I mentioned in my first post that I am a part-time SAT tutor. Well, I WAS a part-time SAT tutor. As of this evening I am a former part-time SAT tutor. A little over a year ago, I was laid off from my full-time job as an executive assistant, and while J and I decided that staying home with A would be my new full-time job, I knew I needed a little bit more stimulation on the side. So I searched Craigslist for something I could do a few hours a week that would offer me a chance to use my brain for more than PBJ sandwiches and laundry, and might net me a little pocket money. I found an ad for a local tutoring center that was looking for people with college degrees and high SAT scores to do one-on-one SAT tutoring. I sent an email, and moments later I received a response asking me to come in and take a practice SAT to see if I qualified. Two days later I had my first student.
I am not by training a teacher. When I was in college (and in fact until I took this tutoring job), I had NO IDEA what I wanted to be when I grew up. So I pursued the only thing that I knew I would enjoy studying for four years: History. Then I graduated and discovered that people with a B.A. in History make excellent executive assistants, but without a post-graduate degree or a teaching certification, can't expect to do much in the history field. I toyed with the idea of going back for my Master's or getting a teaching cert., but I honestly didn't know what I'd do with a Master's, and I wasn't sure I'd enjoy teaching. I tend to like kids on a case-by-case basis, and I wasn't sure whether I could like them enough to be surrounded by them for 8 hours a day. Then I started tutoring, and I knew I'd found my calling. I LOVED IT.
So for the past year, I've been spending between 2 and 6 hours a week doing something I really enjoy: teaching. I made the decision to go back to school next year and get my teaching certification combined with my Master's, and in the meantime I was loving the little taste I was getting of my future career. Then the Education Director at the center quit. She was an amazingly organized and capable administrator, as well as being a great teacher, so it's no wonder that she was stolen away to teach 3rd grade in Virginia, but losing her was a disaster for the center. Instead of replacing her, the Center Director, L, decided that she and her assistant director would take over her duties on top of their own. Suddenly, schedules were late, messed up, or non-existent, teachers were matched with students who needed tutoring in subjects they didn't teach, and vaguely hostile emails started flying around about things like not wearing sandals to work and using breath mints. My easy and rewarding little side project stopped being about going in and spending a few hours teaching and more about trying to decipher new schedule rules, figuring out if I was scheduled at all, and fumbling through a session with a student who needed Biology help (did I mention that I was a History major? I should probably also mention that I barely eeked out a B- in Biology). As we headed into month 3 of this confusing administrative mess, with no end in sight, I started to consider whether what I was putting up with from management was worth it for the couple of hours a week that I actually enjoyed my work. But I did still enjoy it on those rare occasions when I was matched with a student I could actually help, so I was putting off making a decision.
And then this afternoon a new email arrived. It was more than vaguely hostile in tone, and the gist was that the teachers were responsible for the bulk of the scheduling issues, and more new scheduling rules were going into effect. I found this pretty ridiculous, especially since we hadn't actually gotten a schedule in 2 weeks and were getting our assigned hours by email the night before we were to work. How was this the fault of the teachers? We turned in our availability as required, using the document required, by the deadline required, yet they couldn't seem to get a weekly schedule together, and this was our fault? That made my decision for me. The people who teach at the center are dedicated, hard-working individuals who have made concession after concession in the wake of these administrative changes, and now they were being blamed for the problems. The center was no longer a place that I wanted to work. So I quit.
