Mo. Ther. I cannot believe you hauled me all the way out here to look at tadpoles and birdies and mud and now you are trying to take my picture.
Why do I get the feeling I am going to be seeing this look a lot in the next 16 years? Am screwed.
About a year ago, I fell in love with these adorable pinafores on Etsy. The fabrics are fun and modern, the pinafores themselves are reversible, and they are downright CUTE.
I did not fall in love with the $24 price tag.
I don’t think Funk owns one piece of clothing that cost me more than $15. This includes Christmas dresses, shoes, and outfits for pictures. I am cheap when it comes to anything that might eventually end up being ruined by paint at daycare or rocks in my dryer.
I searched high and low for a pattern for these pinafores at the time, but to no avail. I even considered buying one, deconstructing it, and then making some of my own. That was a heck of a lot of work. Somewhere in between falling in love with them and discovering that I could not find a pattern, I even bought some fabric. Because that’s what I do. I have grand ideas, I buy fabric, and I get distracted by the next shiny thing. Don’t ever look under my bed. It’s fully padded by years of delusions of sewing grandeur.
I finally got a few minutes to myself last weekend, and as a part of my Ritalin Mom-like activity I decided to sew. Because I was a costumer in college, I can usually convince myself that figuring these things is not really all that hard. So I sat down with one of Funk’s shirts, guesstimated a pattern, and got to work.
Other than a few glitches (I don’t think all that well in 3D, so I couldn’t figure out which seams to leave open so that I wouldn’t sew myself into a corner) my first attempt came out pretty well. I have fabric for five more pinafores for various folks, and I am looking forward to it. It was wasy to sew once I figured it out, though I think I will be altering the pattern a bit, lowering the neckline and reducing the fabric in the back a bit. The fabric is from the St. Jude’s collection, so a part of the profit on it goes to St. Jude’s for resarch. The new fabric I am starting on might prove a bit more of a challenge– stripes and such. The polka dots were really forgiving for a first try.
Of course, after finishing one I was opening up a $25 apiece Etsy shop in my imagination. Man, those delusions of grandeur are something!
Oy, with the gas prices, right? I mean, just this time last year it was like a whole dollar less, right?
It really does blow. I feel your pain, commuters and such. I really do. I’m spoiled in the sense that I only drive about 10 miles a day, but trips home for the weekend and such can cost a pretty penny.
Now you know I’m generally the VERY FIRST person to criticize this President, and it’s true that there are a lot of bullshit actions that this administration took to get us here so quickly, but I think we also need a little perspective.
Like the fact that we pay less for gas than many other countries. Even countries that have a drastically lower average income than ours.
And the fact that despite lip service to the contrary, we are not aggressively pursuing alternalte, renewable options.
What’s different about Americans, I think, is that even though we like to bitch and complain about the high price of gas or the fact that we’re completely dependent on another nations’ non-renewable export, we’re pretty hard-pressed to change our habits.
Gas prices are a bitch. But are you still driving all over god’s creation? Has it impacted the way you live your day to day life?
For my family, high prices are an inconvenience. But for many in this country, these high gas prices are beginning to put them under. Many of these folks can’t help the fact that they have to commute an hour each way for a job, or that their childcare option is across town from their home or work. But they cut where they can, because they have to. These families are making sacrifices and second guessing their habits, just like our grandparents did during the Depression. They are learning how to make sacrifices and prioritize things.
Are you?
I wish I could say otherwise, but I’m sure not. But like a true American, I sure have an opinion about it.
I have a Master’s.
I researched and wrote. I wrote.
Now I push paper.
*
It’s not what I thought
I wanted; yet here we are.
I’d happily quit.
**
Priorities changed.
Delusions were wrecked. My heart
is now in my home.
***
We could do without
the money; security
is what keeps me here.
****
Not being treated
like I’m smart, educated
is a sucker punch.
I thought I was supposed to help out in Noise’s class yesterday, so I left work early and sped across town. Once I arrived, I discovered that my assistance is actually required next week.
