Dammit. I found a job. I was looking, but really trying not to find one, because really, all I want to do is stay home with my wee ones. Too bad my bank account was screaming at me to filler up. We have been so out of money these days, I have been getting my shopping fix during these depressing times by sliding my pretend credit card in my kid's pretend cash register that also doubles as a calculator and has pretend green money. I just stop over to their pretend bookstore and request some cash back, and soon I am off with a few 20's in my pocket buying some books. Yet, even in this store I can afford very little since my son prices his books at such exorbitant prices. If all else fails, I just charge it. Slide. Beep. Aaaah.
My new job will require much of my attention, since I will venture once again to teach 6th graders, but this time in a middle school setting- something I've avoided at all costs since I started teaching. Luckily, it is in a really good district with high performing students, but in the end it really doesn't matter. A 6th grader is a 6th grader is a 6th grader. At least by 6th grade, they have gotten over the initial shock from their sudden increase in hormones. If anybody thinks 6th graders are difficult, they should really try teaching 5th grade. They are really at their best the first eight years at about 3rd and 4th grade.
I love teaching, and I am excited to have my own classroom once again, but I am not looking forward to being away from my kids for most of the day. On the plus side, working away from them can have the bonus effect of making me into a better mother. Maybe, it's just because I miss them. Maybe it's that I finally have time to talk to other adults- sort of. Maybe, it's the guilt of being away, or maybe it's just that I have more money in my pocket. I will just have to look forward to Labor Day, Thanksgiving Break, Holiday Break, Winter Break (and no, this is not the same as the previous one, this happens in February), Spring Break, etc. to spend time with them ALL most of the day.
Showing posts with label Deplorable Woefulness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Deplorable Woefulness. Show all posts
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Friday, July 4, 2008
Mixed Emotions
Really. I never wanted to be mediocre. Life just lead me this way. I always thought I just might have escaped my family's dramatic style of living, and actually do or become someone important. In my family, there is always someone dead, or dying, or pregnant, or forsaken, or in some kind of doomed relationship going nowhere, or... you know, imitating another Mexican soap opera you might see on tv. There are points in my life where I wondered if these Mexican soap opera's emulate real life or whether we emulate the soap operas.
Maybe, my family and other Latin families just have a flare for the dramatic. My mom often begins conversations with "Que crees?" which translated exactly means what do you believe or think, which really means you won't believe what is going on now. It is usually followed by a deep breath from her and a sudden loss of air by me. This of course, is never a real huge clue on the gravity of the situation she is about to explain. Sometimes, it means someone is newly pregnant, or received some unfortunate medical news, or someone lost something, and on a few occasions, it means that someone has actually had some fortune come there way: a new house, new job, a new car. If we are having a run of these conversations, which is usually the norm for our family, she will begin the conversations with "Y ahora que crees?", "and now guess what". Is my family doomed to be miserable? Is it a string of unfortunate luck, poor decisions, or a combination of both? Is it a case of the blind leading the blind? Boredom, maybe?
This family I speak of, this family I was born in is made up of two uncles, five aunts, and my mom. All aunts and uncles, and including my mom, are all diabetic. I have had one aunt and one uncle die of complications from diabetes, and another aunt burn to death at age seven when her dress caught fire while attempting to cook. Her school had sent her home early for bad behavior. My grandmother lost many other uncles and aunts I never knew as babies from pnemonia and other childhood illnesses- my grandmother, the one who married an already married man without her knowing. Something she didn't discover until after her fifth child with this man. A man rumored to have blue eyes, fair skin, and a broad noses just like my boys.
I hope so much more for my boys than I have accomplished. I hope they can escape this inexplicable tether of doom I feel like I have to my family. When I met my husband, I thought grabbing a hold of his family, and its normalcy would help me break free, but its force at times feels much too strong. For someone who has never been in the places I have been growing up, my writing this now may seem like one huge pity party and maybe it is, but if you have been one of the unfortunates, you will know what I speak of. It is much easier to stay on top, than it is to make your way up. I didn't get very far up, but I hope my children will someday be able to.
I have been so much more fortunate than my own mother. I have married a good man who is not an alcoholic, who has aspirations for great things, who treats me like an equal, and is there to help me - who loves me and tells me so. I have the education she never got, but always wanted. I have married into a family she always wished she'd had, but never did. She reminds me of this during my many pity party sessions with her. I realize now, that to her, I am progress. I may not be on top, but I am well on my way there.
