I saw KZ
walking on the other side of the street yesterday.
She didn't see me. In one hand she was
holding the hand of her cousin Kara who is also four. In the other, she held her
stuffed puppy Bella. She looked so happy and
confident -- such a big little girl. Jeremy was right behind them. He
didn't see me either.
It was as if I were watching part of my life walk
by. It made me proud and yet sad. Proud because she is so happy and
confident. Sad because life moves so quickly. We are all so busy doing
a thousand different things that make up life, that we rarely see how
precious that life is. I'm glad I got that moment... gray t-shirt, with
a black kitty wearing a pink bow on front, blue jeans, pink sparkly
shoes, her puppy Bella ...
my baby KZ.
Monday, 24 September 2012
Thursday, 9 August 2012
The Grandfather Clock
If you were passing by my parents' house anytime between 1966 and
1996, you would have pegged us for the perfect American family. The
outside of our house looked like something out of a TV show. A split
bi-level on the southwest side of Chicago, perfectly manicured,
color-coordinated, and polished to perfection. My mom even swept the
curbs. The materials may not have been the most expensive, but one
could tell our house was lovingly cared for. Inside, the house was so
clean that you could have eaten off the floor, but no one would ever
have dared drop a crumb. My mother was known to have the cleanest house
in the neighborhood.
A married single mother was what my mother was. This is something I knew I never wanted to be. Married seemed o.k. as long as you had one of the good ones. Mom always said, "You should marry a rich schmuck instead of a poor schmuck, because they are all schmucks." I didn't know what "schmuck" meant back then -- and I bet my mother still doesn't know. Single seemed to be the perfect choice. Even if you had a baby, it was still better than being a married single mother. A married single mother is a term I coined after observing my parents' marriage. The term describes a woman who is married to a man who contributes nothing and causes only problems when he is around. I saw this role played out in the form of my always emotionally and sometimes physically absent father. It was best to have him passed out, or better yet, at work pulling a double shift, than to have him around the house. My mother had to do all the physical work.
When I say all, I mean all. In hindsight, I'm happy that my father was gainfully employed at the same company for forty-five years. Not many people can say that, especially people who are raging alcoholics. He could control himself during working hours. Rarely did he miss a day of work that I can recall. When he did, never once was it for an alcohol-related incident. Outside of the three to eleven pm shift at the steel mill, he was good for absolutely nothing, at least nothing that counted to a family. Yes, he made money, but he also kept it all for himself. He had priorities. He needed to show the guys at the bowling alley or the golf club that he had plenty of money for clothes, cars, and repeated rounds of drinks. He gave my mother exactly enough money for groceries and if the price went up, we were to just do without. Beer and cigarettes could go up astronomically, but don't even think about bread or milk. To this day, I get nervous around both food and money, feeling that I'll never have enough of either.
My mother would try to save five dollars from the grocery money every week if she could. She would squirrel the money away so that she could buy my brother and me clothes on lay-a-way at K-Mart or take us to the movies. The movies were easy. It wasn't as if we would go when my father was home. We wouldn't even dare ask him to come. We made that mistake once. Never again. It was 1981, when "On Golden Pond" was playing in theaters. I had seen it once before and really liked it. We thought it would be one those movies that would teach my father that life lesson he so needed. Once he saw the movie, we were sure that he would give up his Miller Lite beer, realizing that he had two kids and a wife who wanted the "nice" him around. We asked him a few days in advance if he would go.
"Maybe. I don't know. We'll see," all came out of his half-sober mouth.
"Hum, he said maybe," I said. "It wasn't a no."
"Maybe he really will go," my brother whispered.
On the afternoon of the big event, I stood there asking him to please go. We probably started whining as kids do. He was on the sofa with a Miller Lite. The TV wasn't on. Nothing was happening.
"Please, Dad, please," we all begged.
"It's really good, you'll like it," I added, since I had already seen it.
"Jim, we would all love to spend the afternoon with you," my mother added.
Bamm, that did it.
"Damn it, NO!" my father screamed back at us.
I don't know if it was my mother, or just all three of us, or some childhood ghost who was haunting his thoughts at the moment. He picked up his ashtray and threw it through the TV screen.
I really tried never to cry in front of my father. When he would hit us, he would continue until we stopped crying. Even at a young age, I was logical enough to know that the more one inflicts pain, the more the person being harmed will cry. Sometimes, I would have to jam my entire fist in my mouth just to muffle the sound. I think this "hit them until they stop crying" method of discipline came from his childhood. My aunt would tells stories of how my grandparents would tie my father up to a tree and beat him with a whip. His offence, not giving them all of his paycheck. He saved a dollar from his check to buy a wallet.
