Jeremy is going through a bit of a mid-life crises right now. He is fixated on guitars. He wants to buy a nice one and learn how to really play, not just kind of play like he does now.
"It's less expensive and safer than a Ferrari and/or girlfriend. Go for it," I said.
"You know, I went through a mid life crisis at your age," I said, remember I am about six years older.
"What did you do?" he asked cluelessly, as if he wasn't a part of my life back then.
"I had a baby!"
"How's that working for you?"
"GREAT! I haven't had a second to think of myself since."
I think he's going to stick with the guitar. It is a lot less expensive than another child!
Friday, 22 November 2013
Wednesday, 26 June 2013
The Miracle Food
"Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!"
My brother and I pumped our arms up in a victory dance.
"We are having pizza tonight!"
"Get the plates! Paper Towels, we need paper towels. Don't forget the Coke!"
Dad would walk in the back door of our house with the world's best pizza, grease soaking through the white paper tented cover.
"Dad, where's the pizza from?"
Like we had to ask. Dad only went to one place, but we liked to hear him say the name.
"I-tal-yen Village."
"Dad, it is Italian, not I-tal-yen."
"I don't care. Yew want to eat?"
And of course we did. The pizza was just the best thing in the world to our mouths. It wasn't one of those deep dish Chicago pizzas that tasted more like a lasagna forced into a pie crust. This pizza was from Italian Village. It had a paper thin, crispy crust, with a charcoal tasting burn or two on the bottom. The tomato sauce was sweet, the mozzarella lightly browned, and the Italian sausage filled with wonderfully exotic spices like caraway seeds. We always got Italian sausage, not the perfectly round kind that looked like pepperoni, or the thick slabs that looked like a Jimmy Dean breakfast speciality. These were oddly shaped that appeared homemade. The pizza was cut into squares, not like a pie. I preferred the ends. The smell of sweet tomato sauce, toasted cheese, and lightly fried Italian sausage would fill the entire house, lingering until the morning. A surprise pizza was always the next best thing to a trip to Disney World.
If we were lucky, it would just be my immediate family. But a lot of time we would have our piggy cousins over. Little Jimmy, who wasn't so little, would take a piece, lick it, then take another piece until an adult noticed and made him stop.
"Little Jimmy, what the HELL are ya doin'? You act like you don't have the sense the good Lord gave a turnip."
Little Jimmy would smile, knowing that he at least got enough pizza to satisfy his hunger even if the rest of us would do without. There was no getting another pizza once this one was gone. Italian Village didn't deliver, and the adults were already too busy eating and drinking their Miller Lite to care.
Pizza night always had two accompaniments, Coke and salt. We'd drink the Coke, with the ice cubes put in first, so that the liquid would just ease on up around the cubes instead of making them float. We would cover the pizza with salt to the point of making it burn the roof our mouths. We used plain old Morton's Salt, with the blue label picturing the little girl in the yellow dress, carrying her umbrella pouring out the salt as the rain poured.
Salt was a big deal in our diet. Mom used it in everything she cooked, and we all added it to everything we ate. We put salt not only on pizza, but also on on apples, watermelons, beans -- everything. Dad wasn't much into sweets. I can hardly remember him eating a dessert, but no one ever tried to take away his salt.
All my relatives were this way about salt. I only realized when I had friends over that something wasn't right.
"Ick! My tongue is burning!" my friends would say as they gulped red Kool-Aid to get rid of the taste.
"I know, my mom is a terrible cook."
"It just taste like salt."
I knew mother couldn't cook, but I didn't think it was a salt issue. It thought it was more of a "I hate this damn cooking, and I never want to do it again" issue. I heard these words every day as mom destroyed another meal. Mom could eat anything that wasn't nailed down, but Lord help us if she actually had to do more than open a can of Campbell's Soup.
My father said that if food was salty, you knew it was good. Not good, in the fancy restaurant kind of way, but good as in not sour, spoiled, rotten, or carrying some disease that could give you the runs that could lead to dehydration that could lead to death. Salty equalled safe. If only that were true, they could have salted the water so that his sister Imogene, and many of his cousins, wouldn't have had to die of typhoid.
