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The Writing Mother

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Friday, June 25, 2004
Birthday number Sieben-Tweisig

I considered blogging last night when I came home from the bar, but really, I'm old now and I need my beauty sleep in the worst way.

I had a great time with two good friends. I laughed a lot, I danced a lot, I flirted a little.

And now I have to go get some work done. I'll probably blog again tonight.
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 10:29 AM
  5 comments



Wednesday, June 23, 2004
There's a lot of crap on TV.

I'm glad I am realizing that now, because in a week I'll be tv-less. Well, not exactly, but I'll be downsized from Cable to Peasant-Vision. If I write a best selling novel by the end of this year, you will all know what's been holding me back!

Tomorrow is my birthday. I don't know what to think about it. I could cry, I could laugh. I could get really drunk. I could do all three if I wanted to because it will be my party and I'll crylaughpuke if I want to.

I know one thing. It is way to depressing to look back and even contemplate what I thought I'd be doing when I hit this particular age. I did not think I would be a single mom of a child with anger issues.

Wait. That brings me to what I wanted to blog about.

M. has been having "anger issues" at his day care. Keep in mind he's a day care newbie, he's been there almost 4 months after pretty much staying home with me for 2 and some years. He's an aggressive child, I know this, he's also very outgoing and happy.

Lately he has had at least one incident report each day. Biting. He's the Hannibal Lector of Panda Daycare. Now while I completely disapprove of his behavior, think it is wrong and a punishable offence, there is really nothing that the daycare workers can do other than take him aside and talk to him. They can't even give him a time out according to government regulations. So here is the problem. See, he doesn't do any of this at home or with other kids when I'm around, but he bites and hits at day care. My conclusion is that there is something there causing him to feel frustrated enough that he has to lash out.

So today after work I went to go pick him up. He was playing right near the front of the enclosed playground, with another boy. Instead of going inside, I watched for a few minutes. I saw this other boy push him four times. Not accidentally either, they were two handed 'get outta my way' pushes as the two of them were jumping in puddles together. On the fifth one the kid actually punched M in the face. So M. bit his shoulder. I quickly got out of my car and hollered "M." and he stopped and skedaddled the heck outta Dodge.

By the time I'd gotten into the yard, one of the workers was taking care of the snacked on boxer.. Michael was MIA (he was in the sandbox playing and I think hoping to blend in with the rest of the cannibals.)

Immediately I get the "M. just bit..." story.

"Yeah, I saw. I also saw him just get punched in the face."

"oh."

Perhaps if you to gabbers had been actually watching the children instead of chatting about whoknowswhat, you might have caught that.

Anywho.. the daycare director wants to speak with me, so off I go to the principal's office.

"I have some concerns about M.." she begins.

"And I have some concerns about what I just witnessed outside." I interject. I explain what I had seen. "and I am definitely sick and tired of getting these incident reports that say 'for no apparent reason M bit a kid'... there is always a reason. I am not in denial about my kid's behaviour, but I expect you to be responsible for actually watching my son."

Good thing for her, she agreed with me. Actually a really nice lady who wants to do the best job she can with limited resources due to the inability of this Liberal gov't to provide any further funding for her. I mean her most senior staff member only makes $9 an hour for crying out loud!!

Back to my story.

She wanted to get a "Daycare support person" in to observe M's behaviour, but has to get my permission to do so. I gave her permission. I know he's aggressive, I know he needs to learn to control his temper. I know because he is a small version of me. I can taste his frustration like a lemon in the back of my throat. Just the look on his face and I can feel the anger. It's a long fuse with a loud bang.

Just like my temper.

It sits at a rolling boil long after everyone else thinks you're over it. Then the moment you can, you explode.

I know his temper well because I gave it to him.

I can only try and help him deal with it early on and in a better way than I dealt with it.

Anyways, someday soon a worker will come to observe my son at play. The thing is... I am completely confident that they are going to see that he's being provoked. I know my son.

Off to bed now. Only an hour and a half until my birthday.
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 10:16 PM
  1 comments



Tuesday, June 22, 2004
My son won't know what I mean when I say Hey Fonzie, oh-eh, eh-oh.

He won't know a world where there was no Survivor.

He won't know what "Win one for the Gipper" means.

He won't know what a tape is.

He won't know what a party line is (heck, some of you don't know what a party line is!)

He won't do math freehand (will long division still exist?)

He might not watch those regular old flat cartoons, the classics like Charlie Brown and Garfield.

Will he ever receive a letter in the mail? Or will it be email?

So many little things in life that shaped us, made us who we are today are slowly being eaten up by this worm called time. You don't notice the procession of time very often. every once in a while you will hear a song and it will suck you back to the first time you heard it. I heard one of those songs today. "It was a Cool Summer Night" by Lisa Brokop.