Hopefully, my children will reach the summit- way up above the clouds letting go of the tether of doom while keeping hold to the enormous tether of love I also feel I have to my family. The love that has bound our family through space and time. A love that is still so real, and huge, and palpable so many hundreds of miles away. If nothing else, I can say that I have been well loved, and I hope that I have been successful in my repayment of this love to my children, my husband, my mother, my father, and the rest of my family and friends. I guess after having written all this, maybe my glass is more full than I care to believe. In there lies the power of writing, if only to be heard by myself- a stream of thoughts that began in one place and ended in another.
Maybe, my family and other Latin families just have a flare for the dramatic. My mom often begins conversations with "Que crees?" which translated exactly means what do you believe or think, which really means you won't believe what is going on now. It is usually followed by a deep breath from her and a sudden loss of air by me. This of course, is never a real huge clue on the gravity of the situation she is about to explain. Sometimes, it means someone is newly pregnant, or received some unfortunate medical news, or someone lost something, and on a few occasions, it means that someone has actually had some fortune come there way: a new house, new job, a new car. If we are having a run of these conversations, which is usually the norm for our family, she will begin the conversations with "Y ahora que crees?", "and now guess what". Is my family doomed to be miserable? Is it a string of unfortunate luck, poor decisions, or a combination of both? Is it a case of the blind leading the blind? Boredom, maybe?
This family I speak of, this family I was born in is made up of two uncles, five aunts, and my mom. All aunts and uncles, and including my mom, are all diabetic. I have had one aunt and one uncle die of complications from diabetes, and another aunt burn to death at age seven when her dress caught fire while attempting to cook. Her school had sent her home early for bad behavior. My grandmother lost many other uncles and aunts I never knew as babies from pnemonia and other childhood illnesses- my grandmother, the one who married an already married man without her knowing. Something she didn't discover until after her fifth child with this man. A man rumored to have blue eyes, fair skin, and a broad noses just like my boys.
I hope so much more for my boys than I have accomplished. I hope they can escape this inexplicable tether of doom I feel like I have to my family. When I met my husband, I thought grabbing a hold of his family, and its normalcy would help me break free, but its force at times feels much too strong. For someone who has never been in the places I have been growing up, my writing this now may seem like one huge pity party and maybe it is, but if you have been one of the unfortunates, you will know what I speak of. It is much easier to stay on top, than it is to make your way up. I didn't get very far up, but I hope my children will someday be able to.
I have been so much more fortunate than my own mother. I have married a good man who is not an alcoholic, who has aspirations for great things, who treats me like an equal, and is there to help me - who loves me and tells me so. I have the education she never got, but always wanted. I have married into a family she always wished she'd had, but never did. She reminds me of this during my many pity party sessions with her. I realize now, that to her, I am progress. I may not be on top, but I am well on my way there.
Hopefully, my children will reach the summit- way up above the clouds letting go of the tether of doom while keeping hold to the enormous tether of love I also feel I have to my family. The love that has bound our family through space and time. A love that is still so real, and huge, and palpable so many hundreds of miles away. If nothing else, I can say that I have been well loved, and I hope that I have been successful in my repayment of this love to my children, my husband, my mother, my father, and the rest of my family and friends. I guess after having written all this, maybe my glass is more full than I care to believe. In there lies the power of writing, if only to be heard by myself- a stream of thoughts that began in one place and ended in another.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Rerun
I wake up everyday, but everyday seems like the same day. One day end to end. No real clear cut lines- just one LONG day. It feels too much like time is slipping away from me, and that I am letting it go. I am waiting. Not sure what for.
There has been so much loss. Everday we lose something. Some losses are greater than others. The loss of time. The loss of home. The loss of security. The loss of youth. The loss of our identities or jobs. The loss of loved ones. I lost my uncle this past weekend. I lost my aunt about two years ago- not really sure how long- and I lost my grandmother almost 20 years ago, but it all just feels like yesterday.