My brother and I pumped our arms up in a victory dance.
"We are having pizza tonight!"
"Get the plates! Paper Towels, we need paper towels. Don't forget the Coke!"
Dad would walk in the back door of our house with the world's best pizza, grease soaking through the white paper tented cover.
"Dad, where's the pizza from?"
Like we had to ask. Dad only went to one place, but we liked to hear him say the name.
"I-tal-yen Village."
"Dad, it is Italian, not I-tal-yen."
"I don't care. Yew want to eat?"
And of course we did. The pizza was just the best thing in the world to our mouths. It wasn't one of those deep dish Chicago pizzas that tasted more like a lasagna forced into a pie crust. This pizza was from Italian Village. It had a paper thin, crispy crust, with a charcoal tasting burn or two on the bottom. The tomato sauce was sweet, the mozzarella lightly browned, and the Italian sausage filled with wonderfully exotic spices like caraway seeds. We always got Italian sausage, not the perfectly round kind that looked like pepperoni, or the thick slabs that looked like a Jimmy Dean breakfast speciality. These were oddly shaped that appeared homemade. The pizza was cut into squares, not like a pie. I preferred the ends. The smell of sweet tomato sauce, toasted cheese, and lightly fried Italian sausage would fill the entire house, lingering until the morning. A surprise pizza was always the next best thing to a trip to Disney World.
If we were lucky, it would just be my immediate family. But a lot of time we would have our piggy cousins over. Little Jimmy, who wasn't so little, would take a piece, lick it, then take another piece until an adult noticed and made him stop.
"Little Jimmy, what the HELL are ya doin'? You act like you don't have the sense the good Lord gave a turnip."
Little Jimmy would smile, knowing that he at least got enough pizza to satisfy his hunger even if the rest of us would do without. There was no getting another pizza once this one was gone. Italian Village didn't deliver, and the adults were already too busy eating and drinking their Miller Lite to care.
Pizza night always had two accompaniments, Coke and salt. We'd drink the Coke, with the ice cubes put in first, so that the liquid would just ease on up around the cubes instead of making them float. We would cover the pizza with salt to the point of making it burn the roof our mouths. We used plain old Morton's Salt, with the blue label picturing the little girl in the yellow dress, carrying her umbrella pouring out the salt as the rain poured.
Salt was a big deal in our diet. Mom used it in everything she cooked, and we all added it to everything we ate. We put salt not only on pizza, but also on on apples, watermelons, beans -- everything. Dad wasn't much into sweets. I can hardly remember him eating a dessert, but no one ever tried to take away his salt.
All my relatives were this way about salt. I only realized when I had friends over that something wasn't right.
"Ick! My tongue is burning!" my friends would say as they gulped red Kool-Aid to get rid of the taste.
"I know, my mom is a terrible cook."
"It just taste like salt."
I knew mother couldn't cook, but I didn't think it was a salt issue. It thought it was more of a "I hate this damn cooking, and I never want to do it again" issue. I heard these words every day as mom destroyed another meal. Mom could eat anything that wasn't nailed down, but Lord help us if she actually had to do more than open a can of Campbell's Soup.
My father said that if food was salty, you knew it was good. Not good, in the fancy restaurant kind of way, but good as in not sour, spoiled, rotten, or carrying some disease that could give you the runs that could lead to dehydration that could lead to death. Salty equalled safe. If only that were true, they could have salted the water so that his sister Imogene, and many of his cousins, wouldn't have had to die of typhoid.
Friday, 14 June 2013
The Duece and a Quarter
When I was a child, my favorite activity in the world was riding in my dad's car. Dad's car was not the family car. Dad's car was his car. It was new with a glossy coat of paint and that new car smell. When the smell wore off, it was time for a new car. My brother and I just couldn't go in my dad's car. It had to be a special occasion. The special occasion came once a year for our cross country road trips from Chicago to LA to visit my Great Aunt Alice. Of all the cars in my childhood, my favorite was dad's 1969, Buick Electra 225, or the Deuce and a Quarter as he called it. She was avocado green, with a black landau top, and black vinyl seats which could scorch our legs in summer. She seemed as long as our house. I loved every inch of her.
