Absent for Cause

My father passed away on October 17th after a long stay in the ICU of the local hospital. I have been dealing with the aftermath and final rites (and my sister) since then. I hope to return to a more active blogging state once I have finalized his estate matters.

I am both sorry and relieved that he is gone. I will miss my dear father, but I am not sorry that he is finally relieved of living with Alzheimer's in a body so frail and fragile that he could no longer sit upright, nor care for any of his own personal needs, nor had he been able to do so for several years.

My sister has been here for a month, and I have been very close to either sticking a fork in my own eye or in hers. I've settled for drinking a lot of green tea, smiling vacantly at her monologues, and telling myself I was doing it for Dad while, in the words of one of my favorite humor writers, Dave Barry, my brain snuck out of my cranium and went off to do something more interesting.

I wish any readers the best and give you my thanks for checking in. Don't give up. I'll probably need to vent (maniacal laughter) in a week or so.

God bless you.

Absent for Cause

My father passed away on October 17th after a long stay in the ICU of the local hospital. I have been dealing with the aftermath and final rites (and my sister) since then. I hope to return to a more active blogging state once I have finalized his estate matters.

I am both sorry and relieved that he is gone. I will miss my dear father, but I am not sorry that he is finally relieved of living with Alzheimer's in a body so frail and fragile that he could no longer sit upright, nor care for any of his own personal needs, nor had he been able to do so for several years.

My sister has been here for a month, and I have been very close to either sticking a fork in my own eye or in hers. I've settled for drinking a lot of green tea, smiling vacantly at her monologues, and telling myself I was doing it for Dad while, in the words of one of my favorite humor writers, Dave Barry, my brain snuck out of my cranium and went off to do something more interesting.

I wish any readers the best and give you my thanks for checking in. Don't give up. I'll probably need to vent (maniacal laughter) in a week or so.

God bless you.

Like a Dog Returning to His Own Vomit..

(Does anyone else remember that line from the movie “The Sure Thing”?)

Well, it looks like my last post generated some feelings, and I think it’s only fair to address them openly rather than letting them hide in the nether regions of the comments. In particular, one response is from David Rice, an English teacher at MCHS.

It’s ironic that Mr. Rice would take the post personally, although I can see how it would offend him, since I did not name names and thereby exclude him in my post. Of all the teachers at MCHS, he is one of maybe five teachers whom every student and parent adores. If all the teachers there taught to his standard of excellence, MCHS would be a world class school, and I don’t say that lightly. He is always enthusiastic, energized, upbeat, engaged, open-minded, and a joy to have leading the classroom. His projects are relevant, challenging, and advance the cause of learning, as well as the understanding of his topic. He uses every minute of the extended block period for instruction and reinforcement, and I’m not alone in my opinion that if he were head of his department, it would change for the better by an order of magnitude.

Also, for the record, I didn’t make these things up myself. I have little classroom experience at MCHS because, obviously, I graduated yonks ago. I have, however, done classroom observations and listened to over 6 years of complaints and worries from my children at the end of each school day. I have, over the years, called teachers, guidance counselors, the THREE principals we’ve had during that time, attended School Board meetings, met with all of the above, emailed and snail mailed them, too, about my concerns, ad nauseum.

And, one day, I had had enough. So, I wrote down a summary of things, largely tongue-in-cheek, reflecting my kids’ complaints about their high school experiences. I don’t pretend these complaints are completely reflective of other children’s experiences there, and I do not speak for other parents either. However, I did ask all three of my kids to read this list before I posted it. I asked for their input, any changes or additions, and got a round table consensus from them about each item. I also incorporated some things that I have discussed with other parents and other students and former students, but cleared it through my kids.

Bunny said she wished some of the things weren’t true, but they are. Spot (formerly Spawn) gave a rueful laugh and said they were all true and some were worse than I had stated. Doodle nodded his head, agreeing with the others, and added a couple of his recent experiences to the pool.

There will always be exceptions, especially to anything written in a sarcastic or humorous manner, to posts that vent and to posts that laud on a non-specific basis. That being said, I am leaving my original snark in standard type, Mr. Rice’s commentary is in italics, and my responses are in bold.

Title: 20 Things My Kids Have Learned at MCHS
(and 20 Things the Teachers Have Learned About Me and My Kids)

1. If enough of your classmates whine about a test, project, paper, or assignment deadline, the teacher will change it.
(And your kids learned how to whine at home, as is demonstrated by your whining in this post.)
It’s my blog. I could post pictures of shaved goats wearing tutus and clown shoes and label them “Entertainment PhDs” if I wanted.