I relive the loss often- having difficulty letting go. With each loss, I was many states away lacking for some real closure. Maybe the wound is never meant to heal. Maybe the pain is meant to be taken with us on our journey to who knows where. I have a hard time accepting they are gone. It still feels like they are just far far away and I have been neglecting to visit them. Maybe its easier this way. The weight gets heavier each time, but maybe it is just the pull of the ties that bond us that keeps tugging at our soul. Maybe we are just forever anchored to our loved ones. Through life, death, time. Maybe it still feels like they are not gone, because they have never left. There is only so much my puny brain can understand, so little my eyes can see, but my soul can see, feel, hear something greater that my other senses cannot. It lacks interpretation. Someday. maybe.
There has been so much loss. Everday we lose something. Some losses are greater than others. The loss of time. The loss of home. The loss of security. The loss of youth. The loss of our identities or jobs. The loss of loved ones. I lost my uncle this past weekend. I lost my aunt about two years ago- not really sure how long- and I lost my grandmother almost 20 years ago, but it all just feels like yesterday.
I relive the loss often- having difficulty letting go. With each loss, I was many states away lacking for some real closure. Maybe the wound is never meant to heal. Maybe the pain is meant to be taken with us on our journey to who knows where. I have a hard time accepting they are gone. It still feels like they are just far far away and I have been neglecting to visit them. Maybe its easier this way. The weight gets heavier each time, but maybe it is just the pull of the ties that bond us that keeps tugging at our soul. Maybe we are just forever anchored to our loved ones. Through life, death, time. Maybe it still feels like they are not gone, because they have never left. There is only so much my puny brain can understand, so little my eyes can see, but my soul can see, feel, hear something greater that my other senses cannot. It lacks interpretation. Someday. maybe.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Gray Skies are Gonna...
Is it still January? I lose track these days, and I try to post at least once a week, but lately it's been gloomy and rainy around here and I need a certain amount of sunlight to keep from feeling glum.
It reminds me of the winter I spent in the Santa Cruz Redwood Rainforest during an "El Nino" year. I was in my second year of college and having to get up at 7 in the morning to hike over to an early organic chemistry class. That was depressing enough, but then having to do it in the cold rain didn't help. Everyday I'd hike to class under gray skies, as the winds howled, and the incessant rain pittered and patterred. I carried an umbrella, but it only served to keep my hair dry. The rest of me would sit in class soaking wet and shivering until it was time to walk through the rain again. Even when it did stop raining, the water would continuously trickle from the trees. You would think that would be enough to keep me awake during class, but apparently not. I was under a constant rain cloud.
I slipped into a mild seasonal depression. All I wanted to do everyday is just sleep. I slept in my dorm room, and I slept in class when I did manage to convince myself that I cared enough about passing my classes, and would brave the weather to do so. I spent most of those days asleep and/or wet, so we can safely say that I didn't fare well that quarter in school. It was a good thing the skies started to clear by spring quarter, because if they hadn't, I probably wouldn't have been there the next two years to finish school.
These days I am not getting up early to brave the weather to make it to class, but twice a week, I have to pull myself out of bed, get dressed, dress the older boy, diaper the younger one as I put him to bed in sweats, grab their snacks and lunches, maneuver our too-wide bike trailer through our gate without knocking the bike over onto myself, throw their lunches and snacks prepared the night before in the back, put a jacket on both boys, place their helmets on and my own, and then try to handle them with all their puffy layers to place them in the trailer while I try to manipulate the straps and clips with cold, numb fingers - all of this to get Big Brother to preschool. Once this is all done, I have to then pedal two miles up a steady incline that might as well be Mount Mckinley as my out of shape body can handle little exercise. The wind is of course howling against me and the drizzle gently misting my hair. I get to his preschool and get off the bike to find my legs feeling heavy and tingly all over. I must then proceed to remove all the straps and gear with my frozen claw-like hands. Once the older boy is all signed in, I must then convince the younger Bee that we will have equally as much fun at home than Big Brother will have at school, and then rehelmet and restrap him into the trailer. At least, it's all downhill from his school.
My mom laughs at me when I tell her about my biking adventures. She just chuckles and brings up her own version of walking ten miles through the snow and back story. Her story about how she waded thought the Rio Grande while she was 7 months pregnant with my brother and then almost got run over by a border patrol lady in her jeep who was the person responsible for stripping her of her passport in the first place on orders from my grandmother (dad's mom) who she was friends with. Or the time she walked three miles in the snow to get to work at 3 am because my father wouldn't be bothered to get up and give her a ride. I apparently did not inherent my mom's brave soul.