I was scheduled to work tonight from 6 to 8pm, and I arrived 15 minutes early so I could tender my resignation. I let the assistant center director know that this would be my last session, and thanked her for all of her help. A few minutes later, I saw that one of the center owners was at the front desk, so I wanted to thank her as well for the opportunity to work there. I went over to her, explained that this would be my last shift, and thanked her. She then asked me why I was leaving. I tried to gloss over my main complaints and said simply that the scheduling issues were too much for me with a 2 year old to find a babysitter for, and I just felt that it wasn't worth it for me right now. She said she understood, and then asked if there was anything in particular that was bothering me. And then I made a decision (probably a bad decision, but oh well). Most of the other tutors at the center are out of work teachers or others who need their job, so no one else was going to speak up about the accusatory email. The emails and other tensions were going to continue, and no one was going to be able to voice their complaints without risking their job. I had just quit. What were they going to do, fire me? So I dove in and told the owner about that day's email, and that I found it to be unfair to the teachers and very hostile in tone. The owner said she hadn't seen the email, but that I should understand that L is under a lot of pressure, and probably didn't mean the email to be taken badly. I agreed, but said that it was just the last straw for me, although I had really enjoyed working there nonetheless. The owner thanked me, and said that she hoped that when the administrative stuff got worked out that I would consider coming back.
I thought that was the end of it. My students arrived (another side effect of the regime change: sticking one tutor with 2 or 3 students because they'd neglected to schedule enough tutors), and I started working with them. Then 10 minutes later, L walked by and demanded to see me in her office immediately. I wondered, a little naively I admit, if after speaking to the owner she realized how her email was perceived and wanted to clear things up. I was wrong. She told me that there was nothing wrong with her email, that she'd made plenty of concessions for me in the past (A was sick and I had to call out a few times. It happens.) and I was incredibly ungrateful. I was also unprofessional for bringing up the email with the owner instead of coming directly to L. If I wanted to quit, then I could get my stuff and leave. Oh, and once again, I'm unprofessional. This was all said in a loud, carrying voice, with the office door open and parents outside waiting to see L. When she was finished her tirade about my unprofessionalism, she stared at me challengingly, as though daring me to object. I simply said, "Ok." I turned and walked back to my students, gathered my belongings, thanked the owner once again, and left.
Here's what I know I did wrong: I was honest. I was asked a question, and I decided to tell the truth, even though I knew it could be taken badly. I could have stuck with the "scheduling issues" line, and gotten out clean, able to finish my last shift without becoming a topic of gossip. And if they ever did get the administrative issues ironed out, I could have gone back and started working with students again, stigma free. I mean, who knows if my honesty made any difference for the other teachers? Clearly it made no difference to L; she sees nothing wrong with treating the teachers as one more annoyance in a long list. But I hope it at least opened the owner's eyes, even a tiny crack, to the fact that the atmosphere has become toxic and there are teachers willing to jump ship over it. I don't regret what I did. It ends here for me; I quit, I explained why, and I left with dignity. L demonstrated to a crowd of paying parents, and through the gossip mill 43 other tutors, that she would rather berate her teachers and tell them to leave than work through any issues. There were no winners here, but I sure don't feel like a loser. ;)
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
My husband was just reminded that he's a homebody...
My husband, J, and I met in a loud, crowded bar. This is actually pretty odd, because neither of us are loud, crowded bar people. Even when I was in my early twenties and going out with friends, I preferred quieter, out of the way bars where I could carry on a conversation without screaming over loud pulsing music and could make my way to the bathroom without having to shove anyone. J rarely went to bars at all, preferring to have friends over to watch sports and hang out. But on this particular night, I was dragged out to a popular local bar by a friend who thought it was time I ventured outdoors after a devastating break up several months before. I brought another friend along (a male friend), and by chance, my male friend hit it off with the female friend who insisted on forcing me out of my pajamas and away from my pint of Ben and Jerry's. That female friend felt guilty that she was basically on an impromptu date with my male friend when her sole purpose in dragging me out was to get ME a date, so she called J, a friend of hers, and told him to come meet her cute redheaded friend. An hour later I looked up and saw J smiling at me, and that was it. Four months later we were engaged. My male and female friends who hit it off that night were not so lucky. After an uncomfortable second date, they never spoke again. Oh well, c'est la vie.