Dad had all the upgrades that were offered, including headrests which were new in 1969. But even better was the below the dash 8-track tape deck my father installed on his own. The player hung below the dash on brackets. We had to be very careful if we were playing in the front seat not to scrap ourselves on any of the sharp metal corners. The player had four buttons by which we could forward a quarter of the tape at one time. There was no rewind button. If we wanted to hear our favorite song again, we had to wait for at least a quarter of the tape to play then push the button to forward to our song. The tape would take a few seconds making a whirring noise as it moved into position. My dad had all the greats artists of the time, such as Johnny Cash singing "Ring of Fire", Merle Haggard's "Okie from Muskogee", and even Elvis' "Suspicious Minds" for my mother. However, the best song in my three-year old opinion was "The Unicorn Song", by the Irish Rovers, who were Canadian. Dad would pop in his day glo orange mix-tape that he worked hours on featuring the family's favorite songs. When "The Unicorn Song" came on, my little brother and I would hold onto the headrests and dance standing in the back seat singing at the top of our little lungs,
"You'll see green alligators and long-necked geese Some humpty backed camels and some chimpanzees Some cats and rats and elephants, but sure as you're born You're never gonna see no unicorns"
Words and music Shel Silverstein. (Note the same Shel Silverstein of "Where the Sidewalk Ends.)
Some of the happiest moments of my childhood were spent dancing in the back seat of that boat of a car while driving across county.
Dad had all the upgrades that were offered, including headrests which were new in 1969. But even better was the below the dash 8-track tape deck my father installed on his own. The player hung below the dash on brackets. We had to be very careful if we were playing in the front seat not to scrap ourselves on any of the sharp metal corners. The player had four buttons by which we could forward a quarter of the tape at one time. There was no rewind button. If we wanted to hear our favorite song again, we had to wait for at least a quarter of the tape to play then push the button to forward to our song. The tape would take a few seconds making a whirring noise as it moved into position. My dad had all the greats artists of the time, such as Johnny Cash singing "Ring of Fire", Merle Haggard's "Okie from Muskogee", and even Elvis' "Suspicious Minds" for my mother. However, the best song in my three-year old opinion was "The Unicorn Song", by the Irish Rovers, who were Canadian. Dad would pop in his day glo orange mix-tape that he worked hours on featuring the family's favorite songs. When "The Unicorn Song" came on, my little brother and I would hold onto the headrests and dance standing in the back seat singing at the top of our little lungs,
"You'll see green alligators and long-necked geese Some humpty backed camels and some chimpanzees Some cats and rats and elephants, but sure as you're born You're never gonna see no unicorns"
Words and music Shel Silverstein. (Note the same Shel Silverstein of "Where the Sidewalk Ends.)
Some of the happiest moments of my childhood were spent dancing in the back seat of that boat of a car while driving across county.
Monday, 10 June 2013
Water Play
Yesterday, we went to Carl Schurz Park. It was a lovely, sunny day in
the mid-70's. The sprinklers were on and all was right with the world.
Until I sat down.
No sooner had I started reading my email on the sideline of the water play area, did I see a very tall girl crying to her mom. The mom then stormed over to KZ. I saw her pointing and talking down at KZ, all while her much-taller-and-probably-much-older-than-KZ daughter shot KZ with her water gun. The mom then came by me.
"Sorry, but she was spitting at my daughter, and we cannot have spitting at the park," she said.
I just looked at this woman. We are in the water play area. KZ just turned 5. KZ was much smaller, and probably younger, than her daughter. And the girl was shooting KZ with the water gun in the first place. Since KZ didn't have a water gun, she did the next best logical thing of filling her mouth with water and spitting at the girl. I was honestly very proud of KZ's ingenuity.
"My daughter is 4 (so I fibbed a bit). It's a water park for kids," I said to the mother.
What could I say? This woman had a bully for a daughter. But truly, the mother was a bully, herself.
