A is for Abdicate

My cousin is currently enrolled at GSU getting her Masters in Education. A few days ago, she stopped by our house on her way home. She asked if she could give Fiona the Reading Level test. You know, the one remarkable kids with obnoxious parents take to announce to less remarkable families that their infant is reading at a 5th grade level? That one. And while I'd like to think I don't care about such ranking, I freaked.

If my cousin is reading this, she's probably thinking 1) "I didn't mean to freak you out, freak." and 2) "You didn't seem that freaked when I pulled out the workbook?" To which I'd respond, 1) "Don't worry, it doesn't take much. If it wasn't your Reading Level test that made me feel like an inadequate mother, it'd be the the family of well-behaved home schooled children I saw walking through Publix that same day, outnumbering my naughties by about 4 children." and 2) I'd like for you and others to think I don't care about trivial matters like my children's literacy."

And just as I suspected, when she asked Fiona to read from a list of words that her age should be able to read (we, the, I, no, go, etc, etc.), she looked over at me as if to say, "So why did you take me out of preschool again?", blink, blink. I was praying that she'd have somehow learned how to read just by watching Sesame Street every morning for the last 4 years. I retract my annual $10 donation, PBS!

Needless to say, the moment Jackie pulled out of our driveway, I ran to their bedroom and began pulling out old workbooks I bought when Fiona was two. That was before I had Neve. That was when I had plans to get the empress into toddler Mensa. That was when I took showers. Neve has "rounded out" my life in such a way to keep either child from becoming the center of the universe, but has also squashed any dreams I once had of having... sigh... infants who read at a 5th grade reading level.

The school bell officially rang yesterday morning at casablanca. We began with a few simple exercises that Fiona has done many times before. Write your upper case and lower case letters over and over, do a little "chunking" of sounds and syllables, and oh my Houghton Mifflin- READ THE WORDS ON THE LIST!

{Bit of advice to the type A mom who's determined to teach her children without the help of a professional: don't aim too high on your first day. In fact, expect a whole lot of handwriting anarchy.}

Take a glimpse into the window of our quaint little schoolhouse:

Fiona: I can write an A.
Mom: I know. This is easy stuff.
Fiona: I don't like these lines.
Mom: I know, but that's how they write letters in school.
Fiona: Who?
Mom: uh... I dunno, students, kids in school.
Fiona: Where?
Mom: B. Let's do B now.
Fiona: B is cool, right?
Mom: Yup. (Thinking, "We're not going to make it through the alphabet, are we?")
Fiona: I did it.
Mom: Sort of. What happened to the little b's?
Fiona: They got ugly.
Mom: Right. How come?
Fiona: I don't like their bumps.
Mom: But you liked the big B's bumps enough to do those? Why not little b?
Fiona: Let's do C.
Mom: FIONA! Look at how your C's became backwards J's. What happened!?
Fiona: I don't like this anymore. My hand is so so tired.
Mom: Whatever. Your body will never feel as good as it feels right now. It's all down hill from here. You better start writing your letters.
Fiona: I hate these lines.
Mom: D's will make it better. Know why? Duh, duh, Deeeera.
Fiona: (just stares)
Mom: Now you're just making me mad. Look at your little d's!
Fiona: I only write big letters. I don't like the little ones.
Mom: (deep breath) It's the same as the big ones, just a little squattier.
Fiona: No, bumpier.
Mom: When did you start disliking bumps?
Fiona: (head on table)
Mom: Pick your head up!
Dad: (in other room, overhearing) Dera... patience, patience.
Mom: Are you kidding me? It's like teaching the 4 year old version of you! She's got a total disregard for the dotted line, and her lowercase bumps are getting messier with each letter she writes! It's craz- (I hear my insanity).
Fiona: I just remembered that I love E.
Mom: Ok, but whatever. We don't have to do anymore if you're getting sick of it.
Fiona: I think I'm tired of F. Can I stop now?
Mom: F? It's the first letter of your name! How can you be sick of it?
Fiona: And it looks like E, but without a leg. I want to stop.
Mom: Ok. Want to draw how your feeling?
Fiona: Um, do I have to?
Mom: No, but can we sound out the way you're feeling?
Fiona: (slowly backs out of her chair and towards the couch)
Dad: Dera, please.