At least the skies have cleared temporarily, so I must go and soak up some sun while it lasts.
It reminds me of the winter I spent in the Santa Cruz Redwood Rainforest during an "El Nino" year. I was in my second year of college and having to get up at 7 in the morning to hike over to an early organic chemistry class. That was depressing enough, but then having to do it in the cold rain didn't help. Everyday I'd hike to class under gray skies, as the winds howled, and the incessant rain pittered and patterred. I carried an umbrella, but it only served to keep my hair dry. The rest of me would sit in class soaking wet and shivering until it was time to walk through the rain again. Even when it did stop raining, the water would continuously trickle from the trees. You would think that would be enough to keep me awake during class, but apparently not. I was under a constant rain cloud.
I slipped into a mild seasonal depression. All I wanted to do everyday is just sleep. I slept in my dorm room, and I slept in class when I did manage to convince myself that I cared enough about passing my classes, and would brave the weather to do so. I spent most of those days asleep and/or wet, so we can safely say that I didn't fare well that quarter in school. It was a good thing the skies started to clear by spring quarter, because if they hadn't, I probably wouldn't have been there the next two years to finish school.
These days I am not getting up early to brave the weather to make it to class, but twice a week, I have to pull myself out of bed, get dressed, dress the older boy, diaper the younger one as I put him to bed in sweats, grab their snacks and lunches, maneuver our too-wide bike trailer through our gate without knocking the bike over onto myself, throw their lunches and snacks prepared the night before in the back, put a jacket on both boys, place their helmets on and my own, and then try to handle them with all their puffy layers to place them in the trailer while I try to manipulate the straps and clips with cold, numb fingers - all of this to get Big Brother to preschool. Once this is all done, I have to then pedal two miles up a steady incline that might as well be Mount Mckinley as my out of shape body can handle little exercise. The wind is of course howling against me and the drizzle gently misting my hair. I get to his preschool and get off the bike to find my legs feeling heavy and tingly all over. I must then proceed to remove all the straps and gear with my frozen claw-like hands. Once the older boy is all signed in, I must then convince the younger Bee that we will have equally as much fun at home than Big Brother will have at school, and then rehelmet and restrap him into the trailer. At least, it's all downhill from his school.
My mom laughs at me when I tell her about my biking adventures. She just chuckles and brings up her own version of walking ten miles through the snow and back story. Her story about how she waded thought the Rio Grande while she was 7 months pregnant with my brother and then almost got run over by a border patrol lady in her jeep who was the person responsible for stripping her of her passport in the first place on orders from my grandmother (dad's mom) who she was friends with. Or the time she walked three miles in the snow to get to work at 3 am because my father wouldn't be bothered to get up and give her a ride. I apparently did not inherent my mom's brave soul.
At least the skies have cleared temporarily, so I must go and soak up some sun while it lasts.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
The Butcher Shop
My hair is very temperamental. Some days it likes to lie flat, others it wants to curl in gentle waves, and still other days, it can't make up it's mind and does a little bit of both. On really damp or humid days, it is just outright defiant and turns into one big ball of frizz - bottles of mouse and hairspray are consumed on those days in attempts to make it somewhat presentable.
These are the many reasons I am most reluctant to get my hair chopped, since one wrong cut and my hair goes all Jekyll and Hyde on me. So one morning, a couple of weeks ago, I decided that today was the day my hair met Mr. Scissors once again. After many split ends, numerous knots, four inches, and 10 months of growth, I had decided that my haircut was long overdue.
Nothing would stop me that day from getting my locks lopped off. Knowing that I just couldn't go anywhere to get my hair cut, I scoured internet sites, read reviews, checked coupons, until I found a place that sounded like it would meet my needs. I decided to go with a shop that could schedule me in immediately and praised itself for being able to cut ethnic hair. After all, I figured my hair qualified as being ethnic.
I was on a mission, and I couldn't wait until my regular hairdresser had an opening to cut my hair. Besides being frugal and broke, I decided I needed a more affordable cut. I would just have to do without the shampoo, foot and head massage, and a hairdresser that values symmetry, because apparently this new salon did not.