"What do yew need a wallet fir?" they said. "Yew don't need no money. We git it all!"
I can't blame my father for his lack of parenting skills. He wasn't that crazy, and Lord knows he had no guidance. Still, I didn't cry in front of him. Mom drove the three of us off to the movies in her 1974 Ford Pinto that afternoon, all silently crying to ourselves.
Before the daily verbal abuse from my father began, my mother was a beautiful woman. She dressed impeccably before I was born. Unfortunately, I remember her more for the second hand polyester, stained clothes that were years out of style. She would wear old, extra large men's t-shirts and shoes with the toes cut out.
"They were on sale, you see, and just a little snug in the toes. Who is going to notice? It isn't like I go anywhere," she would say shyly, hoping that no one would hear.
People noticed. They noticed the stained polyester shorts and the shoes with the holes. What they pretended not to notice was the alcoholic man who lived in the perfectly manicured house.
Our house, given the little money that was invested in it, always looked like something out of "Better Homes and Gardens". However, closer inspection would reveal the damage. A ribbon strategically placed so a crack wouldn't show. Extra magic marker on the corner of a table to cover a scratch. White toothpaste filling a small hole in the wall. Nothing huge, but when it was all added up, became overwhelming.
One time, she put us on a diet, and really broke into the grocery money. She saved for well over a year to buy a grandfather clock. That was the big step. Dad would notice such a big piece of furniture and want to know where she got it. More importantly, he would want to know how she paid for it. By purchasing such an item, she was also taking an emotionally huge step. She was making it clear that she could buy something upscale on her own. A figurine she could cover by saying she picked it up at a yard sale for a few bucks. However, a yard sale grandfather clock was still going to cost more than what my father deemed reasonable. He must have been in a good mood the day the clock was delivered. I don't remember any real arguments -- just more of a clenched jaw, with a sideways tilt of the head. He ate dinner, then drank until he passed out on the sofa saying nothing.
Mom polished the clock daily. It was in a place of honor in the living room, right by the front door. Any guest entering would see it immediately. The afternoon sun caught it just so. Combined with the smell of Lemon Pledge, there was nothing more beautiful than her polished grandfather clock keeping perfect time.
Until my father kicked it in.
Now don't ask me why he kicked it in, besides that he was drunk. Do alcoholics ever need a real excuse? No, something happened at work, or on the road on the way home, or he wasn't feeling well, or he was mad she bought it without asking or …
My mother cried and cried.
The next day, while he was at work, the patching began. There was no need to call a repair person. It wasn't as if Mom could afford that. No, she did it all herself between her tears. If you saw that clock today, you may think it got damaged during the move from Illinois to Florida. It would be a reasonable assumption. Things like that happen, you know.
The clock still stands in my parents' home. It is no longer right by the front door, where all can see it as they enter. Nor is it where the light can catch it just so. No, it is between the TV room and the bathroom, with nice plants placed strategically around it, out of direct sunlight.
My parent's marriage is a lot like that old grandfather clock. There are cracks, but no one outside the house would ever notice. After 49 years, they are still holding it together.
A married single mother was what my mother was. This is something I knew I never wanted to be. Married seemed o.k. as long as you had one of the good ones. Mom always said, "You should marry a rich schmuck instead of a poor schmuck, because they are all schmucks." I didn't know what "schmuck" meant back then -- and I bet my mother still doesn't know. Single seemed to be the perfect choice. Even if you had a baby, it was still better than being a married single mother. A married single mother is a term I coined after observing my parents' marriage. The term describes a woman who is married to a man who contributes nothing and causes only problems when he is around. I saw this role played out in the form of my always emotionally and sometimes physically absent father. It was best to have him passed out, or better yet, at work pulling a double shift, than to have him around the house. My mother had to do all the physical work.
When I say all, I mean all. In hindsight, I'm happy that my father was gainfully employed at the same company for forty-five years. Not many people can say that, especially people who are raging alcoholics. He could control himself during working hours. Rarely did he miss a day of work that I can recall. When he did, never once was it for an alcohol-related incident. Outside of the three to eleven pm shift at the steel mill, he was good for absolutely nothing, at least nothing that counted to a family. Yes, he made money, but he also kept it all for himself. He had priorities. He needed to show the guys at the bowling alley or the golf club that he had plenty of money for clothes, cars, and repeated rounds of drinks. He gave my mother exactly enough money for groceries and if the price went up, we were to just do without. Beer and cigarettes could go up astronomically, but don't even think about bread or milk. To this day, I get nervous around both food and money, feeling that I'll never have enough of either.