Today was a bit better, but she sure wants to think outside of the box. Letters are personified and have matching colors. They change shape as she changes moods. The lowercase "bumps" shift as she grows more and more annoyed by the dotted line. Dealing with her makes me realize just how comfortable I've been my whole life inside that box. We may encounter some bumps of our own down the dotted line.

Powdered Wig Fish Burp

It's been far too long since these f-tips wrote a story. The mister has been hard at work doing freelance work, occupying the computer in the evenings. I've found it difficult to ask for a turn, seeing as his work (animating talking yetis) is paying off said computer, while my work (psychotherapy blogging) gives nothing back to the family as a whole. Except perhaps a more sane mother.

Anyhow, there is lots to report from casablanca. First, I would like to discuss the thing which is at the forefront of my mind: fish oil supplements. Does anyone else take this stuff? I've had achy joints lately and heard the Omega-3's would help lubricate them more. It's only day 3 of my regimen. I'm not sure if I'm having an especially gassy morning or what, but me oh my, belching fish oil before noon is distracting. Ugh.

Other than belching up fish oil, let me see... oh yeah, John Adams. Has anyone else been watching this HBO series? We rented the first season (maybe the only season?), got hooked, and have been speaking the King's English since. There is much to be learned from this time, like bloodletting, calomel, and manners. Manners, dear child. For without our sensibilities, I pray, what do we have? I'm embarrassed to admit that 4 HBO episodes has taught me more than my 12 years of American History class. To watch our forefathers come to life through Paul Giammatti and David Morse is like watching a coin talk. I cracked up during the scene where they introduce George Washington:
Watching Abigail Adams argue with John Adams was inspiring, to say the least. While I may be found mumbling, "selfish sonuvahbitch" to Terry, Abigail Adams confronts her husband head-on in the clearest of voices, "your duty, sir, lies first in the affairs of your family, you rotund bald chowderhead." Smart lady, I tell ya. Check it out, if you're jonesin' for a good history lesson and some steamy 18th century style sex scenes. And, fyi- Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson are an added forefather-hottie bonus.

I must retire now to the duties of my family's affairs, putting aside my blogging self-regard. For truly, my fellow Americans, the realties of mankind are found not here within this technological web we've woven, but on the battlefield of life! Can I get a "here, here"?

(That paragraph took me 5 entire minutes to compose. And for that (and tampons), I'm grateful that I was born in the 20th century. Here, here!)

Mom Gone Wild!

I saw Swervedriver last night. They blew my mind. It was such a great show, and I've wanted to see them for over 10 years now. Terry was kind enough to give me his free ticket (compliments of "Uncle Henry"- thank you again!), making me the happiest wife in Atlanta on Thursday night.

Not sure how many of you were shoe-gazers in the '90's, but Swervedriver was my favorite out of the lot. Perhaps it's the fact that they were a big part of our "courting" years soundtrack, or perhaps it's that Terry and I listened to 99th Dream on the car ride down to visit his mom for the first time, or perhaps it's that I can't help but imagine a younger pre-Dera Terry listening to them on headphones in the 90's (so cute!), but whatever- I was taken back to happy times as this song played:



I closed my eyes and those tummy butterflies returned, fallen under a spell cast by the gods of 18 year old love. That's what Swervedriver sounds like to me, but don't let that keep you from listening to them. (I forget that my warm fuzzy memories are not to others.)

Anyway, excuse my little brag. It's just that seeing an old favorite band play on a Thursday night isn't the norm these days. How old would I sound if I said, "you don't hear music like this anymore"?