On our first "official" date, J took me to a sports bar. That probably should have been an indication that I was going to be a sports widow, but I somehow missed the clues and now find myself married to a man who during this sports heavy time of year tends to spend a whole lot of time with his best friend D, either fishing or watching football, baseball or hockey. So I was not surprised when J informed me on Saturday afternoon that he'd be spending the evening with D. What shocked the hell out of me was that they were planning on going to a popular bar with D's wife to see a band. Have I mentioned that J is not a loud, crowded bar person? He doesn't dance, he knows absolutely no music that is not played on WMMR, and he's almost painfully shy in large social situations. I could not think of anything he would enjoy less than spending the evening surrounded by strangers in a bar that wasn't playing a sports game on a giant TV. Not that D and his wife L aren't fun people; we definitely enjoy their company. But we enjoy it at a quiet dinner or a backyard BBQ, cause that's who we are. Being the wonderful wife that I am, I attempted to remind him of these facts, but J was determined. He was going out on the town with D and L, and he was excited.
An hour into his evening, I got the following text: "This sucks." Shocking, I know. Twenty minutes later: "Did I mention this sucks??" And then, "OMG, I think I'm going to puke. Some chick from Jersey Shore is here." That's right, my homebody husband had managed to find himself in the same bar where Deena from Jersey Shore was making a personal appearance. So that meant he was also surrounded by people who had gone to that bar specifically to meet Deena, and pay $25 for her autograph. (Not D and L, they were there to see the band. Just needed to make that clear.) J's sole interest in reality TV is watching Holmes Inspection and House Hunters with me on HGTV. I doubt the Jersey Shore fans were up for a conversation on home renovations.
J stuck it out, though. Of course, D and L were his ride, so he didn't have much choice, but he powered through, and when he returned home the next morning (they got back to D and L's so late he just crashed there), he admitted that I had been right to try to dissuade him from going. He said, "I think I have to go out like that every once in a while to remind myself that I hate going to those places." So, lesson learned. At least until next time...;)
On our first "official" date, J took me to a sports bar. That probably should have been an indication that I was going to be a sports widow, but I somehow missed the clues and now find myself married to a man who during this sports heavy time of year tends to spend a whole lot of time with his best friend D, either fishing or watching football, baseball or hockey. So I was not surprised when J informed me on Saturday afternoon that he'd be spending the evening with D. What shocked the hell out of me was that they were planning on going to a popular bar with D's wife to see a band. Have I mentioned that J is not a loud, crowded bar person? He doesn't dance, he knows absolutely no music that is not played on WMMR, and he's almost painfully shy in large social situations. I could not think of anything he would enjoy less than spending the evening surrounded by strangers in a bar that wasn't playing a sports game on a giant TV. Not that D and his wife L aren't fun people; we definitely enjoy their company. But we enjoy it at a quiet dinner or a backyard BBQ, cause that's who we are. Being the wonderful wife that I am, I attempted to remind him of these facts, but J was determined. He was going out on the town with D and L, and he was excited.
An hour into his evening, I got the following text: "This sucks." Shocking, I know. Twenty minutes later: "Did I mention this sucks??" And then, "OMG, I think I'm going to puke. Some chick from Jersey Shore is here." That's right, my homebody husband had managed to find himself in the same bar where Deena from Jersey Shore was making a personal appearance. So that meant he was also surrounded by people who had gone to that bar specifically to meet Deena, and pay $25 for her autograph. (Not D and L, they were there to see the band. Just needed to make that clear.) J's sole interest in reality TV is watching Holmes Inspection and House Hunters with me on HGTV. I doubt the Jersey Shore fans were up for a conversation on home renovations.
J stuck it out, though. Of course, D and L were his ride, so he didn't have much choice, but he powered through, and when he returned home the next morning (they got back to D and L's so late he just crashed there), he admitted that I had been right to try to dissuade him from going. He said, "I think I have to go out like that every once in a while to remind myself that I hate going to those places." So, lesson learned. At least until next time...;)
Thursday, October 13, 2011
I was sucked into a "Toddlers and Tiara's" marathon...