My mother would try to save five dollars from the grocery money every week if she could. She would squirrel the money away so that she could buy my brother and me clothes on lay-a-way at K-Mart or take us to the movies. The movies were easy. It wasn't as if we would go when my father was home. We wouldn't even dare ask him to come. We made that mistake once. Never again. It was 1981, when "On Golden Pond" was playing in theaters. I had seen it once before and really liked it. We thought it would be one those movies that would teach my father that life lesson he so needed. Once he saw the movie, we were sure that he would give up his Miller Lite beer, realizing that he had two kids and a wife who wanted the "nice" him around. We asked him a few days in advance if he would go.
"Maybe. I don't know. We'll see," all came out of his half-sober mouth.
"Hum, he said maybe," I said. "It wasn't a no."
"Maybe he really will go," my brother whispered.
On the afternoon of the big event, I stood there asking him to please go. We probably started whining as kids do. He was on the sofa with a Miller Lite. The TV wasn't on. Nothing was happening.
"Please, Dad, please," we all begged.
"It's really good, you'll like it," I added, since I had already seen it.
"Jim, we would all love to spend the afternoon with you," my mother added.
Bamm, that did it.
"Damn it, NO!" my father screamed back at us.
I don't know if it was my mother, or just all three of us, or some childhood ghost who was haunting his thoughts at the moment. He picked up his ashtray and threw it through the TV screen.
I really tried never to cry in front of my father. When he would hit us, he would continue until we stopped crying. Even at a young age, I was logical enough to know that the more one inflicts pain, the more the person being harmed will cry. Sometimes, I would have to jam my entire fist in my mouth just to muffle the sound. I think this "hit them until they stop crying" method of discipline came from his childhood. My aunt would tells stories of how my grandparents would tie my father up to a tree and beat him with a whip. His offence, not giving them all of his paycheck. He saved a dollar from his check to buy a wallet.
"What do yew need a wallet fir?" they said. "Yew don't need no money. We git it all!"
I can't blame my father for his lack of parenting skills. He wasn't that crazy, and Lord knows he had no guidance. Still, I didn't cry in front of him. Mom drove the three of us off to the movies in her 1974 Ford Pinto that afternoon, all silently crying to ourselves.
Before the daily verbal abuse from my father began, my mother was a beautiful woman. She dressed impeccably before I was born. Unfortunately, I remember her more for the second hand polyester, stained clothes that were years out of style. She would wear old, extra large men's t-shirts and shoes with the toes cut out.
"They were on sale, you see, and just a little snug in the toes. Who is going to notice? It isn't like I go anywhere," she would say shyly, hoping that no one would hear.
People noticed. They noticed the stained polyester shorts and the shoes with the holes. What they pretended not to notice was the alcoholic man who lived in the perfectly manicured house.
Our house, given the little money that was invested in it, always looked like something out of "Better Homes and Gardens". However, closer inspection would reveal the damage. A ribbon strategically placed so a crack wouldn't show. Extra magic marker on the corner of a table to cover a scratch. White toothpaste filling a small hole in the wall. Nothing huge, but when it was all added up, became overwhelming.
One time, she put us on a diet, and really broke into the grocery money. She saved for well over a year to buy a grandfather clock. That was the big step. Dad would notice such a big piece of furniture and want to know where she got it. More importantly, he would want to know how she paid for it. By purchasing such an item, she was also taking an emotionally huge step. She was making it clear that she could buy something upscale on her own. A figurine she could cover by saying she picked it up at a yard sale for a few bucks. However, a yard sale grandfather clock was still going to cost more than what my father deemed reasonable. He must have been in a good mood the day the clock was delivered. I don't remember any real arguments -- just more of a clenched jaw, with a sideways tilt of the head. He ate dinner, then drank until he passed out on the sofa saying nothing.
Mom polished the clock daily. It was in a place of honor in the living room, right by the front door. Any guest entering would see it immediately. The afternoon sun caught it just so. Combined with the smell of Lemon Pledge, there was nothing more beautiful than her polished grandfather clock keeping perfect time.
Until my father kicked it in.
Now don't ask me why he kicked it in, besides that he was drunk. Do alcoholics ever need a real excuse? No, something happened at work, or on the road on the way home, or he wasn't feeling well, or he was mad she bought it without asking or …
My mother cried and cried.
The next day, while he was at work, the patching began. There was no need to call a repair person. It wasn't as if Mom could afford that. No, she did it all herself between her tears. If you saw that clock today, you may think it got damaged during the move from Illinois to Florida. It would be a reasonable assumption. Things like that happen, you know.
The clock still stands in my parents' home. It is no longer right by the front door, where all can see it as they enter. Nor is it where the light can catch it just so. No, it is between the TV room and the bathroom, with nice plants placed strategically around it, out of direct sunlight.
