This was not my finest hour

Looking back through the blog I realized that we have not been diligent about posting the trials and tribulations of sending the children to public/private school. As I suspect is true in most families, we have one child who is soaring academically and the other who is struggling just to hang on. Needless to say, most of the drama surrounds the latter.
I go back and forth. On one hand, he's a boy with only 3 years in the States, thrown into the pit of 8th grade. His reading is low so 8th grade curriculum is going to be tough and we should cut him some slack. On the other hand, I feel there are skills he should have and that certain things should be sinking in by now that haven't. The most infuriating example is when he says, "But Dad, this is the first time I've ever seen this. You want me to remember it on the first try?" Everything inside me wants to scream "YES! That's called learning! Sometimes you only get one chance to learn things, and part of your education is to figure out how to do that!" And yet, I get it. Friction is a completely foreign concept. VietNam is a dot on the globe. Algebra is algebra no matter how old you are.
Unfortunately, conversations like the following are not terribly uncommon:

H: Dad, Can you print off the Amandments for me?
Me: What? It's bed time.
H: I know. I need to memorize the Amandments tomorrow.
Me: The Amandments?
H: Yes. The 10 Amandments.
Me: Commandments?
H: Yes. That's what I said. The first 10 commandments.
Me: Sigh... you could just look them up in your Bible.
H: It's hard to read that way.
Me: (Can't argue that...) Fine. I'll put them on your backpack for the morning.

Wife: Are you actually going to print them? He should have done that himself hours ago.
Me: Eh, no big deal.
Wife: Chump.

(Next day, dinner time)

H: Oh, Dad... you did it wrong.
Me: What are you talking about?
H: The thing you printed for me. It was wrong. I needed the 10 Amandments. (He holds up a sheet of paper)
Me: The Amendments? To the Constitution? Yeah... those are different.
H: That's what I said the first time. The ten amendments. I need to memorize them.
Wife: Chump.

(Note to readers, this is not an accent thing. This often happens with words longer than three syllables. This child feels, or has learned, that if he can get part of the word, that's usually close enough for native English speakers to fill in the blanks. He also gets really frustrated if you point it out, because you obviously know what he meant if you can correct him.)

So he hands me the list of 15 amendments... Then we go through each one and I explain what they mean. I try to make them interesting and understandable, but to me, it doesn't feel like anything is sticking.

Me: Ok, now it's your turn. Read the list to me.
H: Ok, I'll read the list.
silence
Me: Please read the list to me.
H: Why? I'm reading to myself.
Me: Because I want to hear you and it'll help you learn.
H: I can't pronounce some of these words.
Me: Exactly. That's why I'm here. I'll help you when you get stuck.
H: I can read it myself! (goes silent and stares at the paper again)
Me: Listen... you won't learn what you can't pronounce. That's why you need to learn how to say the words as well as what they look like.
H: Fine. Dad. Take the list and read the whole thing to me about 3 times.
Me: What? Why?
H: Then I'll learn what the words sound like.
Me: What? No, that's not how this is going to work.

(Big argument ensues...)

I start rhyming.
Me: Four. Warrant. Five. Silent.
H: Why are you doing that?
Me: It will help you remember them.
H: (genuinely baffled) No it won't.
Me: It can. If you can remember the most important word, then you can remember the rest.
H: No I can't. I don't need to know one word, I need to know the whole thing.
Me: You don't get it at all do you? You can't remember it because you're trying to remember the whole thing. There's about 6 words in each amendment you don't know. Work on the most important word. Amendment Fiiiive. Siiiiilent. Right to stay silent.
H: But then I'll get it wrong on the test because I won't have it memorized!!!

(Bigger argument ensues involving multiple family members)

H: You think I'm stupid!
Me: No, I think you don't have the skill to learn this quickly. Staring at that paper and calling it 'studying' isn't effective. I'm trying to teach you that blah blah daddy's character building speech blah blah life skills blah blah education blah blah
H: (silently stares at the list of amendments...)

Evening ends with yelling, door slamming, crying, and a child pounding on his bed with the covers pulled over his head. I calm down and go up to his bedroom.