I have a very lovely daughter. I know, I know, I might be a bit biased, but I have had people actually approach us in the grocery store to gush over her. And the main adjective used seems to be "beautiful". She has gorgeous almond-shaped velvety brown eyes, silky chestnut hair that curls at the ends, perfect ivory skin, an exceptionally well-placed dimple on her left cheek, and a wide, joy-filled smile. Considering the fairly average physical appearance of her parents, I'm amazed that our genes could combine to create such a child. The day she was born (looking remarkably perfect due in no small part to her c-section delivery), a nurse commented that it was a shame she didn't inherit my red hair, and I remember thinking, "Are you crazy? She's gorgeous exactly as she is!"
That being said, I don't want to raise her to believe that her worth lies solely in her appearance. I'm not going to lie, there's a part of me that is proud of her beauty, and sure doesn't mind the attention it gets her (and me). But I was much prouder the other day, when while I was naming letters for her as she played with her wooden blocks, she turned a "V" upside down and said, "No, Mommy, it a triangle." That's right, she's beautiful and brilliant. ;) I was raised by parents who valued curiosity, inquiry, and academic achievement far more than looks. My mother never sat me down and taught me how to do my make-up or hair (in fact, she had to get a friend to teach her to french braid when I started demanding that particular style), but she did read the classics with me, trading off reading chapters, until we'd worked through Little Women, Eight Cousins, The Secret Garden, Through the Looking Glass, and many others. My father's sole contribution to my appearance was to send me back upstairs to change when he thought my skirt was too short (something I still see him struggle not to do with my 22 year old step-sister, the only one of my 3 sisters and I who is partial to mini-skirts), but he took us to the bookstore at least once a week, and will still pick up a book for me occasionally if he thinks I'll like it.
Those memories are a testament to what I love about my family. My mother is gone now, but I cherish the fact that she thought it was important to crawl into bed with a 12 year old after a long day at work and read. I love that my Dad has more books than square footage to house them, and that he lends them freely (although he writes his name in them first), and is truly eager to know what you thought of the book you borrowed. I love that he's so proud of the accomplishments of his children, big and small. I think he might be just as proud of the time that my baby sister threw a chapstick at her math teacher for implying she was stupid as he was at her college graduation. It has always been clear in our household: the most beautiful part of you is on the inside.
So it might be a bit surprising that while my husband was on a fishing trip last weekend, I found myself sucked into a marathon of the TLC hit, "Toddlers and Tiaras". It started innocently enough: I was flipping through the channels and I was shocked into stopping on TLC as I watched a mother spike her 2 year old's apple juice with energy drink and coke. You know, cause that's what you do when your kid is exhausted from practicing for a pageant and you have to shove her on stage in 5 minutes. I went into Mom-mode and silently (and a little bit out loud, I'll admit) castigated that mother for her, in my opinion, selfish and monstrous behavior. If you need to drug your kid to get her on stage, shouldn't in occur to you that maybe this isn't the activity for her? At that point, I was hooked. I needed to see just what other insane behavior would come out of these "pageant moms". And there was plenty, from the mom who laughed at her 18 month old for crying in pain over a hair piece (a hair piece on a baby!!!), to the mom who so clearly favored her son over her daughter that the poor little girl responded to her mother's question about whether she would win with, "Well, you'd be shocked."
Somewhere around hour 3, however, something shifted. Yes, I was still appalled at the antics of the moms (and dads in some cases), and I was amazed that no one found it odd to spray-tan 3 year olds or wax the eyebrows of 5 year olds, but I sort of started really SEEING the kids and thinking, "Well A is much prettier than HER!" I specifically remember one mom going on and on about the natural facial beauty of her daughter, and thinking, "What face are you looking at? She's cute, but I wouldn't say beautiful." Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was judging CHILDREN. There, in the comfort of my living room, while my own child colored, I was looking at little girls and judging them based on their physical appearance. Yes, I know we all do it. We all have that friend who had the ugly baby, or the funny looking kid, or the awkward teenager. And we momentarily think, "Oooh, I hope he/she grows out of that!", and then move on, because it's not really important, and because 99% of us were at one time one of those 3 things (or in my case, at least 2 out of 3).