My parent's marriage is a lot like that old grandfather clock. There are cracks, but no one outside the house would ever notice. After 49 years, they are still holding it together.
Wednesday, 4 July 2012
Something Only a Man Would Do
Jeremy had the afternoon off yesterday due to the holiday. He told me earlier in the day that if I wanted to take some time for myself, just let him know. Ok, sounded cool to me. About 4:00-ish, I knocked on his cave door. He opened in with a gruff, "What?"
"Um, I thought you had the afternoon off," I said.
"Well, I got a call," he said.
Yes, he was on the phone, most likely with a work issue, but I did notice on his big screen TV that he was playing a video game -- Batman: Arkham City, I later learned. I got nauseous just watching it for a few seconds.
An hour or so later, he came out of his cave.
"I think I got sick from lunch today. I'm really nauseous. No more salmon burgers for me," he said.
"Do you think it was your lunch or that video game you are playing? That thing made me sick just looking at it for thirty seconds," I said.
"Maybe, I'm going to go lay down now. Hopefully, I'll feel better."
Great, our evening was officially shot.
Later on, I woke up and noticed that he had gotten up. He was back at the game.
"Are you feeling better?" I asked.
"Yes, I decided to put on a seasickness patch. It really helped."
Only a man would find a video game so interesting that it deemed putting on a prescription seasickness patch.
"Um, I thought you had the afternoon off," I said.
"Well, I got a call," he said.
Yes, he was on the phone, most likely with a work issue, but I did notice on his big screen TV that he was playing a video game -- Batman: Arkham City, I later learned. I got nauseous just watching it for a few seconds.
An hour or so later, he came out of his cave.
"I think I got sick from lunch today. I'm really nauseous. No more salmon burgers for me," he said.
"Do you think it was your lunch or that video game you are playing? That thing made me sick just looking at it for thirty seconds," I said.
"Maybe, I'm going to go lay down now. Hopefully, I'll feel better."
Great, our evening was officially shot.
Later on, I woke up and noticed that he had gotten up. He was back at the game.
"Are you feeling better?" I asked.
"Yes, I decided to put on a seasickness patch. It really helped."
Only a man would find a video game so interesting that it deemed putting on a prescription seasickness patch.
Tuesday, 3 July 2012
Kentucky?
"Kentucky? You thought we were from Kentucky? I don't know if you could have said anything worse to me. Maybe I should call my stylist, or just throw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge!"
This was my response to a woman who asked where we were from in the bathroom of the Capital Grill on Wall Street.
KZ had had an active day. We had lunch with Daddy after visiting his office, took a boat ride on the Staten Island Ferry, then had a fun play date with her best friend Chloe. We were going to head back home, but Daddy suggested having dinner at the Capital Grill. We really like the Capital Grill. It has good food, excellent service, and is very kid friendly ... at least the Capital Grill on Wall Street. KZ was really wired from her long day. It was passed her bedtime, and that second wind that only four-year old's can get, had taken over.
At the end of dinner, she needed to go to the bathroom. Jeremy took her, but they came back right away.
"Daddy wanted to take me into the boys room. I'm a girl. I can't go in there," she said. "Come on Mommy, let's go. I have to poop."
Well, how can I argue with that.
Jeremy just looked at me.
"I tried, I really did," he said.
Once KZ was finished in the very posh bathroom, she started talking to a woman who just walked in.
"Hi, I'm KZ! What's your name?"
She as this thirty-something Asian-American, black wardrobe clad, uber thin woman ... in high heels.
"My name is Grace," she nicely replied.
"Where are you from?" KZ continued.
I was happy that she was holding a conversation and following the flow of dialog.
"I'm from New York. And where are you from?"
"I live at 446 East 86th Street," KZ proudly replied.
"Oh, I thought you were going to say Kentucky, or some place like that," Grace nicely replied.
And that is where I lost it.
True, neither KZ nor I are were wearing black, or under weight, or had on heels. But KENTUCKY? I mean I could have handled Brooklyn.
Not sure what this means ... except that Grace doesn't have any children.
This was my response to a woman who asked where we were from in the bathroom of the Capital Grill on Wall Street.
KZ had had an active day. We had lunch with Daddy after visiting his office, took a boat ride on the Staten Island Ferry, then had a fun play date with her best friend Chloe. We were going to head back home, but Daddy suggested having dinner at the Capital Grill. We really like the Capital Grill. It has good food, excellent service, and is very kid friendly ... at least the Capital Grill on Wall Street. KZ was really wired from her long day. It was passed her bedtime, and that second wind that only four-year old's can get, had taken over.
At the end of dinner, she needed to go to the bathroom. Jeremy took her, but they came back right away.