We were an hour ahead of schedule, then, and I decided on the spur of the moment to make good on my promise to take the kids the the downtown park we pass each day on our way home. This particular park is no better than the park we frequent near our home– it’s just the novelty of the thing, I suppose. Oh! And there’s this:
This particular park has an old train engine in it. We pass this train each day on our way to and from school, and two years ago Noise dubbed it the “Hot Chocolate Train.” Back in the day, children were allowed to climb all over the thing, but now the city only lets kids climb up the stairs into the engine itself. Noise loves to visit the adjoining playground, and this was Funk’s first year to really get it.
As is our custom, we visited the playgrounds first. We always start with the structure set up for littler kids, and then as Noise and Funk get bolder we head to the larger one. Then we swing, and when the kids tire of that we cross the street to the train. We skip down the tree-lined path, usually past some folks hanging around until the shelters open. There are college boys playing soccer and elementary school girls making dandelion jewelry, and we admire the sculptures until we get to the Hot Chocolate train.
Usually.
Yesterday, as we walked up the path to the train, we noticed that there were some dogs in the engine. Funk is wary of dogs, and so she immediately began to freak out. I saw that there were also people inside the engine. Grown people. It was bright, and I couldn’t really see inside. But I could smell it. The smell of alcohol and body odor, smoke and darkness. We sat down on the bench in front of the steps of the train, and we waited. I (loudly) told the children that we had to wait our turn, that the Hot Chocolate train was for everyone, and that we would have to be patient.
Giggles and smoke curled forth from the engine.
After a while, maybe because they heard my whining kids, or maybe because they were done with whatever they were doing in there, they slowly mosied down the stairs. Three dogs off leashes came near Funk, and I shooed them away as nicely as I could. Four people ambled down the sidewalks, laughing and quite obviously high.
Noise bounded up the stairs before I could hold him back. At the top of the stairs, he finally heard my pleas for him to stop. I wanted to get in there first, and it’s a damn good thing I did.
The first thing that overwhelmed me was the smell. Smoke, and booze, and something else. But most prevalent was the smell of urine.
I kicked a large pill onto the ground, under the train. I set a economy-sized booze bottle up out of arm’s reach. I tossed a belt-turned-tourniquet out the window into the bushes. I moved quickly, hoping to somewhat sanitize the space before my kids could see their beloved Hot Chocolate train so awry.
That’s when I noticed that despite a lack of recent rain, everything inside the engine was wet.
The folks before us spent the five minutes while we waited peeing on every single surface inside that train.
I rushed the kids back down the stairs. Funk wouldn’t move– I had to pick her up and forcibly remove her from the spot. Back on our bench, both kids were yelling and crying.
“It’s not fair! You promised that we could go on the Hot Chocolate Train!!!”
“I wanna go Hah Chocka Twain!!! I dwive it!!!”
I tried my hardest to explain that those people had been bad. That they did things to the train, and it wasn’t safe for us to be there. I promised them that someone would come clean it up, and we would come back. I made jokes about how maybe those people needed one of Funk’s diapers. We talked about how sometimes when someone is bad, everyone has to pay for it. And that’s why it’s important to do the right thing (this was handy, since Noise glorifies the bad pirates, and reviles the good.) Of course, for all my reasoning and explaining, they are only two and four. And they just could not understand why someone would disrespect the Hot Chocolate Train in such a vile manner.
I guess it can’t be understood, because it can’t make sense. It’s just people being selfish, disrespecful, and mean. Maybe those folks had an addiction and couldn’t help themselves. Partially it’s our society’s fault that they had no where else to go (although I would posit that the library was 20 feet away and has bathrooms, at least.) I don’t want my kids making judgements about others who are less fortunate, or sick. But dammit I don’t think they should have to pay, either.
They shouldn’t have to pay for someone else’s addiction, or their meanness. They are only kids, for chrissake.
Noise has been drawing up a storm lately. Literally. He likes to draw storms. He likes to draw people, and pirates, and all of our names. But he loves to draw pirate ships most of all.
It’s hard work, this learning to draw thing. A task best met with tongue gymnastics and a lot of patience. Sometimes, it’s hard to be patient. Especially for a boy whose first inclination is to quit. I love my boy– but he really struggles with tenacity at times. He hates to do anything he can’t do perfectly the first time.
But he keeps at it, which is quite a feat for my highly sensitive little boy. And, after hours of practice and failed attempts, when he finally gets it right, he’s quite pleased with himself.