The difference here, is that these mothers WANT their children to be judged on their appearance. They crave the validation that comes with a crown and a trophy, and they teach their daughters to crave it too. They spend thousands of dollars to "improve" the appearance of their children from simply cute little kids to make-up covered, spray-tanned, fake teeth and hair-piece wearing glamazons. And then they teach them to dance and pose suggestively so that a panel of adults can judge them against similar glamazons and pronounce them to be the most beautiful. The judges call this dancing and posing "personality", and regularly say things like, "Brooklyn was so pretty, but she just didn't show enough personality." Meaning that she didn't purse her lips and pout while shaking her tiny tushie well enough for them. Honestly, about 30% of what's wrong with this pageant world is that there are people out there who find it appropriate to spend their weekends judging little girls covered in fake enhancements and then telling some that they make the cut while sending others home with tiny consolation trophies. Another 30% is the moms' reactions to their child's failure to bring home a crown. Some turn their anger on the judges, claiming that the contest was rigged or the judges were blind. But an equal number turn on their children, picking at them for failing to nail a routine or walking the wrong direction on stage (you know, cause 3 year olds sometimes DO THAT). So these kids either grow up thinking that if they don't get what they want, then it's someone else's fault, or they grow up knowing they'll never quite live up to Mommy's standards.
If you've been following the math, you'll know that there's still another 40% of what's wrong with child pageants to be accounted for. And here's my view: there is a group of children out there who are spending a large amount of their free time being primped and prodded into proving their worth through looks alone. Yes, there is the rare kid who looks into the camera and says that she loves pageants, but I noticed that those were the kids who brought home the big crowns. Of course they love pageants: they've been trained practically since birth to crave the recognition that comes from being "Super Supreme Little Miss" or whatever. And most of the time they've gotten it. So instead of wanting to show Mommy the picture they drew to get an "atta-girl", they know they need to bring out the big guns and show up with a crown so big they can wear it as a dress. At the age of 3 or 5 or 7, these kids know that Mommy doesn't want to see them reading a book, she wants to see them practicing their air kisses and begging for lipstick.
And here I sat, mother of a little girl, joining in and judging other little girls. Aidan froze up on stage; she's out of the running. Corrie's hat fell off when she did her cartwheel, the judges will not like THAT. Heaven's mom should have sprung for the spray-tan, she looks like a ghost! And just as I reached the precipice, as I started to consider whether there might be a local pageant that A could try, my daughter came over and showed me a picture she drew. Just like that, the spell was broken. Because as I oohed and aahed over A's colorful scribble, she turned a beaming smile on me and I realized that I never wanted her to think that she needed to be beautiful to win my approval. My husband and I have raised a daughter who is secure and happy and knows that she is loved exactly as she is. That's all the validation I need.
That being said, I don't want to raise her to believe that her worth lies solely in her appearance. I'm not going to lie, there's a part of me that is proud of her beauty, and sure doesn't mind the attention it gets her (and me). But I was much prouder the other day, when while I was naming letters for her as she played with her wooden blocks, she turned a "V" upside down and said, "No, Mommy, it a triangle." That's right, she's beautiful and brilliant. ;) I was raised by parents who valued curiosity, inquiry, and academic achievement far more than looks. My mother never sat me down and taught me how to do my make-up or hair (in fact, she had to get a friend to teach her to french braid when I started demanding that particular style), but she did read the classics with me, trading off reading chapters, until we'd worked through Little Women, Eight Cousins, The Secret Garden, Through the Looking Glass, and many others. My father's sole contribution to my appearance was to send me back upstairs to change when he thought my skirt was too short (something I still see him struggle not to do with my 22 year old step-sister, the only one of my 3 sisters and I who is partial to mini-skirts), but he took us to the bookstore at least once a week, and will still pick up a book for me occasionally if he thinks I'll like it.
Those memories are a testament to what I love about my family. My mother is gone now, but I cherish the fact that she thought it was important to crawl into bed with a 12 year old after a long day at work and read. I love that my Dad has more books than square footage to house them, and that he lends them freely (although he writes his name in them first), and is truly eager to know what you thought of the book you borrowed. I love that he's so proud of the accomplishments of his children, big and small. I think he might be just as proud of the time that my baby sister threw a chapstick at her math teacher for implying she was stupid as he was at her college graduation. It has always been clear in our household: the most beautiful part of you is on the inside.