The new salon was no bigger than a closet, and about as cozy and bright as one too. It mirrors rested on the counter in a slant since apparently it was too much trouble to hang them on the wall. Three women sat and waited with hair much frizzier than mine, while two others got their hair groomed by two separate hairdressers. My first instinct was to run the other direction, but I decided I would not judge a hairdressers ability by the way they kept their salon.
I should have run the other way, because after a quick shampoo done only because the stylist misplaced her spray bottle, a puzzled look after asking for a two layer haircut, and many haphazard cuts, I ended up with hair that was unevenly layered on half my head, and one side one inch longer than the other. This I didn't notice until I got home because as soon as she said she was done, she popped a hand held mirror bigger than the windshield of my car in my face and asked how I liked the back. The back looked fine as far as I could tell since it was sopping wet, but mostly, I just wanted to run out of there, and get them as far away from my hair as I could.
I came home dismayed. The Dada took one look into my eyes and knew I was teetering on the edge, about to explode into fits of tears. He said my hair looked fine, and you couldn't notice the unevenness when I had it up. It didn't matter because even if I put it up, I knew my hair had been butchered. I solemnly held my head to the right. The side that ended up one inch longer, and in my mind, that was why that side felt heavier.
I eventually scheduled a haircut with my regular hairdresser. I had to admit I had cheated on him with another much less capable hairdresser, and was now returning to him knowing that he could make it all better. So after $70, two hair dressers, many MANY cuts, and hair that had to end up one inch shorter than desired, I eventually got my haircut - completely layered and symmetrical. Next time I will have to remember the lesson relearned (because I am just that thick)- be patient, and stop being such a cheap ass.
These are the many reasons I am most reluctant to get my hair chopped, since one wrong cut and my hair goes all Jekyll and Hyde on me. So one morning, a couple of weeks ago, I decided that today was the day my hair met Mr. Scissors once again. After many split ends, numerous knots, four inches, and 10 months of growth, I had decided that my haircut was long overdue.
Nothing would stop me that day from getting my locks lopped off. Knowing that I just couldn't go anywhere to get my hair cut, I scoured internet sites, read reviews, checked coupons, until I found a place that sounded like it would meet my needs. I decided to go with a shop that could schedule me in immediately and praised itself for being able to cut ethnic hair. After all, I figured my hair qualified as being ethnic.
I was on a mission, and I couldn't wait until my regular hairdresser had an opening to cut my hair. Besides being frugal and broke, I decided I needed a more affordable cut. I would just have to do without the shampoo, foot and head massage, and a hairdresser that values symmetry, because apparently this new salon did not.
The new salon was no bigger than a closet, and about as cozy and bright as one too. It mirrors rested on the counter in a slant since apparently it was too much trouble to hang them on the wall. Three women sat and waited with hair much frizzier than mine, while two others got their hair groomed by two separate hairdressers. My first instinct was to run the other direction, but I decided I would not judge a hairdressers ability by the way they kept their salon.
I should have run the other way, because after a quick shampoo done only because the stylist misplaced her spray bottle, a puzzled look after asking for a two layer haircut, and many haphazard cuts, I ended up with hair that was unevenly layered on half my head, and one side one inch longer than the other. This I didn't notice until I got home because as soon as she said she was done, she popped a hand held mirror bigger than the windshield of my car in my face and asked how I liked the back. The back looked fine as far as I could tell since it was sopping wet, but mostly, I just wanted to run out of there, and get them as far away from my hair as I could.
I came home dismayed. The Dada took one look into my eyes and knew I was teetering on the edge, about to explode into fits of tears. He said my hair looked fine, and you couldn't notice the unevenness when I had it up. It didn't matter because even if I put it up, I knew my hair had been butchered. I solemnly held my head to the right. The side that ended up one inch longer, and in my mind, that was why that side felt heavier.
I eventually scheduled a haircut with my regular hairdresser. I had to admit I had cheated on him with another much less capable hairdresser, and was now returning to him knowing that he could make it all better. So after $70, two hair dressers, many MANY cuts, and hair that had to end up one inch shorter than desired, I eventually got my haircut - completely layered and symmetrical. Next time I will have to remember the lesson relearned (because I am just that thick)- be patient, and stop being such a cheap ass.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Buyer's Remorse
We bought our tree a couple of weeks ago (Yes. I realize that's early, and I'm all for not starting x-mas too early -like back in September - but we are leaving soon, and I wanted to have time to enjoy the dam tree!). We bought a real tree, not a live one or fake one, but a REAL dead tree. The Dada and I have been married for almost seven years now, and this is our first tree. Before this year, we were either out of town most of December or lived in too small a place to have one, or really just didn't want to have to redecorate the tree everyday with a toddler around as we are doing now.