Of course, at not-yet-four, many of his drawings are lacking a certain realism. His people are fantastic– expressive smiley faces and Jolly Roger hats– but many lack a torso. They have nubs for feet, and hooks for hands (being pirates and all.) It’s interesting to see the progression as his drawing has developed, and now more often than not you can actually glean what it is he was trying to portray. It’s heady stuff.
We’re immensely proud, of course.
Today, on the way to school, Noise was looking a little down in the mouth. He’s been even more emotional than usual the last couple of days, which we chalk up to his daddy having been out of town, and his routine being off. (Let’s hear it for ROUTINE! Woot!) Hubs asked him what was troubling him.
“Dad…..the kids don’t like my pirate ships.”
Hubs asked him what he meant.
“The kids… they say my pirate ships don’t really look like pirate ships. Trevor says I am a bad draw-er.”
Hubs asked him if he liked his pirate ships.
“Yes. I love to draw pirate ships. I’m getting really good at it.”
“Well, son, that’s really all that matters– what you think. It doesn’t matter what other people think of your pirate ships, as long as you like drawing them.”
He kept repeating that to himself all the way to school, “it doesn’t matter what they think… it doesn’t matter what they think… it doesn’t matter what they think.”
I’m not sure he believed it.
It is heart wrenching, because both Hubs and I have been that kid. We have been the kid who was out there in the world with our huge open heart, only to have it dashed by other kids who wanted to knock you down. The world is cruel at times, and the world of children even more so. I hate that Noise feels rejected by his peers. I hate that he’s doubting himself. I want to find Trevor and kick his 5 year old butt. I know of course, that Noise is someone else’s Trevor– because that’s how kids are– but I am defensive just the same. He is my baby.
On the other side of the coin, of course, is the fact that this is how life is. We judge each other constantly, and most of the time we don’t even know we’re doing it. If I were to remove Noise from this situation, he would just have to learn the same lesson, even meaner, in kindergarten. Best he learns how to maneuver himself socially now– especially since it’s going to take him a little more time and maturity to learn to deal with it. I know, because I was much like my son.
I am still much like my son.
I don’t understand why some people don’t treat me very nicely, and I just want everyone to get along, and when people start to play stupid games with their friendship it confuses me and hurts me. When people make fun of me or criticize me out of the blue, I just don’t understand. I thought we were all having a good time? And then KAPOW. The hammer is lowered and I am not smart enough, not funny enough, not good enough. Most of the time, as an adult, I am able to not think about those nagging demons. But as a kid– they were all consuming.
I hope that he deals with it better than I did. I hope that I can help him work through it all. Right now, it just gives me a stomach ache to think about.
It was a banner day around here on Saturday– could you tell? I had over 250 site visits on that day. Was it because everyone asked for unfettered computer time for Mother’s Day? Hardly. It was because I left a comment on this little website trying to score a free camera and printer, and a quite a few folks clicked through! So, if you’re new here, and you’re thinking you might stick around a while, welcome!
Now if you’ve already been here a while, then you know I’m paranoid. Because of the incendiary nature of Friday’s post, my first thought was that there were legions of coeds storming my site so that they could track me down and key my car (some more.) I truly had the heebie jeebies, because Greek eyes are everywhere, and someone somewhere will eventually send that post on to some national office and I will be blacklisted from every Student Activities job ever forever and ever b/c OMG she hates the Greeks!!! Except that if you actually read the post, you know that’s not true. It’s not that I don’t see some value in the institution. I just don’t believe that the value necessarily outweighs the crap. Several people agreed with me, but were not comfortable commenting and so they sent me emails. See?!? I’m not the only one afraid of sorors with a grudge. So, I had my panties all up in a wad worrying that my site was being passed around the Greek community and I was on some kind of hit list.
But then I looked at my site stats, and saw that I had over 160 people click through from Pioneer Woman’s site, it made me all warm and fuzzy inside. My first thought was that I would do some kind of a “best of Growing a Pair” summary post, so that the new folks could be dazzled and wowed by the awesomeness that is GAP. But a) that’s a lot of work, and b) I believe in Paying it Forward. So, I decided to link you forward to a super-duper cool chick that just started her own photography blog.