So it might be a bit surprising that while my husband was on a fishing trip last weekend, I found myself sucked into a marathon of the TLC hit, "Toddlers and Tiaras". It started innocently enough: I was flipping through the channels and I was shocked into stopping on TLC as I watched a mother spike her 2 year old's apple juice with energy drink and coke. You know, cause that's what you do when your kid is exhausted from practicing for a pageant and you have to shove her on stage in 5 minutes. I went into Mom-mode and silently (and a little bit out loud, I'll admit) castigated that mother for her, in my opinion, selfish and monstrous behavior. If you need to drug your kid to get her on stage, shouldn't in occur to you that maybe this isn't the activity for her? At that point, I was hooked. I needed to see just what other insane behavior would come out of these "pageant moms". And there was plenty, from the mom who laughed at her 18 month old for crying in pain over a hair piece (a hair piece on a baby!!!), to the mom who so clearly favored her son over her daughter that the poor little girl responded to her mother's question about whether she would win with, "Well, you'd be shocked."
Somewhere around hour 3, however, something shifted. Yes, I was still appalled at the antics of the moms (and dads in some cases), and I was amazed that no one found it odd to spray-tan 3 year olds or wax the eyebrows of 5 year olds, but I sort of started really SEEING the kids and thinking, "Well A is much prettier than HER!" I specifically remember one mom going on and on about the natural facial beauty of her daughter, and thinking, "What face are you looking at? She's cute, but I wouldn't say beautiful." Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was judging CHILDREN. There, in the comfort of my living room, while my own child colored, I was looking at little girls and judging them based on their physical appearance. Yes, I know we all do it. We all have that friend who had the ugly baby, or the funny looking kid, or the awkward teenager. And we momentarily think, "Oooh, I hope he/she grows out of that!", and then move on, because it's not really important, and because 99% of us were at one time one of those 3 things (or in my case, at least 2 out of 3).
The difference here, is that these mothers WANT their children to be judged on their appearance. They crave the validation that comes with a crown and a trophy, and they teach their daughters to crave it too. They spend thousands of dollars to "improve" the appearance of their children from simply cute little kids to make-up covered, spray-tanned, fake teeth and hair-piece wearing glamazons. And then they teach them to dance and pose suggestively so that a panel of adults can judge them against similar glamazons and pronounce them to be the most beautiful. The judges call this dancing and posing "personality", and regularly say things like, "Brooklyn was so pretty, but she just didn't show enough personality." Meaning that she didn't purse her lips and pout while shaking her tiny tushie well enough for them. Honestly, about 30% of what's wrong with this pageant world is that there are people out there who find it appropriate to spend their weekends judging little girls covered in fake enhancements and then telling some that they make the cut while sending others home with tiny consolation trophies. Another 30% is the moms' reactions to their child's failure to bring home a crown. Some turn their anger on the judges, claiming that the contest was rigged or the judges were blind. But an equal number turn on their children, picking at them for failing to nail a routine or walking the wrong direction on stage (you know, cause 3 year olds sometimes DO THAT). So these kids either grow up thinking that if they don't get what they want, then it's someone else's fault, or they grow up knowing they'll never quite live up to Mommy's standards.
If you've been following the math, you'll know that there's still another 40% of what's wrong with child pageants to be accounted for. And here's my view: there is a group of children out there who are spending a large amount of their free time being primped and prodded into proving their worth through looks alone. Yes, there is the rare kid who looks into the camera and says that she loves pageants, but I noticed that those were the kids who brought home the big crowns. Of course they love pageants: they've been trained practically since birth to crave the recognition that comes from being "Super Supreme Little Miss" or whatever. And most of the time they've gotten it. So instead of wanting to show Mommy the picture they drew to get an "atta-girl", they know they need to bring out the big guns and show up with a crown so big they can wear it as a dress. At the age of 3 or 5 or 7, these kids know that Mommy doesn't want to see them reading a book, she wants to see them practicing their air kisses and begging for lipstick.