When I was a kid, my mother would have never dreamed of fighting my play ground battles. She would have said something like the following:
"So, did you knock them down? I bet they wouldn't bother you again if you did."
or
"Solve it yourself and get out of my hair. I got dinner to make."
When KZ came over to me, I said very gently, "You know that girl you were spitting at?"
She was sad, as if she knew she were in trouble.
"Yes," she answered.
"You did the right thing by standing up to that bully. If she ever does it to you again, you go right back and spit at her as hard as you want."
KZ just glowed.
"Really?"
"Yes, honey. You will never be any bully's target. I don't want you to bully anyone, but don't you ever take it either."
I gave her a big hug and kiss and sent her on her way. I noticed that the bully girl kept on squirting other kids with her gun, but not KZ.
But I wonder what this Tiger Mom really thought she was doing. She had three kids there. I'm sure she runs to her childrens' schools whenever someone sneezes in their general direction. But what was she going to do when they were in college, or God forbid, got a bad review at work? Did she think she was helping them by fighting their battles now? How were they going to learn the self-confidence to trust their own decisions?
I sometimes feel, and felt yesterday, that I should have jumped in and taken that woman on head-to-head. But really, what would that have looked like? Two grown women fighting in the middle of the water play area at Carl Schurz Park? Not something I would have wanted to star in on YouTube.
I pray that KZ knows I have her back, even if I'm not standing right behind her at all times.
Until I sat down.
No sooner had I started reading my email on the sideline of the water play area, did I see a very tall girl crying to her mom. The mom then stormed over to KZ. I saw her pointing and talking down at KZ, all while her much-taller-and-probably-much-older-than-KZ daughter shot KZ with her water gun. The mom then came by me.
"Sorry, but she was spitting at my daughter, and we cannot have spitting at the park," she said.
I just looked at this woman. We are in the water play area. KZ just turned 5. KZ was much smaller, and probably younger, than her daughter. And the girl was shooting KZ with the water gun in the first place. Since KZ didn't have a water gun, she did the next best logical thing of filling her mouth with water and spitting at the girl. I was honestly very proud of KZ's ingenuity.
"My daughter is 4 (so I fibbed a bit). It's a water park for kids," I said to the mother.
What could I say? This woman had a bully for a daughter. But truly, the mother was a bully, herself.
When I was a kid, my mother would have never dreamed of fighting my play ground battles. She would have said something like the following:
"So, did you knock them down? I bet they wouldn't bother you again if you did."
or
"Solve it yourself and get out of my hair. I got dinner to make."
When KZ came over to me, I said very gently, "You know that girl you were spitting at?"
She was sad, as if she knew she were in trouble.
"Yes," she answered.
"You did the right thing by standing up to that bully. If she ever does it to you again, you go right back and spit at her as hard as you want."
KZ just glowed.
"Really?"
"Yes, honey. You will never be any bully's target. I don't want you to bully anyone, but don't you ever take it either."
I gave her a big hug and kiss and sent her on her way. I noticed that the bully girl kept on squirting other kids with her gun, but not KZ.
But I wonder what this Tiger Mom really thought she was doing. She had three kids there. I'm sure she runs to her childrens' schools whenever someone sneezes in their general direction. But what was she going to do when they were in college, or God forbid, got a bad review at work? Did she think she was helping them by fighting their battles now? How were they going to learn the self-confidence to trust their own decisions?
I sometimes feel, and felt yesterday, that I should have jumped in and taken that woman on head-to-head. But really, what would that have looked like? Two grown women fighting in the middle of the water play area at Carl Schurz Park? Not something I would have wanted to star in on YouTube.
I pray that KZ knows I have her back, even if I'm not standing right behind her at all times.
Tuesday, 21 May 2013
Best Friends Forever
I see two girls, laughing, giggling. They are inseparable.
They wake up groggy in the morning, neither a fan of the sunrise. They watch cartoons while drinking their milk. When forced, they dress for the day, but neither wants to leave the warmth of the house.