Suddenly I remembered a June day in 1999 when I sang that song, dancing downt the barn alleyway at Grimshaws. Life could not be more perfect. Hot days riding horses, cool summer nights sitting on the fenceposts, watching my boss teach lessons, drinking a wobbly pop. I can feel that breeze on my face as it coasts down the alleyway. The barn is quiet but outside you can hear a mare squeal defensively because the gelding next to her wants to play, and like most mares, she just wants to be a wench. I can hear the sweeping of the broom as I make one last sweep of the barn for the evening. Untying horses as I make my way from one end to the other.

My horses were my babies. I see them once in a while as they've moved on to new owners. Forty or so horses in that barn, all in training with us. I can even remember the order that their stalls were in. Listo, Pacman, Taz, Rooster, Kramer, Socks, Farrah... and on and on. My two year olds, the ones I started, the ones I pushed just hard enough so that they'd want to come to me and be my buddy, so they'd always know I'd be a safe spot. Mudslide, Chex, Rooster, Fonzie, Tank, Calita, Player, Sparkie.... I see them now as seasoned show horses and I miss their gangly bodies as they learned how to lope for the first time with a person aboard. I miss their shivering, worried little heartbeats as I asked them something new. Now it's all old-school to them.

In 8 days I move back to Grimshaws. I bought the little mobile home out there. The front window points Northwest, so I can still see the Cochrane hill and watch the weather come in for an hour. I can still wander the barn at 11 pm to see how everyone is settling in. I can still hear the boys as they holler their hellos to the morning and tell all the other studs how manly-man they are.

It won't be like before, it will be new, but it will be like going home again.
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 8:44 PM
  0 comments



Please visit.... the Blog of Death

There you will find some incredibly touching tributes to individuals who have slipped away from this world. Most without us even knowing it.

A little boy who saved a playmate from drowning, the man who invented a cataract surgery that has saved hundreds of thousands of peoples' sight, a publisher who published "authors not books".

It's beautiful, the site. Have a look.
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 7:00 PM
  1 comments



Monday, June 21, 2004
Some dude just flew into space.... we're not talking about NASA... we're talking some guy with a lot of money, built a spaceship, and flew up into space.

Pardon my french, but how 'effin' freaked out would you be... being the lone guy in this rocket. I mean there are at least 7 others up in NASA's ride.

What happens if he has to pee? Who drives?

I'm a little flustered at the moment. I need to finish an article and a column, and I left my notes at work. What can I write about tonight to get my mind off of this? I mean obviously I can't do anything about it!

Nothing. There's a roadblock in my train of thought.

  The Writing Mother
  posted at 10:34 PM
  0 comments



Sunday, June 20, 2004
I'm finding my freckles again. I love my freckles. I missed them.

I'm fakin' bakin'... I know, increased risk of skin cancer and all. I'm a red head with fair skin. All the damage I did to my skin in childhood with burns and blisters. That's where the damage is, the burns. Well I decided I wanted to see my freckles again, and I'm not into laying outside on a towel for hours at a time to find them. Who has time for that! Tonight I found the three freckles on my knees that I used to draw into a triangle. Perfectly placed there on my knee. I bet I haven't see them since I was 10. That was around the time my dad said I was fat and I started wearing pants instead of shorts all summer. Who wanted to see my fat legs anyways.

Then I started riding horses and I've basically lived in my jeans ever since. So the gams haven't seen a lot of sun in, let's say, 15 years.

But I like me tanned, and I love my freckles.

And I'm doing it for my friend Pam, whose MIL once told her that flab looks better when it's tanned.

Have you ever wondered what kind of person you are? You know when you are talking about someone and you qualify them, as in "she's the type of person who would....". So I've decided to try that on myself.

I'm the type of person:

Who sings in the car
Whose 4 disc changer in her car currently holds Johnny Cash, Eminem, Terry Clark, and Josh Groban (for all my freaky moods)
Who likes to watch shows that make me cry
Who sings in the shower
Who really likes to sleep in on a Sunday
Who takes her family for granted
Whose family doesn't understand her
Who needs space to yell when she's mad
Who is secretly very, very competitive
Who is not so secretly a bitch sometimes
Who has used the power of words to hurt others
Who wishes she hadn't
Who regrets a lot of things she did, and very few things she didn't
Who is friends with her ex-husband and would still do a lot for him
Who sometimes wants to move to another life/city/country and begin all over
Whose bookshelf is full of books she has no time to read
Who craves praise and sees it as a reward for a job well done
Who is an internal and external perfectionist
Who sees logic as a pesky detail
Who crys when she is happy/mad/scared/depressed
Who resents external structure in her life
Who knows she is a good apple, says she doesn't want to be picked, but c'mon, get real.

Do all of these make sense? Probably not. Try it, free write it... what kind of person are you?
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 8:37 PM
  1 comments



Friday, June 18, 2004
Fast Forward

Do you ever have a day where you feel you are on fast forward. I'm having one of those days.

It started yesterday. We had a sample sale here at work. All the fall and winter samples went on sale for staff to buy. We're talking $400 leather jackets for $50. I got a $200 ski jacket for $30. Insane deals.