And here I sat, mother of a little girl, joining in and judging other little girls. Aidan froze up on stage; she's out of the running. Corrie's hat fell off when she did her cartwheel, the judges will not like THAT. Heaven's mom should have sprung for the spray-tan, she looks like a ghost! And just as I reached the precipice, as I started to consider whether there might be a local pageant that A could try, my daughter came over and showed me a picture she drew. Just like that, the spell was broken. Because as I oohed and aahed over A's colorful scribble, she turned a beaming smile on me and I realized that I never wanted her to think that she needed to be beautiful to win my approval. My husband and I have raised a daughter who is secure and happy and knows that she is loved exactly as she is. That's all the validation I need.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
In which I join the herd and begin my own blog...
Sometimes I say funny things. Mostly they're unintentional, but occasionally (and especially when they are purposely well-thought out) I stumble upon something witty enough that a friend will comment, "You should have a blog or something!" Once in a very great while someone will kindly comment that I should write a book, but I'm thinking a blog will be less time consuming, and I am nothing if not lazy.
So here we are. Sadly my occasional wit does not extend to clever blog titles that are somehow a play on my name (Becca), my profession (mom and sometime SAT tutor), or my hair color (red, or as my kindergarten boyfriend might say, orange), which is the explanation behind "Requisite Cute Blog Name". My apologies to those searching for greater meaning.
I don't routinely do anything especially exciting, and I'm not big on the whole, "what does it all mean??" way of thinking, so this blog could either be a fun way to kill 5 minutes every so often, or a total waste of your time. I leave it to you to decide. I spend a lot of time playing Words With Friends and obsessively checking Facebook, so I may not be the best judge of deeper meaning, but hell, I've read mom blogs about the many choices available for turning your placenta into an edible treat. I can at least produce something marginally less gross once in a while.
Where do I start? Well, I recently had the stomach flu. (Wait, what was I saying about being less gross?) Having the stomach flu is never a fantastical way to spend a couple days, but add total responsibility for the life and well-being of a small child into the mix, and suddenly you're faced with decisions like, "do I bring a trash can into the family room in case the smell of washable markers suddenly triggers the upchuck reflex?" and "how much Mickey's Clubhouse will cause permanent brain cell loss to my child? Like 5 hours in a row?" Because when it's defcon 3 in your intestinal tract, enrichment activities inevitably include little more that popping in a Veggie Tales DVD so you can pretend you sent your kid to church for 22 minutes. It's times like these that my respect for the single parent multiplies exponentially. I am not a single parent. I have a partner who is such an amazing Dad that he thinks it's a treat to take a personal day to spend caring for his daughter so her mom can become better acquainted with the inside of the toilet bowl. And I have a partner who will regularly pop his head into the bathroom to check on me, and when I finally emerge, sweaty and 5 lbs lighter, will load our daughter into the car and get me wonton soup, the single greatest cure for what ails you.
The single parent goes it alone. I have several single parent friends, and after my recent day of near-death, I want to lend them my partner next time they wake up with the flu. Or at the very least take their kids off their hands so they can watch Jersey Shore in bed without worrying about their daughters dubbing themselves Guidettes and their sons begging for self-tanner. But those who really make me want to cry are the married single parents. Those parents who have a partner but still go it alone the majority of the time. The first people you might think of are military spouses, stuck holding down the fort while their loved ones are thousands of miles away fighting a war that seems like it's never going to end. And yes, those parents are heroes, fighting the good fight so their partners come home to an intact family. But what about the parents whose partners just aren't that involved? I doubt anyone married with kids went into childbirth thinking that their partner was going to be so hands off that they would never get a break. I get regular nights out with friends because my husband thinks Daddy-daughter time is the best part of his week. But I know women who have to practically bribe their husbands to watch the kids so they can go to the dentist. That hurts my heart. These women are amazing moms, and do their best to make up for the lack of fatherly involvement, but why do they have to? Why are there men out there who think that the bulk of their parenting responsibilities ended when the stick turned blue? I know I'm speaking from the vaunted perch of a woman married to a man who turned out to be a wonderful father. And if you go back a generation, I had a very involved Dad too (still do, sometimes a little TOO involved). I hope that doesn't make me sound condescending. All I'm saying is that I know some kickass moms who could use a little more help from their other halves. So get on it guys! Even if you think you've been doing it right, ask your wife if she could use a night off. Chances are, the answer will be a resounding "YES"! And you might get thank you sex. ;)
So here we are. Sadly my occasional wit does not extend to clever blog titles that are somehow a play on my name (Becca), my profession (mom and sometime SAT tutor), or my hair color (red, or as my kindergarten boyfriend might say, orange), which is the explanation behind "Requisite Cute Blog Name". My apologies to those searching for greater meaning.