"Daddy wanted to take me into the boys room. I'm a girl. I can't go in there," she said. "Come on Mommy, let's go. I have to poop."
Well, how can I argue with that.
Jeremy just looked at me.
"I tried, I really did," he said.
Once KZ was finished in the very posh bathroom, she started talking to a woman who just walked in.
"Hi, I'm KZ! What's your name?"
She as this thirty-something Asian-American, black wardrobe clad, uber thin woman ... in high heels.
"My name is Grace," she nicely replied.
"Where are you from?" KZ continued.
I was happy that she was holding a conversation and following the flow of dialog.
"I'm from New York. And where are you from?"
"I live at 446 East 86th Street," KZ proudly replied.
"Oh, I thought you were going to say Kentucky, or some place like that," Grace nicely replied.
And that is where I lost it.
True, neither KZ nor I are were wearing black, or under weight, or had on heels. But KENTUCKY? I mean I could have handled Brooklyn.
Not sure what this means ... except that Grace doesn't have any children.
Saturday, 12 May 2012
May 11, 2008 - Birth Day
The clear blue sky let the sunlight fill my private suite at the Portland Hospital. My balcony was lined with bright red mums, which accented the skyline of the City of London. Today was the day, May 11, 2008. I was being induced with my first child, a girl we had already named Kaylia Zoe, or KZ for short. People say never name the baby before you have it, but we made the mistake that every set of new parents can't help but do. As soon as I knew she was a girl, I told my husband, "We are having a Kaylia!"
Considering my advanced maternal age, or AMA which was written all over my medical charts, the doctors did not want me going more than five days over my due date. Whether KZ wanted it or not, today was going to be her birthday. My doctor, who could have passed for an over 40 cover model, wore a form fitting white linen dress, with dark red drop earrings. I actually looked cute, considering how uncomfortable I felt. I read all the books on how to prepare for the delivery process. My nails were perfectly manicured in the classic OPI Red. My eyebrows shaped. My lashes tinted. My hair the perfect color of red, with no greys allowed. I planned to look fabulous for the afterbirth pictures.
After approximately 30 minutes into being induced, my husband became bored.
"I'm going to run across the street for sandwiches," he said.
Just as he started to leave, the baby monitor strapped to my stomach fell off. The nurse immediately replaced the monitor. Within seconds, alarms sounded. Before I knew what was happening, the room was filled with doctors and nurses.
"Get the oxygen."
"I can't get a vein. Someone help me. Her blood pressure is dropping."
I looked down to see a new nurse trying unsuccessfully to put an IV in my arm. All I could think was that this is so going to hurt tomorrow. I had no clue what was happening. One minute I was laughing, enjoying the sunshine and view, and the next moment doctors were screaming. I looked over at my husband, who had been pre-med at University of Chicago. He was reading the monitors as I watched the blood drain from his face. I knew then that something terrible was happening and I had no way to control it.
Almost as soon as it all started, everything was back to normal.
"What happened?", I asked.
"The baby's heart stopped beating. Your blood pressure was dropping, but we were able to get you both back."
"Back? Were we going somewhere?"
My perfectly manicured doctor was now wearing scrubs.
"If this happens again, we'll have to do an immediate c-section."
Before she could finish her sentence, the alarms began to sound again.
"Operating theater, STAT!"
The nurse threw scrubs at my husband.
"Change as fast as you can."
The doctors were running me down the hallway. As the lights passed overhead, I felt as if I was in an episode of ER, but George Clooney wasn't holding my hand. I was 42. This was my first baby. She was planned and dreamed of for years, and now, this could be it, for us both. I thought about my girlfriend who had delivered her still born daughter a few months earlier. The silent tears ran down my face as I prayed that God would let us keep KZ.
Seventeen minutes later, my perfect doctor was covered in red blood, my blood. I couldn't feel a thing. The silence seemed to last an entirety, but then I heard KZ begin to cry.
Considering my advanced maternal age, or AMA which was written all over my medical charts, the doctors did not want me going more than five days over my due date. Whether KZ wanted it or not, today was going to be her birthday. My doctor, who could have passed for an over 40 cover model, wore a form fitting white linen dress, with dark red drop earrings. I actually looked cute, considering how uncomfortable I felt. I read all the books on how to prepare for the delivery process. My nails were perfectly manicured in the classic OPI Red. My eyebrows shaped. My lashes tinted. My hair the perfect color of red, with no greys allowed. I planned to look fabulous for the afterbirth pictures.
After approximately 30 minutes into being induced, my husband became bored.
"I'm going to run across the street for sandwiches," he said.