The day's activities take place. Tumbling class, haircuts, trips to the bakery for fresh cookies shaped like puppies or bunnies. They eat their lunches, watch more cartoons, and only after being chastised for watching too much TV do they go off to paint, or color, or read a well worn copy of Curious George.
They play tag, duck-duck-goose, and hide and seek. When one is too well hidden the other starts crying because she is scared her best friend in the world is lost. But then she is found. They laugh and start the game all over again.
When Mommy wants to watch the news, the girls go to the computer. One is teaching the other the latest games. At bed time, teeth are brushed, pajamas are put on, and more Curious George books are read. Lights are out at 8:00 pm, but they giggle until well past 9:00, sometimes as late as 10:00.
When they must part, they hug each other and cry. They beg Mommy to let them stay longer. When it is clear they must part, they beg Mommy to let them play together soon. Tears stream down their faces as they wave goodbye until the car is out-of-sight.
They are the best of friends, these two girls. No bond will ever break the love between them, except the cruel bond of time. One is four, the other seventy-two. Angel and Grandma, best friends forever.
They wake up groggy in the morning, neither a fan of the sunrise. They watch cartoons while drinking their milk. When forced, they dress for the day, but neither wants to leave the warmth of the house.
The day's activities take place. Tumbling class, haircuts, trips to the bakery for fresh cookies shaped like puppies or bunnies. They eat their lunches, watch more cartoons, and only after being chastised for watching too much TV do they go off to paint, or color, or read a well worn copy of Curious George.
They play tag, duck-duck-goose, and hide and seek. When one is too well hidden the other starts crying because she is scared her best friend in the world is lost. But then she is found. They laugh and start the game all over again.
When Mommy wants to watch the news, the girls go to the computer. One is teaching the other the latest games. At bed time, teeth are brushed, pajamas are put on, and more Curious George books are read. Lights are out at 8:00 pm, but they giggle until well past 9:00, sometimes as late as 10:00.
When they must part, they hug each other and cry. They beg Mommy to let them stay longer. When it is clear they must part, they beg Mommy to let them play together soon. Tears stream down their faces as they wave goodbye until the car is out-of-sight.
They are the best of friends, these two girls. No bond will ever break the love between them, except the cruel bond of time. One is four, the other seventy-two. Angel and Grandma, best friends forever.
Thursday, 25 April 2013
Boston is Forever
I took KZ to the extremely crowded John Jay Park after school at 3:00 pm
on Monday, April 15. At 3:14 pm, my iPhone started buzzing with text
messages.
- R u ok?
- Where r u?
- R u in Boston or NYC?
At first, I was touched that so many of my friends thought that I was still fast enough to qualify for the Boston Marathon. I qualified for it four times, and ran it three. Each time was one of the best days of my life next to KZ's birth and my wedding to Jeremy.
- Did u hear about the bombs/gas explosions at the finish line?
- Photos of injured & bloody sidewalk online. No sure facts.
The only sure thing I knew at that point was that I had to get KZ out of a crowded park in New York City. My second thought was the safety of all my friends running.
KZ didn't want to leave the park.
She wanted more time to play. She wanted ice cream. She wanted to walk home, not run. I pulled her by the hand down York Avenue as fast as I could towards our apartment.
"Mommy's friends may be hurt. We have to go home to see if they are ok."
No one else on the street seemed upset. I was trembling so hard I could hardly stay upright. What was going on? Bombs, or a gas explosion, at the finish? I was trying to do the math. When exactly would my friends have started the race? What wave where they in? What time did the explosions happen? What about all my friends who live in Boston and may have been cheering at the finish? I just needed to get home and turn on the TV.
"Can I watch PBS," KZ asked as we walked in the door.
"Um, no. Play on the computer."
I knew that would keep her occupied as I watched the TV.
The headline banner on ABC read, "Terror at the Boston Marathon".
Terror at the Boston Marathon ... These were not words that went together. Boston Marathon and "qualifier", or "winners", or "finishers", but not "terror", or later "victims".
