuck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