Just as he started to leave, the baby monitor strapped to my stomach fell off. The nurse immediately replaced the monitor. Within seconds, alarms sounded. Before I knew what was happening, the room was filled with doctors and nurses.
"Get the oxygen."
"I can't get a vein. Someone help me. Her blood pressure is dropping."
I looked down to see a new nurse trying unsuccessfully to put an IV in my arm. All I could think was that this is so going to hurt tomorrow. I had no clue what was happening. One minute I was laughing, enjoying the sunshine and view, and the next moment doctors were screaming. I looked over at my husband, who had been pre-med at University of Chicago. He was reading the monitors as I watched the blood drain from his face. I knew then that something terrible was happening and I had no way to control it.
Almost as soon as it all started, everything was back to normal.
"What happened?", I asked.
"The baby's heart stopped beating. Your blood pressure was dropping, but we were able to get you both back."
"Back? Were we going somewhere?"
My perfectly manicured doctor was now wearing scrubs.
"If this happens again, we'll have to do an immediate c-section."
Before she could finish her sentence, the alarms began to sound again.
"Operating theater, STAT!"
The nurse threw scrubs at my husband.
"Change as fast as you can."
The doctors were running me down the hallway. As the lights passed overhead, I felt as if I was in an episode of ER, but George Clooney wasn't holding my hand. I was 42. This was my first baby. She was planned and dreamed of for years, and now, this could be it, for us both. I thought about my girlfriend who had delivered her still born daughter a few months earlier. The silent tears ran down my face as I prayed that God would let us keep KZ.
Seventeen minutes later, my perfect doctor was covered in red blood, my blood. I couldn't feel a thing. The silence seemed to last an entirety, but then I heard KZ begin to cry.
Friday, 4 May 2012
I was running late for my writing class the other day and decided to hop a cab.
"Where to?" the driver said.
"42nd and 5th," I said, then started to play with my iPhone.
"What's at 42nd and 5th?" he said.
Ugh, is this going to be one of those Chatty Cathys Cabbies.
"I'm going to a writing class at NYU," I said as I tried to go back to my iPhone.
"I write," he said. "Each day after I end my shift I write down about the people who are in the cab. I actually will write something about each person as soon as I can after they leave so I don't forget. I got volumes. I want to write a book, or do a stand up routine on it."
He went on to tell me some crazy stories, then how when a psychiatrist would get in the cab, he would ask them to diagnose the other people. He looked to be in his fifties, white, and overweight. I could see him on stage talking. He was doing a great job talking to me, but of course, he wasn't looking at me.
"The most important thing to do is to keep writing, everyday," he said.
Yes, the cab driver is right. I need to follow his advice. I've not been writing about all the crazy things that happen in New York City because I've been too busy living my life in New York City. I have been writing a lot, but believe it or not, I don't post everything I write.
Here's to my cabbie, where ever you are. You have a great book, with great material. I hope to read it one day, or to see you on the stage.
Keep writing.
"Where to?" the driver said.
"42nd and 5th," I said, then started to play with my iPhone.
"What's at 42nd and 5th?" he said.
Ugh, is this going to be one of those Chatty Cathys Cabbies.
"I'm going to a writing class at NYU," I said as I tried to go back to my iPhone.
"I write," he said. "Each day after I end my shift I write down about the people who are in the cab. I actually will write something about each person as soon as I can after they leave so I don't forget. I got volumes. I want to write a book, or do a stand up routine on it."
He went on to tell me some crazy stories, then how when a psychiatrist would get in the cab, he would ask them to diagnose the other people. He looked to be in his fifties, white, and overweight. I could see him on stage talking. He was doing a great job talking to me, but of course, he wasn't looking at me.
"The most important thing to do is to keep writing, everyday," he said.
Yes, the cab driver is right. I need to follow his advice. I've not been writing about all the crazy things that happen in New York City because I've been too busy living my life in New York City. I have been writing a lot, but believe it or not, I don't post everything I write.
Here's to my cabbie, where ever you are. You have a great book, with great material. I hope to read it one day, or to see you on the stage.
Keep writing.
Monday, 26 March 2012
May I have a Blue Crayon, Please
"The problem is, when we ask KZ what color crayon she wants, she answers, 'Blue' ", KZ's pre-school teacher told me.
I just sat there. I wasn't sure what was wrong with this answer.
"What we she needs to say is, 'I would like a blue crayon, please.' ", the teacher said.
I continued to sit silently, thinking that if someone asked me what color crayon I wanted, I would answer "blue", not "I would like a blue crayon, please."
"Most of her answers are one word answers, like yes or no," the teacher said.
Most of my answers are one word answers, like yes or no. I don't have the time to go into details.