Introducing:
JOYFUL PHOTOGRAPHY by Sarah Long
For those of you keeping track, this is the second of such announcements from me– my good friend Meredith also does phenomenal photography. Seems I can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a friend who’s starting up a photography business. This is mainly because my friends rock. So you should go about getting your pictures taken by them.
Sarah is based out of Topeka, whereas Meredith is based out of KC. So, they are not in competing markets. So, I don’t feel even the least bit squeamish about sending you their way. Especially if either one of them would like to give me some photo tutoring for my new fancy camera. (Hint, hint.)
My Mother’s Day was… meh. Hubs tried to let me sleep in but I got a phone call early in the am. I was completely unable to relax all day, my own fault, Hubs kept calling me “Ritalin Mom” because I just flitted from chore to chore all day long. Three loads of laundry, finished painting a cart I’m using for the kids’ drawing and coloring supplies, vacuumed the house, baked zucchini bread, cleaned on the house some… I know. I am a party person! But Hubs has two papers to write for school, and he’s been fairly focused on that all day. So, we’re just plugging along. Add to that one extremely emotional nearly-four-year-old, and an all-about-2 two year old, and it’s been a whirlwind of a weekend.
Of course, big ol’ props to my own mutha, who spent her day at work. Dealing with the kids that we all just pray that our kids can’t become. See, my mom works at a children’s mental health facility. Some of these kids have tried harming themselves, harming others, or even killing. We’re talking young kids, some of them– five and six years old. Now some of these kids are here because of their mothers, or other parental figures. Some of them have suffered a traumatic event or are just going through a rough patch that requires hospitalization while it’s all figured out. But some of them, as my mom puts it, “were just hardwired wrong.” Some of these kids are never going to be well. They might someday be medicated to point of maintaining some semblance of normalcy, but they will never be off meds, there is no counseling that will talk them through the point of wellness, there will never be a time when they won’t have to worry about their mental health issues.
And my heart hurts for these kids and their moms today. These kids– some of them have it together enough to realize that they’re unwell, but for others the world is a confusing array of rejection and judgement. I doubt that their mothers worried for a second that the precious baby they were gestating would someday try to murder them in their sleep just because they weren’t quite right. I doubt it very much because it’s not something I ever considered when I set out to become a mother. Because of my mother’s work, I am super paranoid about my children’s quirks– especially Noise’s– and I am always asking her, “is that developmental? Or a PROBLEM?” Across our country tonight, mothers’ arms are empty because their child is so mentally ill that they cannot be safe in their own home.
My mom does this work because she loves these kids. She loves that she can make a difference, even though the institution itself is dysfunctional and broken. If your kid needs this kind of help, you want my mom to be the one that hugs him each day. You want my mom to be the one that says, “Excuse me. That is not appropriate.” (Man, I hated when she said that when I was growing up.) My mom is underpaid, overworked, and adminstrated to death. But she does what she does for the kids that she loves.
It’s just one of the many ways in which my mom is a phenomenal mother. She’s not only a great mom to me and my two siblings. She’s a great mom for these kids– many of whom don’t have loving mothers to hold them today. Or whose loving mothers cannot be the one to take care of them on a daily basis because their needs are too great.
Want to help me with a great mother’s day gift for my mom? Check out what your state government is doing to help these kids. I’d bet you it’s not much. Because kids don’t vote, and most mentally ill kids never will. Write your senator, your governor, your president, and help be a voice to support mental health treatment for children and adolescents. These kids need you. And their mothers do, too.
In my former life, I was a Greek Advisor. I was not Greek in college, and so my appointment to this post was the source of much consternation among the students and alumni with which I worked. Even though I was a nationally recognized student advisor, the fact that I had never pledged in college was a constant issue (it was called pledging then, Pinky swear.) Because I love a challenge, and I wanted desperately to help my students, (and also because at the time I was a total Student Affairs geek) I soaked up everything I could learn about Greek life. Its rich traditions and histories. The research and the antecdotes. I knew more about Greek life than most die-hard Greeks. I spouted the party lines about the intrinsic benefits academically, socially, and civically.
The Greek community I was hired to advise was already dying, long before I arrived. This is not unusual at smaller schools– students just don’t seem to be as attracted to Greek Life as they were, say, in the eighties. Our community had failed to change with the times, like many Greek communities, and was struggling to say afloat due to some institutional changes, and cultural changes among the student body. We had a hard row to hoe, but we were making progress each day.