2. If enough kids whine about how hard a project is, the teacher will make it easier.
(See #1)
Your projects are great. You have never required “gilded spaghetti” projects that waste children’s time. I wish that were the norm.

3. If a lot of the kids act like they really enjoy group work, the teacher will let you all do more, including coloring and skits. There’s always some nerd in the group who wants to learn and does a good job, so everyone gets a good grade!
(And was your kid the one who chose to rely on others’ work? If so, what does that say about what he/she learned at home? If not, then he/she learned that people who work can excel, regardless of what their co-workers do. Still a valuable lesson in life. Moreover, maybe one your kids group mates learned something from your kid? Wouldn’t that be a tragedy if kids actually learned from each other, as well as the teacher?)
Homework is a good thing for everyone. Please see:
Aargh, Student Teachers 11/13/06 – Social Studies department quirks
Five Things for Student Teachers 11/17/06 - self-explanatory vent of things I wish student teachers had assimilated before entering the classroom. There are undoubtedly points for/of disagreement.

4. A five-page paper, double-spaced, is the most anyone will ever expect of you in life. Plus, you get to whine about it!
(In which case it is clear your child did not meet the expectations/requirements of either junior or senior English. Hmmm, not meeting expectations. The fault of the teacher or of the student who CHOSE not to meet them?)
All three of my children have consistently been on the honor roll EVERY year in high school. Not all teachers adhere to the requirements for your department, sadly. Even more depressing is the fact that the school year has ended before the papers were graded and handed back. Twice, to my specific knowledge.

5. No matter if the course title is AP or honors, if the teacher is bad, everyone gets a good grade, whether they learn or do anything or not.
(Gee, everyone who qualifies for an honors class gets a good grade? Your kid obviously did not take Honors English I or II! Mr. Rice and Mr. Kein are notorious for the number of students moved out---followed by a great deal of parental whining about how unfair we are because we actually expect kids to meet our expectations or transfer to a different level.)
Please note that I said “if the teacher is bad” as a condition. Neither of you are bad teachers. There are bad teachers, some are in your department. Two of my three children have had honors classes with both of you and done well but got moved to other designations later, at my behest, because I did not want them taking classes with bad teachers and misleading labels.

While this counted against them in the GPA race, I don’t play that game. They have outstanding skills because I made skills a priority, since those last, as opposed to letting them succumb to GPA games, which leave students lacking in skills, but long on impressive-sounding transcripts. I am not making this up. Parents of “honor” students talk. My kids have outscored all but a couple of cohorts per year (on the ACT) in their “honors” circles because I do know what I’m doing and what I’m talking about.

6. If you’re in sports, you get excused from a lot of assignments.
(If your child learned to generalize, they learned it at home. A generalization such as this would be an “F” on an assignment in my English class. Give me a specific EXAMPLE---or go to work for a political campaign for either party.)
Your first statement is specious. Generalization is not limited to my blog and is considered a skill in the category of social language pragmatics. I refuse to name bad teachers who have given up rigor for pacification because they deserve their anonymity, too. Instead, I talk to them and the administration, which I have done and will continue to do. See also Spawn's Small Town 12/05/06 - latter half are his experiences re the HS.

7. If your teacher is a coach, there’s a lot of free time in class and very few assignments.
(And if a student athlete is ineligible, the FIRST call a teacher gets is from Mom or Dad----whining about how we’re penalizing their son/daughter and removing the ONLY reason they come to school anyway.)
Not my fault. I’m the one who stands alone in front of the school board, the principal, and the classroom teacher arguing for greater rigor and higher expectations when necessary. Please see:
The Talk 4/2/07 about high standards, intrinsic rewards, and the quest for personal excellence,
The Letter I Didn't Send 5/29/07 morally questionable selling of academic indulgences,
Plans for Life 4/23/07 – prepping for the ACT and my opinions about high school studies and the early years of college

8. Homework? What’s homework? We do that in class instead of getting a full 90 minutes (block schedule) of instruction or learning activities.
(See #6)
See 6 and 7, as well as:
Notes I Have Sent 5/3/06 humorous notes I’ve sent to elementary, middle and high schools. I think you will find the last one particularly relevant.

9. Ninety minutes of silent reading while the teacher is on the computer is considered a good use of our time at school.
(See #6)
See 6 and 7

10. We guess you can learn a lot from movies. We sure see plenty of them, including the same ones year after year or stuff we’ve seen at home already.
(See #6. Gee, this is getting boring! Do you already work for a Presidential campaign, or are you just a talented amateur at this?)
(Snort) See 6 and 7. Then go talk to the librarians about how many movies they plug into the system over the course of a semester. I have. It might open your eyes to what your cohorts are doing. Doodle saw 5 movies in his first term of English, none of which were relevant to the course, nor were they reviewed, nor were the students tested on them, nor were they discussed in class. Bunny saw three in her senior English class, only one of which was relevant; the rest were time fillers. In a different English class, they saw two, also not discussed, reviewed, or accompanied by assessments of knowledge.

