Congenital Misfits
It is only the beginning of the school year and already we are proving to be Max's teacher's challenging family. Not only is Max slower than all the other kids at doing pretty much everything, but his parents aren't alarmed by this fact and have actually admitted that they were the same way as kids. What can she do with that? What's worse is that Max comes to school mostly exactly on time or a little bit late but NEVER a minute early. EVER. Since he takes forever to do his morning tasks she has asked us to get him there early.
We are tardy slow people.
The crimes against us don't stop there though. Max took a spelling test that he failed and his teacher sent the offending test home to us with a note that informed us that all of the words on the test are ones that all second graders should already know and could we please practice with him until he learns them?
We are tardy slow stupid people.
This teacher is a six foot tall gorgeous amazon with the most startlingly white straight teeth, is fresh out of college, and has the fire of idealism burning in her breast. If there is any child that can dampen those fires and chill that idealism, it's Max. Something tells me she's not going to enjoy his special brand of charm and is going to insist on trying to squish him into the mold of student she wants to be teaching.
I do actually feel bad to be the one with the kid who's going to give her trouble all year long. I will actually try to help Max get along a little better by setting the alarm clock earlier and work on those words. I respect his teacher's desire to get the best education for the kids in her class and to expect them to keep up. But I also know that nothing I can possibly do is going to make Max into a kid he isn't. I'm different, perhaps, than many other parents in that I don't have a desire to force him to become someone he isn't just to satisfy other people's need for comfort.
My dad certainly tried to make me shape into someone I wasn't. Both my parents were driven witless by my own pace about things. You can't rush me. Even now. You just can't pressure me into becoming a comfortable known entity that I most certainly am not. I'm not going to like hazelnuts no matter how much everyone else does or how classic and universally pleasing the chocolate/hazelnut combo is. I don't like it.
That isn't to say I won't ever like it, but if I change it will have to be on my own terms, in my own time and way. Philip is no different. Max is like a little reflection of us. So it's hard to rustle up the proper amount of concern about our transgressions against the educational institution.
We are tardy slow people.
The crimes against us don't stop there though. Max took a spelling test that he failed and his teacher sent the offending test home to us with a note that informed us that all of the words on the test are ones that all second graders should already know and could we please practice with him until he learns them?
We are tardy slow stupid people.
This teacher is a six foot tall gorgeous amazon with the most startlingly white straight teeth, is fresh out of college, and has the fire of idealism burning in her breast. If there is any child that can dampen those fires and chill that idealism, it's Max. Something tells me she's not going to enjoy his special brand of charm and is going to insist on trying to squish him into the mold of student she wants to be teaching.
I do actually feel bad to be the one with the kid who's going to give her trouble all year long. I will actually try to help Max get along a little better by setting the alarm clock earlier and work on those words. I respect his teacher's desire to get the best education for the kids in her class and to expect them to keep up. But I also know that nothing I can possibly do is going to make Max into a kid he isn't. I'm different, perhaps, than many other parents in that I don't have a desire to force him to become someone he isn't just to satisfy other people's need for comfort.
My dad certainly tried to make me shape into someone I wasn't. Both my parents were driven witless by my own pace about things. You can't rush me. Even now. You just can't pressure me into becoming a comfortable known entity that I most certainly am not. I'm not going to like hazelnuts no matter how much everyone else does or how classic and universally pleasing the chocolate/hazelnut combo is. I don't like it.
That isn't to say I won't ever like it, but if I change it will have to be on my own terms, in my own time and way. Philip is no different. Max is like a little reflection of us. So it's hard to rustle up the proper amount of concern about our transgressions against the educational institution.
We are CONGENITAL MISFITS.
Something that's been kind of nagging at my brain in a very insignificant manner is the fact that I cannot explain how come I like watching medical shows like "ER" and "House" and how it is that I can watch really creepy British mystery shows like "Prime Suspect", when at the same time I find the show "The Office" excruciatingly depressing, "Curb Your Enthusiasm" quite depressing as well, and "The Sopranos" too violent and coarse. All I can really boil it down to is that the shows I like have strong sympathetic* characters in them and/or there is a pleasing balance of things gone wrong and things made right. But honestly, I really can't say.