Boston is the Olympics for the common person. This is the race that every runner dreams of and for which every person in Boston comes out to cheer. This was MY marathon. My friends were there running with their small children cheering them on. I sat there frozen watching the news. No one knew anything at that point except that there were two confirmed dead and multiple serious injuries. I did everything I could not to cry in front of KZ. She's four. She's happy. She was cheering for me the day before as I ran a very crowded half marathon in Central Park. How could something like this be happening?
Later, that night, after she went to bed, I lost it. I sat in the floor of my kitchen sobbing ... for the little children who were dead or forever maimed, for the families, literally blown apart, for the lost of innocence of running freely. I was crying for how close some of my friends came to the explosions. Two were in the finish line and saw it happen. One past the explosions just after they happened and saw everything. She then had to go home and explain as best she could to her eight year old son.
As I sat there on the kitchen floor, I felt a soft little hand on my shoulder.
"Mommy, I just want you to be happy."
I hugged and kissed her, dried my tears, and walked her back to bed.
I first ran Boston in 1999. That year, the theme was Boston is Forever. The world may have changed drastically since then, but Boston still is Forever.
- R u ok?
- Where r u?
- R u in Boston or NYC?
At first, I was touched that so many of my friends thought that I was still fast enough to qualify for the Boston Marathon. I qualified for it four times, and ran it three. Each time was one of the best days of my life next to KZ's birth and my wedding to Jeremy.
- Did u hear about the bombs/gas explosions at the finish line?
- Photos of injured & bloody sidewalk online. No sure facts.
The only sure thing I knew at that point was that I had to get KZ out of a crowded park in New York City. My second thought was the safety of all my friends running.
KZ didn't want to leave the park.
She wanted more time to play. She wanted ice cream. She wanted to walk home, not run. I pulled her by the hand down York Avenue as fast as I could towards our apartment.
"Mommy's friends may be hurt. We have to go home to see if they are ok."
No one else on the street seemed upset. I was trembling so hard I could hardly stay upright. What was going on? Bombs, or a gas explosion, at the finish? I was trying to do the math. When exactly would my friends have started the race? What wave where they in? What time did the explosions happen? What about all my friends who live in Boston and may have been cheering at the finish? I just needed to get home and turn on the TV.
"Can I watch PBS," KZ asked as we walked in the door.
"Um, no. Play on the computer."
I knew that would keep her occupied as I watched the TV.
The headline banner on ABC read, "Terror at the Boston Marathon".
Terror at the Boston Marathon ... These were not words that went together. Boston Marathon and "qualifier", or "winners", or "finishers", but not "terror", or later "victims".
Boston is the Olympics for the common person. This is the race that every runner dreams of and for which every person in Boston comes out to cheer. This was MY marathon. My friends were there running with their small children cheering them on. I sat there frozen watching the news. No one knew anything at that point except that there were two confirmed dead and multiple serious injuries. I did everything I could not to cry in front of KZ. She's four. She's happy. She was cheering for me the day before as I ran a very crowded half marathon in Central Park. How could something like this be happening?
Later, that night, after she went to bed, I lost it. I sat in the floor of my kitchen sobbing ... for the little children who were dead or forever maimed, for the families, literally blown apart, for the lost of innocence of running freely. I was crying for how close some of my friends came to the explosions. Two were in the finish line and saw it happen. One past the explosions just after they happened and saw everything. She then had to go home and explain as best she could to her eight year old son.
As I sat there on the kitchen floor, I felt a soft little hand on my shoulder.
"Mommy, I just want you to be happy."
I hugged and kissed her, dried my tears, and walked her back to bed.
I first ran Boston in 1999. That year, the theme was Boston is Forever. The world may have changed drastically since then, but Boston still is Forever.
Monday, 8 April 2013
The Gaynor School
"How are you?" asked Juliana, the Associate Director of Admissions at the Gaynor School.
"Fine thank you. And you?" I responded.
"Did you have a nice weekend?" She asked.
"So far," I said.
It was Monday morning and we were on the phone. This woman was not my best friend. She wasn't even my friend. She didn't care about my weekend no more than I cared about hers. The elephant on the phone was what she was going to tell me concerning KZ's application and play date interview.