You have no idea how sad it makes me to know that my charges, even phrased tongue-in-cheek, are true.

Last Sock in the Nerd Hamper 3/5/07 – a humorous take on validated giftedness
Nerdliness Further 2/13/07 – living with gifted children, and memories

11. If you’re involved in enough activities and can’t keep up in class, get your parents to complain and the teachers will lower their expectations!
(Are you talking about YOUR kids? If not, how can you be sure that the information you have is accurate? I’m sure that every time your kids tell you, “But ALL the kids are doing it!” you accept that and give in, right? Then why do you assume that their version of what happens in my class is accurate?)
If it were YOUR class, I would not have this complaint. Sadly, you remain a statistical outlier on the scale of teacher excellence, along with a few other teachers. I have no problem with you defending your own conduct, but I would advise you to be careful of generalizing the other teachers’ classroom conduct and expectations, just as you have cautioned me on my generalizations.
Really, do you have any idea of how demoralizing such behavior on the part of teachers can be to the student ?
I urge you to read some of my other posts before assuming you know the basis for my snarky remarks.

12. If you get a tough teacher who makes you learn and work, you will remember them fondly forever, and, regardless of the class, it will be what you wish for in every other class you ever take.
(Just like every worker remembers his/her good bosses fondly. Again, a lesson in life. Another one, though, is that not every student is inspired/motivated by the same teachers. For every student who thinks Teacher “A” is the worst teacher ever, there’s a student who thinks that Teacher “A” made school bearable/interesting/exciting. Again, is YOUR child’s opinion of a teacher the only one that matters?)
Nope. I never said so. I am answerable for what I say, not for what you think.

13. Never complain about not having enough work, hard enough work, or expectations being low because then the teachers will give you a lower grade to “prove” you wrong.
(See #6. And then ask yourself if you actually brought your concerns to the TEACHER and or the PRINCIPAL with specific examples that someone could actually address? Probably not. It’s a lot easier to blog!)
And, it’s a lot easier to pretend you know who I am, who my children are, what I support, and what my expectations are, rather than reading my previous posts… Which are pretty clearly categorized.

14. If you have to read a book for a class, it will be depressing. If you already don’t read for pleasure, this will help make sure you never do.
(Gee, nobody ever learns anything from books like TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD or ROMEO AND JULIET. They’re so depressing. Hey, let’s read CHICKEN SOUP books, instead! They’re inspirational, require no thought, and teach everyone that mediocre writing can become a best seller. And then we’ll all pretend that the folks on AMERICAN IDOL are just as good as Yo-Yo Ma or Frank Sinatra or Maria Callas or the other great artists of the 20th C.)
Well, that’s certainly a leap without any basis. And, let me lob this one back, that must mean that there are NO books worth reading, or genre worth exploring, which do not involve graphically depicted violent death, racism, suicide, or mental illness, and those which fail on the “depressing” scale are therefore are intrinsically unworthy of being analyzed for literary merit.

15. If you are smart and non-conformist, someone will call your parents to discuss your “problems.”
(Hmmm. Non-conformist. Is that the student who refuses to follow the classroom assignment to keep a binder with his/her papers in neat order, to aid in studying/reviewing because that’s not her style? Or is that the student who wears the t-shirt with the inappropriate message? Or the one whose smell is so bad that every student in the class BEGS you to talk to the nurse? Again, a bit of specificity on how your darling is a “non-conformist” might help!)
You might recognize one of the references in the following:

My Kids Aren't From Stepford 4/29/06 -actual calls I’ve gotten from schools, and my responses. In reality, I did say these things, but followed them up with more situationally and socially correct remarks as well.
Or here:
Notes I Have Sent 5/3/06 humorous notes I’ve sent to elementary, middle and high schools

16. If you hate school – go anyway! Make sure to take classes with coach-teachers to keep your GPA high. They’ll give you a diploma just to get rid of you!
(Again, a non-specific charge with no support. Hope you don’t have a job which actually requires you to back up your opinions. Or do you work for Dick Cheney, in which case neither logic nor support is required.)
ROFLMAO! (wiping tears of laughter from my eyes, and then…t-i-c again…) Oh, so poorly fletched an arrow poses risks to birds a-wing! Take a look at MCHS’s school report cards, which indicate, quite objectively, that the majority of students graduating fall BELOW the PSAE benchmarks across the board, and the ACT scores which show students averaging below college readiness benchmarks in all areas excluding reading.