Me: Rough one tonight, huh?
H: Leave me alone!
Me: Tomorrow will be better.
H: GO AWAY LEAVE ME ALONE!
Me: Yeah, I heard you. I still love you. I'll see you tomorrow.
H: I COULD GET A GUN AND SHOOT MYSELF!
Me: Well you're in luck! In America, you can! The second amendment states that you have the right to bear arms! I remembered that because I have two arms. Get it? Second? Two? Arms? Good night! I loooooove yooou!

Sorry folks... all I had left at that point was sarcasm.

Now before the internet calls DCFS, my son does not usually threaten to hurt himself. I 'joked it off' because that was not the time to have any kind of serious conversation. Tempers were still too high. But seriously, something's been bugging him this week and it's interesting (though that's not quite the word I'm looking for) that he still reverts to some of the behaviors we saw very early on. He hasn't told us what the root of the problem is yet, and we just end up fighting about the symptoms. Hopefully he'll open up, but he is growing up... Guess we'll see.

Tech Support for Schrodinger's Oven

My cell phone rings

Me: Hello, IT Support, this is Lee.
Habtamu: Hi Dad.
Me: Oh... Hi what's up?
H: I was calling to find out when you were coming home.
Me: 5 o'clock.
H: Ok. Do you know if the lasagna's done?
Me: What?
H: Is the lasagna done.
Me: I don't know. You're the one who is at home.
H: But I'm not in the kitchen and I can't tell if it's done.
Me: Ok, well is it in the oven?
H: I don't know.
Me: Well how am I supp...
H: YORDANOS! DAD WANTS TO KNOW IF THE LASAGNA IS IN THE OVEN!
Me: You know you could jus...
H: YORDANOS!
Me: sigh... (I happen to know the phone cord stretches to the kitchen)
H: DAD NEEDS TO KNOW IF THE LASAGNA IS IN THE OVEN!
(Muffled argument ensues)
H: No.
Me: No, what? It's not in the oven?
H: Yordanos says it is not in the oven.
Me: Did it used to be in the oven?
H: Yes. Mom told me to put it in and I did. We took it out to see if it was done, but we can't tell.
Me: Was the oven on?
H: Yes. I turned the oven on.
Me: What temperature is the oven set at?
H: I don't know, I'm not in the kitchen. YORDAN...
Me: Wait! How long has the lasagna been in the oven?
H: I don't know... like... maybe... 20 minutes?
Me: What time did you put it in? (Do you see what I did there?)
H: Like, 20 minutes ago dad. (Do you see how it didn't matter?)
Me: Ok, Ok... Um, is it hot?
H: What?
Me: Is. The. Lasagna. Hot?
H: YORDANOS! DAD WANTS TO KNO... (phone gets muffled)
H: She says it's boiling. Look, dad. I just want to know if dinner is ready.
Me: Sure.
H: When are you coming home?
Me: 10 minutes. Don't eat until I get there.
H: Ok. Bye. I love you.
Me: Love you too.

I get home and the "reheated" lasagna leftovers, which haven't even reached room temperature yet, are sitting on the oven. The oven is still running at 350 degrees. Neither child is in the kitchen. 3 minutes in the microwave and dinner is served.

Footnote: Erwin Schrodinger is famous for trying to figure out whether a (theoretical) cat in a box would be dead or alive without actually opening the box. Kind of like me trying to find out whether or not dinner was cooked without actually having any useful prior information.

Waking Up to My Two Favorite Words

I love days like today. Days where I think to myself, "Thank God I'm a parent." This morning I was woken up by the gentle tones of my son yelling "Make Me!" and a door slam. He only said it once, but it was with conviction. The kind of statement that makes me want to respond with shock and awe. I have no idea what conversation preceded his angry little show (a full 2 hours before I needed to be at work, I might add) other than my wife had said "Yes" right before he put on. Apparently that wasn't the right answer. Which confirms to me that Chris should have stuck to our usual policy of answering any question presented while we're still in bed (or before 9am on weekends) with a "No," but that's a lesser point.

And just to be clear, it was my bedroom door he was slamming.
My. Bedroom. Door.
Attack. Mode. Initiated.

Make Me!
Make Me? You're on!
All I knew at that moment was I really, REALLY wanted to make him. I was definitely up for the challenge. As God is my witness, I was going to make him. I had visions of how this was going to go down. I'd leap out of bed like a burning ninja. He'd turn to run but it would be too late. I'd drop him like an angry lion and pin him to the floor, breathing in his face. His eyes would be wide and scared as he realized how much his mistake was about to cost him. I'd get right in his face and say, "So you didn't think I could make you do it? What do you think now, smart guy?" And he'd cry, "Yes Dad, Yes! I'm so sorry! I'll do it, I'll do it!" Then I would march or drag him off and MAKE him do it. That's right. Don't mess with Daddy because he WILL make you. Lesson learned the hard way.