But I do work with some super-shoppers. The line was long. Luckily my boss is a cheater and got me inline early. In fact, I was the first person in line! The rule was you could buy as much as you could carry. I went through twice.

In the end, I foolishly put $200 on my newly cleaned off Visa. But, I got over $600 worth of clothing and jackets and shoes. Plus I'm paying off my Visa by the end of the month anyways.

So back to being on fast forward.

Life is about choppy thoughts today. I can't stay focused on just one thing at a time. There's work, spilling pop in my lap, eating pizza, analyzing an account's buying strategy, researching a big account, thinking about writing I have to do, coming up with new editorial ideas for a magazine, a variety of reining things.... my vacations....my busy, busy weekend coming up...

Speaking of vacations, I just found out that I get more days this year than I thought. I have 10 days to spend before next May. I know exactly where those days are going. Horse shows. The NRHA futurity. It's a huge show down in Oklahoma City. I'm SO going. In fact, I'm going to stay with some people beforehand and see if I can maybe get on as hired help for the week. It's the Daytona 500 of the horse world.

My desk is exceedingly messy at the moment. It's contributing to my frazzled brain, I think I need to clean it. Right Now.
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 12:08 PM
  2 comments



Thursday, June 17, 2004
It is a beautiful day today. Gorgeous even. A little crisp, I just spoke with my old boss in Texas who said it was about 35C, and here we are, scraping out a 16C. But the sun is shining, the grass is very green, and I think my butt looks good in these pants.

While typing an email to a friend, I realized that currently, I am not in love with anyone. But hold on, this is a good thing. I'm one of those silly girls who falls in love at the drop of a pair of wranglers... I mean a hat. It's as though I just make up my mind and fall in love.

Take the most recent boy for instance... I had not met him, but heard a lot about him. I liked the idea of him before I'd met him. So when I suddenly did meet him, I was predisposed to like him. Soon I was thinking about him all the time. Wondering about the many things I did not know about him that I wanted to.

Several friends were - I'm sure - shaking their heads. Especially the ones who told me about him.. "what have we unleashed?" That brought me down to earth a bit. What was I? Some kind of stalker? I noticed suddenly a repetetive pattern in my relationships. I was the pursuer. While there's a slightly powerful aspect to the "I get the one I want" train of thought, it's a flat and one dimensional power. It leaves you wondering if you would ever have been chosen or if you'd still be left standing in the Red Rover line, still waiting for your name to be called.

So when I made the decision to not pursue someone, it was at first with a stubborn heart. I was going to hold out and make someone work for it. But being the person that I am, I kept thinking "why?"

Well because... I'm a damn good catch, that's why! This has nothing to do with the size of my but, the perkiness (or droopiness as the case may or may not be) of my breasts, the wrinkles around my eyes, or the colour of my hair. This has to do with the love I have to give. I don't have to take care of someone to feel worthy and needed. I know I have that ability to love and care for someone.

Now who is worthy of me?
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 9:04 AM
  0 comments



Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Driving into work today, I had this stunning revelation. I really like myself.

Maybe that's an odd revelation, maybe not. But it's a new revelation for me anyways (...are there ever any old revelations..?).

You see, I've been one of those individuals whose inner critic is turned up full blast. I would criticize myself for things I had actually not even done. For example, I had to speak in public once and I can remember that inner critic saying "you're going to stutter so bad because you're such a poor speaker. Why are you even doing this? Find someone else to do it. Oh man, you're going to sound like such an idiot!"

I'd actually start to get upset, when I hadn't even screwed up yet. Pre-screw up cut-downs.

Yet today I was really happy with myself... I'm not sure why. I'm really proud of myself! In the last few months I have:

Paid off my visa
I'm about to sign papers on my new house
Paid off several big bills
I have 4 more loan payments left
lost weight

The list is longer, and some things may seem inconsequential to many, but to me they are big things.

Another example. I've accepted the fact that I'm an emotional person. That my moods fluctuate more than gas prices. I have always known that I'm emotional, but I never really thought that it was ok. Now I do.

The bizarre thing is that I'm not sure how I came to this conclusion. I just decided I was a good person. I might have to do with the fact that I decided a few weeks ago that I was a great catch. As I girlfriend or a wife I mean.

Honestly, I have many good qualities that some damn lucky guy is going to cash in on.. if he's approved as boyfriend material.

I make awesome Apple pies and Chocolate chip cookies
I can drive anything
I'm a decent housekeeper
I don't overspend
I save for a rainy day
I'm a great mom
I'm a great friend
I like to listen
I face my fears
I'm independent
I respect others
I love to go out to a movie or stay in
I am very considerate of others' feelings

Well, I won't list all my qualities, because at this point you're thinking, ok, move on...

But I am confident of my goodness.

I'm confident that I am a good apple.
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 2:39 PM
  1 comments



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