The tree is beautiful. It needles are soft, green, but not too stiff, it branches are full and strong, and its shape is so perfectly conical it should be featured in all x-mas magazine covers. Everything you could ever want from a Christmas tree, this tree has.
Yet, as perfect as it is, I feel sad looking at it. It stands there stalwart and radiant looking back at me as if to say, "Look how beautiful I am, and think of how much more beautiful I could have gotten if I were left to live." Yes. My tree is conceited, too. Either way, I can't help, but agree with the tree. We played a role in it's slaughter, and now its looking us straight in the face and asking "Why". I am remorseful.
You'd think I'd be able to handle this since I am a carnivore. I do feel somewhat remorseful eating meat, and I have tried to cut back, but come on, I'm Mexican, and a meal at my house wasn't a meal unless there was a dead animal on the plate. But since the whole animal carcass isn't on my plate at once staring me in the face, it's easier to distance myself. If I had to kill the animal myself, I probably wouldn't be able to do it unless I was starving and that was all there was to eat. In which case, I'm sure the animal would be sizing me up to.
So maybe next year, I will become a plasticarian. I will purchase a fake tree just like the one we had when I was growing up. Well, maybe not exactly like the one we had since our tree was white, and by that I don't mean it had fake snow, but that it had white needles. What was my mother thinking? I loved that tree growing up just as much as I love this year's Christmas tree. Although, if we did buy a fake tree, I will have to also think about the many migrant workers in China earning $100 a month to make our fake tree and feel remorseful about that. Heck! If all else fails, we'll just paint a tree on the wall.
The tree is beautiful. It needles are soft, green, but not too stiff, it branches are full and strong, and its shape is so perfectly conical it should be featured in all x-mas magazine covers. Everything you could ever want from a Christmas tree, this tree has.
Yet, as perfect as it is, I feel sad looking at it. It stands there stalwart and radiant looking back at me as if to say, "Look how beautiful I am, and think of how much more beautiful I could have gotten if I were left to live." Yes. My tree is conceited, too. Either way, I can't help, but agree with the tree. We played a role in it's slaughter, and now its looking us straight in the face and asking "Why". I am remorseful.
You'd think I'd be able to handle this since I am a carnivore. I do feel somewhat remorseful eating meat, and I have tried to cut back, but come on, I'm Mexican, and a meal at my house wasn't a meal unless there was a dead animal on the plate. But since the whole animal carcass isn't on my plate at once staring me in the face, it's easier to distance myself. If I had to kill the animal myself, I probably wouldn't be able to do it unless I was starving and that was all there was to eat. In which case, I'm sure the animal would be sizing me up to.
So maybe next year, I will become a plasticarian. I will purchase a fake tree just like the one we had when I was growing up. Well, maybe not exactly like the one we had since our tree was white, and by that I don't mean it had fake snow, but that it had white needles. What was my mother thinking? I loved that tree growing up just as much as I love this year's Christmas tree. Although, if we did buy a fake tree, I will have to also think about the many migrant workers in China earning $100 a month to make our fake tree and feel remorseful about that. Heck! If all else fails, we'll just paint a tree on the wall.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Nothing to Envy Here
Yep. There is nothing to envy here. Nothing that will make you think: oh I wish I had that, life's unfair, why don't I live there, why can't I write like that or take pictures like that, where's my master's degree or prestigious job, why am I not that slender, pretty, smart, popular, etc. Nope. I will give you little reason to envy me, as I know that part of what we bloggers do, is take a glimpse into the life of others to compare and covet.
Then again, today my glass is 9/10th's empty, but I promise never to brag about my life during the times I feel it overflows with the little things that make it worth living.