And if I had the slightest clue what he didn't want to make... I assure you would have made him do it. Fortunately for him, I kinda missed that part. So after fantasizing about Alpha Dogging my son, I decided that personal vindication wasn't worth ruining everyone's day... or even really worth getting out of bed. What was I going to do, grab him and yell, "Whatever it is you don't you want to do, you're gonna do it now Mr.!"? I heard Chris throw out an, "Oh No You Didn't!" from her side of the bed but I didn't see any follow up movement. That seemed like an appropriate retort, and luckily for him required no effort or cat-like reflexes on my part... that would have been a bloodbath. Because I'm telling you, I was going to make him.

Some day, he'll thank me for being lazy.

Ahh 13

Habtamu had his first shovelling job of the season and he made $20 yesterday afternoon!  I picked him up at 5:15pm, and before dinner he had spent $19.74.  So basically he shovelled nearly two hours for a shiny Trapper Keeper binder thingy, a root beer, and a quarter.  Remember those days?
What is wrong with kids today?  They should be investing their money in comicbooks and graphic novels like I did!  *eyeroll*

Merry Christmas Like a Boss

 

We have three cats that take pot shots at ornaments on the Christmas tree and act like they're king of the jungle.  Then there's Murray who actually brought us TWO Christmas presents this year. He's so thoughtful.  The tricky part is getting him to drop it... 

For the record, a while back I saw him swat a bat out of the air.  He's the only surface-to-air cat I've ever known.  And yes, his eyes glow like that when he's in hunt mode.  He's just that awesome.

Rico, our Grinchy, child-hating feline, has been camping out under the Christmas tree, hissing and swatting at any kids who come by to sniff around their presents.  So I guess he's been kind of our Christmas Day insurance policy.  The other two cats have been completely useless unless you count 'permanent bed warmer' as a job.

The kids aren't fairing much better today.  The change in routine that comes with vacation time combined with Christmas anticipation is really throwing them off.  We were talking to some other parents at church tonight about how both our kids had been sent to their rooms today.  Yo heard the conversation and wanted everyone to know that she had only gone *once,* knowing that her brother couldn't say the same. Habta has been all over the emotional map today.  It could just be jitters and too much screen time, but we're kind of thinking that the MSG from the mountain of Chinese food we had last night might have something to do with it.  He rarely gets crabby right after eating, and for three meals we've been working down those leftovers and his mood swings.  If we're right, it could explain some things.  We also watched a movie tonight where a father and his teenage son deal with the death of their wife/mother.  I swear I had no idea that was going to be a plot point.  I'm sure THAT had nothing to do with it...

On a lighter note, the kids got to open one present each tonight, of mama's choosing.  They were unwrapped with a squee, because who wouldn't want pink panda one-piece footed pajamas ??? and a slow and low "These are awe-some" from the teen boy who can now dream of Chuck Norris in his new camouflage flannels. I'm sure Chuck sleeps in camos too.

So, what did you do today?

A lot, actually.

Cleaned the bathroom
Put dishes away from dishwasher
Washed other dishes
Took kids to school
Worked out
Did 3 loads of laundry
Cleaned inside of refrigerator
Finished 2 mittens
Helped one kid with math
Helped other kid with writing
Taught 2 children to knit
Made quesadillas
Put dishes away from dishwasher (yes, again)
Got lunch stuff ready for kids

I think it's time for bed.

Generations

My grandmother on my mom's side was an artist. She was actually much more than this, but for the sake of introduction, I'll just say she painted a lot. As a life long painter, she had her style, her preferences, and definitely some phases (or periods as the artsy types call them) which are kind of cool to look back on.

To say she was a driving force in the family would be an understatement. Whether intentional or not, she knew how to build a legacy. When she died, she left a room full of paintings, volumes of poetry, two generations of singers and musicians, and multiple grandchildren and great-grandchildren named after her (I can name 4, but there's probably more.) I've always been glad that my wife got to meet her, and saddened that my kids will only know of her through her impact on me, and will never meet her in person. I suspect they would have gotten along very well and would have had a lot to talk about.