"During Circle Time and Story Time, KZ seems pre-occupied. She plays with her hands a lot."
Like an iPhone or Blackberry, I thought.
Apparently, my daughter is modelling our home behavior at school, and doing well at it.
"We really think that if you want to put KZ into a private school, you'll need to send her to a speech therapist."
"Do you recommend anyone?" I asked.
"No, we don't like to do that for legal reasons."
Lovely. Send her to a speech therapist, but we cannot recommend one for legal reasons.
"How about a clue towards the first step?", I asked.
"You can asked some of the parents in KZ's class. Many kids take speech therapy."
It does seem like the "in" thing to do in New York. I know plenty of people who have had their children in speech therapy before the age of two. Some kids can hardly walk in their diapers, but they are in speech therapy. We've been told that maybe KZ could benefit from a speech therapist for a number of years now. I don't have anything to base the need for speech therapy on. I don't have other children and we don't really spend that much time with a lot of other children her own age. She said her first word, "Kadou", the name of our younger dog, at seven months. I always felt the speech therapy suggestions was a way of pushing her into this New York competitive childhood. I wanted to protect her from the craziness as long as we could. Unfortunately, if we now want a shot of getting her into a private kindergarten we have to send her to speech therapy.
After a flurry of phone calls and emails to every mother I knew in the city, I was recommended to a speech therapist a block from KZ's current school. We went for our evaluation. As I sat in the over-heated, dull-blue waiting room, falling asleep, I could hear KZ laughing inside. She was saying words like "duck" and making "quaking" noises. She seemed happy.
Once the thirty minute session was over, it was my turn to talk to the therapist. I felt as if I were being judged, considering that I went through years of speech therapy for the letter S. All the sudden I was five years old, and being told to keep my tongue in my mouth and not to lisp. Lisp, an ironic word considering those with a lisp have a difficult time saying it. It was as if it were defined by a sadist. The room seemed stifling hot, the chair uncomfortable, and the blue color even more draining.
"KZ's has a difficult time saying her S's, R's, and Th's", the therapist said.
Most kids at three years cannot say their S's or R's. Considering I'm from Chicago, I didn't say a Th correctly until I was in my 20's. These things do not worry me.
"I'm also worried about her vocabulary. It needs to be richer," the therapist said.
"Richer?" I asked.
"Yes, I asked her the name of her school and she didn't know."
I kept my mouth shut but thought, the name is the House of Little People Too. I don't say this to her every day. I just say, "We're going to school."
"When I asked her her teacher's name, she didn't know," the therapist said.
"Her teacher just left and I've not met her new teacher. Her name is something like Migdella, but I'm not sure."
The therapist just looked at me and continued.
"She didn't know what a clown was, or a wagon."
Again, I just sat there. Clowns are creepy and not a part of our world. As far as a wagon, we don't live in the country or the burbs.
"She also got her socks and shoes mixed up as well as a helicopter and plane."
I have no idea on these two. She knows these like the back of her hand. Were the pictures strange? I just don't know.
"If you want to put KZ into private school, she'll need to be clearer with her speech and have a much richer vocabulary. I can help her with these things. You need to bring her in at least once a week and work with her at home. We can access her progress in three months to see if she is on track for the private school interviews or if more needs to be done at that time."
I'm not sure how I feel about all of this overall. I do know, I feel sick to my stomach. I could have sent her to speech therapy two years ago. I'm sure it wouldn't have hurt, but I'm not thinking she is really behind now. This isn't anything irreversible, but it is good to be caught now so that we are prepared for the tests in the Fall. But I do think that this is just another example of the hyper competitive New York mindset. Little kids are not allowed to organically grow and learn. They need to be tested and coached before they are four so that they are not left behind in our big bad world. Of course I want the best for her, but I'm not sure exactly what that is. I really don't want her hating school or music or life in general. I want each moment of learning to be that of joy and wonder. It really is the only way she'll grow into the person she is meant to be. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not that granola. I know that kids also need direction, rules, boundaries, limitations, and that math can be hard. It takes work, and struggles but when she gets the answer, it will be worth all the hard work.
This is where my heart struggles. Where is that fine line between the love of learning, brow beating and bullying, and having the sixteen year old who just wants to do drugs and sit around the house. Unfortunately, the line is different for all of us, and no one really can really show us the way. All we can do as parents is to do our best each day. And for me right now, that is a pre-paid, ten-pack session with a speech therapist ... and making sure that KZ asks, "May I have a blue crayon, please."
I just sat there. I wasn't sure what was wrong with this answer.
"What we she needs to say is, 'I would like a blue crayon, please.' ", the teacher said.
I continued to sit silently, thinking that if someone asked me what color crayon I wanted, I would answer "blue", not "I would like a blue crayon, please."