Some of the students and alumni I was hired to help were gracious. They understood what needed to change, that we had an uphill battle ahead of us, and they knew I was totally committed (sometimes at the expense of my personal life.) They appreciated what I was trying to accomplish. They believed I had their best interest at heart. Others…
Other students and alumni called me names. They called me a stupid bitch to my face. They spread rumors about me, and keyed my car. They criticized me for everything from having a baby to choosing Student Affairs as a profession at all. They accused me of killing their precious dinosaur. Overwhelmingly, the prevailing commentary was, “she will never understand. She’s not even Greek.“
And I fought that. I fought it tooth and nail. “I get it!” I yelled. I fought for these kids, this institution. When some of my students were caught, blindfolded, being hazed in a public park, I fought. When countless students were hospitalized after drinking deadly amounts of alcohol at greek parties, I fought. When one of my students very nearly died, and the sisters in her house refused to call 911 rather than risk responsibility, I fought. For people to see the good. The higher GPAs and the increased community involvement. The friendship and the educational potential. Since time has separated me from that experience, I can see that they were right. I don’t understand. But it’s not because I’m not Greek. It’s because it doesn’t make any damn sense.
It’s been a hard week for the Greeks. No doubt, that community’s conferences and newsletters will be abuzz with more talk about zero tolerance, being “values based” organizations, and insuring that the students carrying on those letters are behaving in a manner becoming. There will be sweeping statements of grandeur. There will be promises of change. And next fall, during recruitment, there will be more deaths. More 18 year old boys locked in car trunks until they consume enough alcohol so as to be seen as “worthy” by their 20 year old hazers. More 18 year old girls starving themselves in sorority activities that can only be construed as eating disorder competitions.
I need to say out loud what I’ve been thinking for five years. It makes me a pariah, you see. But it must be said.
Greek life is dying, and that’s just fine.
It was a grand tradition, and something that was very worthwhile and necessary in its day. Students needed something to connect to, needed a family away from home. Needed what a Greek community could provide. But students don’t need now what Greek Life has become. A culture of poor judgement and criticism, elitist behavior and discrimination. There are many good things that come out of this community– in fact their biggest complaint is that you never hear about the millions of dollars and man hours contributed by Greeks to countless charities and causes. However, from my experience, I am completely comfortable saying that there is nothing unique about being “Greek” per se that makes the institution necessary for those things to still be accomplished. GDI’s do all that stuff too, you know. They just don’t have a banner to hang it on. GDI’s also dare each other to drink too much. But they don’t threaten to beat you up or kick you out if you back out. They don’t have anything to kick you out of. There is no cultural collateral to force the action.
There are roughly a million articles decrying my opinion. (And that’s all it is, an opinion– though I feel it’s fairly well formed based on the research and my personal experience.) I’m not saying that there aren’t benefits for members. But you name me one benefit that couldn’t be had another way, and I will rethink my position. I can’t think of a one.
It makes me sad, because I wanted to believe it all. I told parents their babies would be okay with a smile in my heart, believing it at the time. Even though I knew that in our particular community, we had hazing, a cocaine problem, rampant eating disorders, and dangerous alcohol habits. I believed in the good. And I wanted so much to believe that the bad parts could be culled, with time and determination.
I don’t believe that any more.
Each time I tried to help this community change their dying culture, I was met with argument, anger, and apathy. It was not unlike coming upon a drowning man in a river. I waded in at my own peril, only to find that the drowning man would repeatedly punch me in the face. Whether the drowning man punched out of panic or anger was inconsequential. There was no way I was going to down to save him. This was a huge part of my decision to leave my job, in addition to the personal reasons.
If you are a happy member/alumni of this community, I am really glad that you got some benefit out of that. If you are an unhappy member/alumni, you can always, always, always walk away. And if you never even tried to be Greek, please don’t use my diatribe in your self-righteous indignation about how messed up Greek Life was when you were in college. It’s the reason more people who feel like I feel don’t speak up. And if you feel like I feel, and you have answers for how it can change, and live, and be a healthful institution, keep on fighting the good fight. I wish you well.