Then again, today my glass is 9/10th's empty, but I promise never to brag about my life during the times I feel it overflows with the little things that make it worth living.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
If I were any stiffer I'd be dead
Yes, folks, If I were any stiffer I'd be dead. The combination of having very little savings, no job, no sleep, and two screaming kids have left me with rigor mortis. My shoulders are up to my ears, and it feels like someone stuffed some golf balls behind my shoulder blades.
Right now, we can't afford any of these modern day luxuries like having a home, running water, electricity, sending the boy to preschool, and certainly not this high speed dsl that I could be using to find a job. On the plus side, I think we might be able to afford to eat this month.
You see, the trouble with having children, is that they need someone to take care of them, and if you vow never to have some stranger watch your children, well then, that means you need to watch them. That also means, that with every child you must leave work. The effect of that then leaves you with gaps in your work history. Staying homes shows you value your children over your job, and well, employers don't like to see that because NOTHING should be prioritized over your job.
You'd think working in a school where children are a priority things would be different. No. No. No. No. Your the teacher, and nothing should be valued over bringing those wonderful test scores up, even if it means forgetting you have your own children, living at school because with the amount of hours you are expected to put in, you might as well bring a bed, and being clever enough to make the impossible work. Yes, and after all that, don't expect to be paid what you're worth, or even be given a pat on your shoulder with a "good job", because you must never forget that as soon as ANYTHING goes wrong, you will be blamed. It doesn't matter if what went wrong happened at home, or in a small remote island off the coast of South Africa, because it will still be your fault. Scapegoat, scapegoat, scapegoat.
The work world is not child friendly, and leaving a job to tend to them will result in massive blacklisting, so don't expect to find one after they are finally old enough to be put through the system. Hey, it's free childcare. Isn't it?
My point is, if your reading this, send money, or some brilliant references, because I need a job so that my shoulders can be tense for other reasons like trying to bring test scores up from the pits of hell.
Okay. That's enough sarcasm and ranting for today. Stay tuned.
Right now, we can't afford any of these modern day luxuries like having a home, running water, electricity, sending the boy to preschool, and certainly not this high speed dsl that I could be using to find a job. On the plus side, I think we might be able to afford to eat this month.
You see, the trouble with having children, is that they need someone to take care of them, and if you vow never to have some stranger watch your children, well then, that means you need to watch them. That also means, that with every child you must leave work. The effect of that then leaves you with gaps in your work history. Staying homes shows you value your children over your job, and well, employers don't like to see that because NOTHING should be prioritized over your job.
You'd think working in a school where children are a priority things would be different. No. No. No. No. Your the teacher, and nothing should be valued over bringing those wonderful test scores up, even if it means forgetting you have your own children, living at school because with the amount of hours you are expected to put in, you might as well bring a bed, and being clever enough to make the impossible work. Yes, and after all that, don't expect to be paid what you're worth, or even be given a pat on your shoulder with a "good job", because you must never forget that as soon as ANYTHING goes wrong, you will be blamed. It doesn't matter if what went wrong happened at home, or in a small remote island off the coast of South Africa, because it will still be your fault. Scapegoat, scapegoat, scapegoat.
The work world is not child friendly, and leaving a job to tend to them will result in massive blacklisting, so don't expect to find one after they are finally old enough to be put through the system. Hey, it's free childcare. Isn't it?
My point is, if your reading this, send money, or some brilliant references, because I need a job so that my shoulders can be tense for other reasons like trying to bring test scores up from the pits of hell.
Okay. That's enough sarcasm and ranting for today. Stay tuned.
Monday, September 17, 2007
While watching the Emmy's...
and looking at pretty dresses I will never get to wear or even have a place to wear them at, my son commented, "Look mommy! That's the wady that lives in the doctor show!"
Friday, July 13, 2007
Lost in a sea of nothingness
Well, you ask why I haven't written in a while? I had nothing to say. I just plain old lost my inspiration (or my mind). It's all the same really. You see, even now, I am saying nothing.
Parenting can sometimes suck all that is you, and if you had little to give, then it doesn't take much for it all to be gone. I need to get back to sewing, so that when someone asks me what I like to do, I can say I like to sew. I don't think surfing the net is considered a productive past time.
Parenting can sometimes suck all that is you, and if you had little to give, then it doesn't take much for it all to be gone. I need to get back to sewing, so that when someone asks me what I like to do, I can say I like to sew. I don't think surfing the net is considered a productive past time.
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