17. If you want to know if you’re prepared for college, refer to your ACT score, not your high school transcript. That’s what colleges do.
(And is that OUR fault?! Or is this sarcasm? As with all the other inane generalities, your failure to actually give a concrete example makes it impossible to respond. Of course, that’s the point of this diatribe, isn’t it? After all, it’s SO much easier to sling mud in large quantities rather than accept the fact that your son/daughter may have thrown away innumerable opportunities to excel, to participate in the myriad extra-curriculars this school offers, or to take the BEST of our EVERY class, regardless of whether he/she like the teacher.)
No, it’s systemic and nationwide, but it is also local and therefore relevant. See above for objective references. Also refer to The Talk .

18. If you want to know what college work is like, ask a parent or a college student. Don’t count on your teachers or classes to help prepare you for it.
(It’s amazing what an incredible percentage of students we have failing out of college, isn’t it? Oh, wait. We don’t. Well, in that case it’s amazing what an amazing percentage of students we have who have learned EVERYTHING they know in the first 2 weeks of college! Gee, your darling is a genius, just like you told everyone when they were 2 and knew all their colors, even “Fuschia”!)
Not sure where you’re getting your data, which appears to be largely subjective. I think you should instead, for anecdotal purposes, poll the graduating students and find out what percentage are going to have to take remedial courses when they start college. And see the above references. Nationwide, 40% of incoming college students require remediation (Journal of Higher Education, Inside Higher Ed.), and over the last 10-15 years, colleges have had to institute competency tests in order to place students in appropriate math and English courses, which is a sad, sad statement on the ability of high schools nationwide to prepare kids for college. There is no shortage of information available, if you choose to seek it out.

And:
The Mind of Spawn 8/23/06 about dealing with gifted children and their thirst for knowledge,
Phrase Migration 1/10/07 – last third, school encounters
Holding Forth 8/28/06 – teaching language skills from the get-go

19. Friends are great. Sometimes they’re the only reason to show up.
(Friends and family are the only reasons ANY of us survive in this world. How is that a problem? Rather, that is what keeps all of us going through good times and bad. It’s called life.)
See: The Talk

20. The lunches still suck, but there are fewer pizzaburgers and less mystery meat.
(And how many times during your sweetheart’s junior/senior year did he/she choose to partake of the haute cuisine at Mickey D’s, Burger King, Dave’s Dawgs, etc.? You want your kid to eat healthy food, stay on task, and reach his/her maximum potential? Take away the car and the video game, put the computer in the FAMILY ROOM where you can monitor what he/she is doing on it, and give him/her a curfew. Then while he/she is working on homework, fix a FAMILY MEAL and require the WHOLE FAMILY to eat together.)
Well, that response certainly went off at an obscure angle, but I’ll be happy to answer your deflection. Not very damned often, since I make them pay for that (and gas, and the insurance if their grades drop below a B average) out of their own pockets. I restrict the use of automobiles, and I remain final arbiter in whether or not they get to use the computer, the internet, and videogames. In addition, all of those privileges are earned privileges, not rights, and they are expected to do household chores on a regular schedule and a consistent basis in order to earn them, in addition to doing their schoolwork. We are also famous amongst my children's friends for routinely having family dinners, some of which my children cook from scratch themselves, because I consider that a necessary skill and have spent many years (and gamely eaten many odd things) teaching it to them.

And, now, it’s my turn to have my say…

You have held forth a great deal about my assumptions and how erroneous they are, but I think you have failed to address the beam in your own eye. You did not read my prior posts to see what sort of a parent I am; you made assumptions that I am the worst sort, the kind that throws obstacles and fictional objections in your way. I am not.

I am data driven, with a background in the hard sciences, financial analysis, and special education law. I am a tireless researcher with outstanding credentials in a wide variety of fields. And, I am a parent who invariably supports and applauds teachers with high standards, high expectations, and the grit to continue in the face of public and systemic pressure to lighten up, dumb down, or phone it in.

None of the “charges” I’ve made are based on slapdash, haphazard assumptions. Not all of them are the results of statistical data, either. They are what they are – some are based on objective measurements, some on widespread, nationally applicable criticisms and observations, and others are a result of combined anecdotal input from a variety of sources, not by any means limited to my own family, and including other parents of honor students, the students themselves, past students in the same category, web searches and blog analysis from students and the hardships they encounter when they go off to college after graduating from MCHS, and newspaper or other journal articles, locally, regionally and nationally. I have no problem dismissing things that are clearly personal whines, nor do I have a problem in recognizing patterns and similarities, nor am I unable to choose whether or not I consider them relevant and worthy of further investigation.