I don't routinely do anything especially exciting, and I'm not big on the whole, "what does it all mean??" way of thinking, so this blog could either be a fun way to kill 5 minutes every so often, or a total waste of your time. I leave it to you to decide. I spend a lot of time playing Words With Friends and obsessively checking Facebook, so I may not be the best judge of deeper meaning, but hell, I've read mom blogs about the many choices available for turning your placenta into an edible treat. I can at least produce something marginally less gross once in a while.
Where do I start? Well, I recently had the stomach flu. (Wait, what was I saying about being less gross?) Having the stomach flu is never a fantastical way to spend a couple days, but add total responsibility for the life and well-being of a small child into the mix, and suddenly you're faced with decisions like, "do I bring a trash can into the family room in case the smell of washable markers suddenly triggers the upchuck reflex?" and "how much Mickey's Clubhouse will cause permanent brain cell loss to my child? Like 5 hours in a row?" Because when it's defcon 3 in your intestinal tract, enrichment activities inevitably include little more that popping in a Veggie Tales DVD so you can pretend you sent your kid to church for 22 minutes. It's times like these that my respect for the single parent multiplies exponentially. I am not a single parent. I have a partner who is such an amazing Dad that he thinks it's a treat to take a personal day to spend caring for his daughter so her mom can become better acquainted with the inside of the toilet bowl. And I have a partner who will regularly pop his head into the bathroom to check on me, and when I finally emerge, sweaty and 5 lbs lighter, will load our daughter into the car and get me wonton soup, the single greatest cure for what ails you.
The single parent goes it alone. I have several single parent friends, and after my recent day of near-death, I want to lend them my partner next time they wake up with the flu. Or at the very least take their kids off their hands so they can watch Jersey Shore in bed without worrying about their daughters dubbing themselves Guidettes and their sons begging for self-tanner. But those who really make me want to cry are the married single parents. Those parents who have a partner but still go it alone the majority of the time. The first people you might think of are military spouses, stuck holding down the fort while their loved ones are thousands of miles away fighting a war that seems like it's never going to end. And yes, those parents are heroes, fighting the good fight so their partners come home to an intact family. But what about the parents whose partners just aren't that involved? I doubt anyone married with kids went into childbirth thinking that their partner was going to be so hands off that they would never get a break. I get regular nights out with friends because my husband thinks Daddy-daughter time is the best part of his week. But I know women who have to practically bribe their husbands to watch the kids so they can go to the dentist. That hurts my heart. These women are amazing moms, and do their best to make up for the lack of fatherly involvement, but why do they have to? Why are there men out there who think that the bulk of their parenting responsibilities ended when the stick turned blue? I know I'm speaking from the vaunted perch of a woman married to a man who turned out to be a wonderful father. And if you go back a generation, I had a very involved Dad too (still do, sometimes a little TOO involved). I hope that doesn't make me sound condescending. All I'm saying is that I know some kickass moms who could use a little more help from their other halves. So get on it guys! Even if you think you've been doing it right, ask your wife if she could use a night off. Chances are, the answer will be a resounding "YES"! And you might get thank you sex. ;)
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