"Most of her answers are one word answers, like yes or no," the teacher said.
Most of my answers are one word answers, like yes or no. I don't have the time to go into details.
"During Circle Time and Story Time, KZ seems pre-occupied. She plays with her hands a lot."
Like an iPhone or Blackberry, I thought.
Apparently, my daughter is modelling our home behavior at school, and doing well at it.
"We really think that if you want to put KZ into a private school, you'll need to send her to a speech therapist."
"Do you recommend anyone?" I asked.
"No, we don't like to do that for legal reasons."
Lovely. Send her to a speech therapist, but we cannot recommend one for legal reasons.
"How about a clue towards the first step?", I asked.
"You can asked some of the parents in KZ's class. Many kids take speech therapy."
It does seem like the "in" thing to do in New York. I know plenty of people who have had their children in speech therapy before the age of two. Some kids can hardly walk in their diapers, but they are in speech therapy. We've been told that maybe KZ could benefit from a speech therapist for a number of years now. I don't have anything to base the need for speech therapy on. I don't have other children and we don't really spend that much time with a lot of other children her own age. She said her first word, "Kadou", the name of our younger dog, at seven months. I always felt the speech therapy suggestions was a way of pushing her into this New York competitive childhood. I wanted to protect her from the craziness as long as we could. Unfortunately, if we now want a shot of getting her into a private kindergarten we have to send her to speech therapy.
After a flurry of phone calls and emails to every mother I knew in the city, I was recommended to a speech therapist a block from KZ's current school. We went for our evaluation. As I sat in the over-heated, dull-blue waiting room, falling asleep, I could hear KZ laughing inside. She was saying words like "duck" and making "quaking" noises. She seemed happy.
Once the thirty minute session was over, it was my turn to talk to the therapist. I felt as if I were being judged, considering that I went through years of speech therapy for the letter S. All the sudden I was five years old, and being told to keep my tongue in my mouth and not to lisp. Lisp, an ironic word considering those with a lisp have a difficult time saying it. It was as if it were defined by a sadist. The room seemed stifling hot, the chair uncomfortable, and the blue color even more draining.
"KZ's has a difficult time saying her S's, R's, and Th's", the therapist said.
Most kids at three years cannot say their S's or R's. Considering I'm from Chicago, I didn't say a Th correctly until I was in my 20's. These things do not worry me.
"I'm also worried about her vocabulary. It needs to be richer," the therapist said.
"Richer?" I asked.
"Yes, I asked her the name of her school and she didn't know."
I kept my mouth shut but thought, the name is the House of Little People Too. I don't say this to her every day. I just say, "We're going to school."
"When I asked her her teacher's name, she didn't know," the therapist said.
"Her teacher just left and I've not met her new teacher. Her name is something like Migdella, but I'm not sure."
The therapist just looked at me and continued.
"She didn't know what a clown was, or a wagon."
Again, I just sat there. Clowns are creepy and not a part of our world. As far as a wagon, we don't live in the country or the burbs.
"She also got her socks and shoes mixed up as well as a helicopter and plane."
I have no idea on these two. She knows these like the back of her hand. Were the pictures strange? I just don't know.
"If you want to put KZ into private school, she'll need to be clearer with her speech and have a much richer vocabulary. I can help her with these things. You need to bring her in at least once a week and work with her at home. We can access her progress in three months to see if she is on track for the private school interviews or if more needs to be done at that time."
I'm not sure how I feel about all of this overall. I do know, I feel sick to my stomach. I could have sent her to speech therapy two years ago. I'm sure it wouldn't have hurt, but I'm not thinking she is really behind now. This isn't anything irreversible, but it is good to be caught now so that we are prepared for the tests in the Fall. But I do think that this is just another example of the hyper competitive New York mindset. Little kids are not allowed to organically grow and learn. They need to be tested and coached before they are four so that they are not left behind in our big bad world. Of course I want the best for her, but I'm not sure exactly what that is. I really don't want her hating school or music or life in general. I want each moment of learning to be that of joy and wonder. It really is the only way she'll grow into the person she is meant to be. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not that granola. I know that kids also need direction, rules, boundaries, limitations, and that math can be hard. It takes work, and struggles but when she gets the answer, it will be worth all the hard work.
This is where my heart struggles. Where is that fine line between the love of learning, brow beating and bullying, and having the sixteen year old who just wants to do drugs and sit around the house. Unfortunately, the line is different for all of us, and no one really can really show us the way. All we can do as parents is to do our best each day. And for me right now, that is a pre-paid, ten-pack session with a speech therapist ... and making sure that KZ asks, "May I have a blue crayon, please."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)