I remember that after she died, everyone in the extended family got at least one piece of her artwork. There was a lot to choose from and if I remember right, the rules were pretty simple. Since she did a lot of portraits, if you were in it, you got it. Then her children picked their favorite(s.) Then the grandchildren could squabble over whatever was left from oldest to youngest. After all was said and done, my uncle kept the rest and made something of a showroom in his basement. A couple months ago we were at that uncle's condo and I actually got to peruse the 'gallery of leftovers.' There was all kinds of stuff that either I had never seen, or had completely forgotten about. Half way across the room I spotted a painting and said, "Looks like grandma knew something before the rest of us." Yo was kind enough to pose and prove my point.

Suspicions confirmed, they would have gotten along famously.

I don't know anything about this painting or when or why my grandmother decided to put it on canvas. I just know that if you're in it, you get it. I also know that I would have stiff armed my uncle and ran out of there with that painting if I thought I could fit it in the car.

And you were expecting what exactly for Christmas?

Back story: Two days prior to this conversation with my darling daughter, I had actually promised to take the kids out for ice cream 'soon' so I'm sure that somehow what follows is my fault.

Yo: Dad. You are GOING to take us to McDonalds for ice cream now.
Me: I am, am I?
Yo: Yes, and if you don't, I'm going to punch you in the face.
Me: Oh really?
Yo: Yes, I'm going to punch you in the face and drive us there myself.
Me: Well then I guess I better take you to McDonalds.
Yo: Yes and when the policeman pulls me over and asks why I'm driving, I'll just tell him you are drunked.
Me: Really.
Yo: Yep, and if he says you look like you got beat up, then I will tell him it happened when you got kicked out of one of the bar places. I had to drag you to the car to bring you home.
Me: Did you see this in a movie?
Yo: No.
Me: You've been thinking about this for a while haven't you?
Yo: Nope, Just made it up right here.

(Note that we were both laughing after she said 'punch' so it was all in good fun. Kind of disturbing, but funny nonetheless. I think she gets it from me.)

And lest anyone think that my son would be above such immaturity, the other night in the car he was trying to negotiate with me that I should leave his mother at "one of those bar things or a tattoo store" because "I'm sure there's nice mans there who would treat her very good" just so he could sit in the front seat. It is a heated seat, so I could see his point. I personally didn't think it was 'dump your mother at a brothel' cold, but then I wasn't sitting in the back. In shorts. And sandals. In December. But yeah, that would be a quick ticket to the hot seat alright.

Lie to me next time.

Do not read this post if it is near a meal time.  You may feel the need to shower after this story.  You have been warned.

Names changed to Child 1 and Child A to protect the (not so) innocent.

So, while I was cleaning last week, I happened upon the door at the top of the stairs. It appeared to have crusty little flecks of, well, it looked like boogers to me.  I cleaned them off, and convinced myself that it wasn't what I thought it was. 

Later, I was talking with the kids over dinner.  (I forget where Lee was, but it was just me and the kids.)  The conversation turned to what I had done that day. 

Me: (in a joking, jovial mood)  Well, I cleaned upstairs.  Oh, and by the way, who left boogers on the door at the top of the stairs?

Child 1: Ew.  It wasn't me.
Child A: Ew.  It wasn't me.

Me: (still laughing) Oh, come on... who was it?

Child 1: Not me... that's gross!
Child A:  (looking shifty)  Wait.  Which door are you talking about?

Me and Child 1: Gross!

Me: The door at the top of the stairs.  For what possible reason would you have put boogers there?

Child A: Um... I forget.

Child 1: That is so disgusting!

Me to Child 1: Oh, come on, you know you do it too.  Where do you put yours?

Child 1: Well... I put some on the side of my bed.

The main problem with this as a teachable moment, is that I used to do the same thing when I was a kid.  I'll bet I'm not alone.  And, if I'm not, please don't tell me.

Yeah, I'm a beast...

That spot on my back that can't be reached itched the other day, so instead of asking for someone with cold hands to scratch it I backed into a door frame and rubbed against it.
Habtamu walked by looking at me oddly.
"My back itches," I said, as if I needed to explain myself.
He smiled, "When did you become a buffalo, Dad?"

Not Me.

If he hadn't caught me so offguard, I would have asked him where he learned that. I still don't know.