I've discovered that there is only one brand of bedding that I like: Charter Club's "Damask Stripe" sheet sets. I have two duvet covers and one sheet set of it and it is the very best in my closet and stained from old bloody nose incidents and worn from lots of use. They are not cheap and I wish they were. Trying to save money last year I bought a few sets of much cheaper sheets from J.C. Penny's and you know what? TOTAL CRAP. The sheets don't fit very well on our mattress even though they say they should. One of the fitted sheets is already shredding at the elastic corners. Oh, for the money to have a few more sets of the good ones. Does that make me a materialistic luxury seeking mistress of commerce? Is it too much to want sheets that fit even after four hundred washings?
Incidentally, Macy's socks pretty much kick ass too. I've had the same socks from them for about three years that are only now getting to the point where I'm going to have to retire them due to having worn really thin at the heels and balls of my feet. I have bought socks from a number of other sources that wore out in six months.
So I'm a fan of Macy's. So what? Does that make me a bad bad girl?
I'm sitting here at my computer writing and I keep staring out the window at the row of maple trees in my view that are changing colors-I keep soaking up the bright flecks of red on one and the completely fiery canopy of leaves on the one right next to it, waiting for more things to say because I don't really want to start my day. I'm in my pyjamas and it's almost 11 am.
Isn't that what Sundays are for? Besides fire and brimstone, obviously. For the record, Sunday has been my least favorite day for almost my whole life. That reminds me that someone (probably someone I know very well) stuck a little tiny wind chimey thingy in the planter box by my front door. I just want to say (for the record) that I AM NOT AMUSED. I keep meaning to toss it away or put it in someone else's yard. But it seems so cruel to do that. What if the person who left it there isn't aware of my very deep unbudgeable HATRED for wind-chimes of all kinds and meant only to be sweet? I don't want to be the curmudgeon that squashes the kindness in others.
If I give it to a little child will I be absolved of the crime of getting the willies every time the tiny tinkles reach my ears?
Well, I must pry myself from this desk and do something. I don't know what, but something. Maybe I should make those twelve jars of mustard pickles I was planning on making? With those vegetables that have been brining for 36 hours now...
Have a great Sunday wherever you are!
*To make matters more obscure than ever, what is "sympathetic" is extremely subjective and personal so we may never all agree on the definition of a "sympathetic character".
I've discovered that there is only one brand of bedding that I like: Charter Club's "Damask Stripe" sheet sets. I have two duvet covers and one sheet set of it and it is the very best in my closet and stained from old bloody nose incidents and worn from lots of use. They are not cheap and I wish they were. Trying to save money last year I bought a few sets of much cheaper sheets from J.C. Penny's and you know what? TOTAL CRAP. The sheets don't fit very well on our mattress even though they say they should. One of the fitted sheets is already shredding at the elastic corners. Oh, for the money to have a few more sets of the good ones. Does that make me a materialistic luxury seeking mistress of commerce? Is it too much to want sheets that fit even after four hundred washings?
Incidentally, Macy's socks pretty much kick ass too. I've had the same socks from them for about three years that are only now getting to the point where I'm going to have to retire them due to having worn really thin at the heels and balls of my feet. I have bought socks from a number of other sources that wore out in six months.
So I'm a fan of Macy's. So what? Does that make me a bad bad girl?
I'm sitting here at my computer writing and I keep staring out the window at the row of maple trees in my view that are changing colors-I keep soaking up the bright flecks of red on one and the completely fiery canopy of leaves on the one right next to it, waiting for more things to say because I don't really want to start my day. I'm in my pyjamas and it's almost 11 am.
Isn't that what Sundays are for? Besides fire and brimstone, obviously. For the record, Sunday has been my least favorite day for almost my whole life. That reminds me that someone (probably someone I know very well) stuck a little tiny wind chimey thingy in the planter box by my front door. I just want to say (for the record) that I AM NOT AMUSED. I keep meaning to toss it away or put it in someone else's yard. But it seems so cruel to do that. What if the person who left it there isn't aware of my very deep unbudgeable HATRED for wind-chimes of all kinds and meant only to be sweet? I don't want to be the curmudgeon that squashes the kindness in others.
If I give it to a little child will I be absolved of the crime of getting the willies every time the tiny tinkles reach my ears?
Well, I must pry myself from this desk and do something. I don't know what, but something. Maybe I should make those twelve jars of mustard pickles I was planning on making? With those vegetables that have been brining for 36 hours now...
Have a great Sunday wherever you are!
*To make matters more obscure than ever, what is "sympathetic" is extremely subjective and personal so we may never all agree on the definition of a "sympathetic character".