KZ had her play date at the Gaynor School on the previous Thursday morning. As she met with the director of the Early Education Center and one of the co-founders of the fifty year old school, and one other little girl, I was given a tour. It was one of the most perfect schools I had seen, and I felt as if I had seen every school in New York City by that point. The Gaynor School had just opened a new 50,000 square-foot building, in addition to the older building built in 2006 with 37,000 square-feet, where the Early Childhood Center would be located. The stairs were designed especially for smaller children. The floors were a special sound absorbing material. The indoor lighting coupled with the natural lighting was soft and warm. Each room had a special surround sound speaker system, so if the teacher turned her back to write on the smart board, the children would still hear a crisp clear voice. The class size was ten children to two teachers who had masters in special education. Occupational therapy, speech therapy, reading specialists, and math specials worked with children throughout the day so that when the school days was done, the kids could go home and play like everyone else. The school was a special education school for average to above average children with speech delays. This school was heaven ... heaven with a line a mile long of little children looking for a spot. Specifically, approximately 500 children for 7 spots. Would KZ get in? It was perfect for her, but that didn't mean anything.
It has been a year-long journey to this school. A year ago, we didn't even know that KZ was deaf. Thirteen private school rejections later, we were terrified that KZ was going to get lost in the public school system. Would she have honestly been lost? I didn't know. I did know that I would have worked day and night to get her the best services possible within and outside of the Department of Education's system.
"I hope the news I have to tell you will be good news for you," said Juliana. "We would like to offer KZ a spot in our 2013-2014 year."
"Yes, yes, oh definitely yes," I started to cry.
"If you want to take some time and talk to your husband about it,"
"No, really. We've talked. We'll take it. This has been such a long process, but we truly feel that KZ will be in the best possible place at Gaynor. Thank you."
I hung up the phone crying tears of joy for the end of a very long journey into the school system ... a school system journey which was just beginning.
"Fine thank you. And you?" I responded.
"Did you have a nice weekend?" She asked.
"So far," I said.
It was Monday morning and we were on the phone. This woman was not my best friend. She wasn't even my friend. She didn't care about my weekend no more than I cared about hers. The elephant on the phone was what she was going to tell me concerning KZ's application and play date interview.
KZ had her play date at the Gaynor School on the previous Thursday morning. As she met with the director of the Early Education Center and one of the co-founders of the fifty year old school, and one other little girl, I was given a tour. It was one of the most perfect schools I had seen, and I felt as if I had seen every school in New York City by that point. The Gaynor School had just opened a new 50,000 square-foot building, in addition to the older building built in 2006 with 37,000 square-feet, where the Early Childhood Center would be located. The stairs were designed especially for smaller children. The floors were a special sound absorbing material. The indoor lighting coupled with the natural lighting was soft and warm. Each room had a special surround sound speaker system, so if the teacher turned her back to write on the smart board, the children would still hear a crisp clear voice. The class size was ten children to two teachers who had masters in special education. Occupational therapy, speech therapy, reading specialists, and math specials worked with children throughout the day so that when the school days was done, the kids could go home and play like everyone else. The school was a special education school for average to above average children with speech delays. This school was heaven ... heaven with a line a mile long of little children looking for a spot. Specifically, approximately 500 children for 7 spots. Would KZ get in? It was perfect for her, but that didn't mean anything.
It has been a year-long journey to this school. A year ago, we didn't even know that KZ was deaf. Thirteen private school rejections later, we were terrified that KZ was going to get lost in the public school system. Would she have honestly been lost? I didn't know. I did know that I would have worked day and night to get her the best services possible within and outside of the Department of Education's system.
"I hope the news I have to tell you will be good news for you," said Juliana. "We would like to offer KZ a spot in our 2013-2014 year."
"Yes, yes, oh definitely yes," I started to cry.
"If you want to take some time and talk to your husband about it,"
"No, really. We've talked. We'll take it. This has been such a long process, but we truly feel that KZ will be in the best possible place at Gaynor. Thank you."
I hung up the phone crying tears of joy for the end of a very long journey into the school system ... a school system journey which was just beginning.
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