I have also made sure to gather data directly from MCHS, the school report cards, requests to administrative personnel for longitudinal data on AP scores, ACT, and PSAE scores. I have been doing this for 7 years, one year prior to my oldest child starting at MCHS, because I believe that research and information are exceedingly important.

I have made all of these points over the last 6 years, to all three principals at MCHS, to a number of teachers, and to members of the school board. I have stood behind what I believe, and what I have researched, and I have spoken directly to those involved in the most egregious offenses, ONLY when I had substantive data to back me up – because it wouldn’t be fair otherwise.

And NONE of that means that I don’t get to vent, blow off steam, or express my opinions on my own blog. As I stated at the beginning, I could put any variety of witless, fictional fluff I wanted, and it still wouldn’t mean I was in violation of anything. You can read it, you can agree, disagree, move on, never visit again, whatever. I don’t care. It’s up to you.

P.S. One thing MY father taught me is that anyone who is afraid to stand up and take responsibility for his/her opinion and uses the “anonymous” label isn’t worth a bucket of warm spit. That’s why I’m glad to sign my response.David M. Rice, Proud MCHS English Teacher.

Potpourri and Reasons for Anonymity 8/5/07 self-explanatory

In no particular order, the following is a list of relevant prior posts. It is not comprehensive or all-inclusive.

The Talk 4/2/07 about high standards intrinsic rewards, and the quest for personal excellence
The Letter I Didn't Send 5/29/07 morally questionable selling of academic indulgences
Potpourri and Reasons for Anonymity 8/5/07 self-explanatory
Spawn's Small Town 12/05/06 latter half are his experiences re the HS
The Mind of Spawn 8/23/06 about dealing with gifted children and their thirst for knowledge
Notes I Have Sent 5/3/06 humorous notes I’ve sent to elementary, middle and high schools
School Supplies 4/30/06 – a humorous parody of notes sent home from school for additional supplies, elementary and middle school years.
My Kids Aren't From Stepford 4/29/06 l – actual calls I’ve gotten from schools, and my responses. In reality, I did say these things, but followed them up with more situationally correct remarks as well.
Plans for Life 4/23/07 – prepping for the ACT and my opinions about high school studies and the early years of college
Last Sock in the Nerd Hamper 3/5/07 – a humorous take on validated giftedness
Nerdliness Further 2/13/07 – living with gifted children and memories
Phrase Migration 1/10/07 – last third, school encounters
Aargh, Student Teachers 11/13/06 – The Social Studies department quirks
Five Things for Student Teachers 11/17/06 – self-explanatory vent of things I wish student teachers had assimilated before entering the classroom. There are undoubtedly points for/of disagreement.
Holding Forth 8/28/06 – teaching language skills from the get-go

My Ding Dong

My kids, especially the two ADHD boys, are night owls. If you know ADHD people, you know that an alarm clock just doesn’t do the job, and for the last 20 years, I’ve had to learn a thousand, million ways to wake them up and get them dressed, fed, medicated, cleaned up, and out the door for school.

I’ve tried hollering, banging on their bedroom doors with wooden spoons, metal pots, and my flat hand. I’ve bounced cheerfully on their beds until they’re queasy and roll out of bed before they barf. I’ve tried tickling, letting other family members tickle them, and I have sent dogs into their rooms to bark, whine, slobber, and frolic them awake. My favorite method involving the dogs has been to stand at the doorway with the dog nearby and throw bits of dog treats onto the sleeping night owl, so that the dog bounds energetically to and fro around on the sleeper. My oldest son still refers to this tactic as the “wet biscuit” method.

I’m kind of tired of finding ways to wake them up in a timely manner. My creative juices are not really flowing in that direction any more. I’ve managed to turn myself into the biggest lark in the house, getting up around 5 am, if not earlier, every day of the week, and I have no more patience for waking the comatose.

Well, over my hiatus, my husband was working on my mother-in-law’s First Alert clone alarm system. Since her husband died and she moved into a quad home area with other seniors, we all agreed that a pendant she could push for help would be a good thing. This one phones my husband’s cell phone first, and she can then speak or just keep mashing the button. If someone else is in the house, but maybe not right where they could see her, she can also push a button to make a heinously loud alarm sound from the main unit, and then the other person would have to find her and turn off the alarm from the pendant. Something went wrong with it, and my techie spouse brought it home to fiddle with. It did make an ear-splitting racket, no doubt about it.

He couldn’t seem to get it to dial the phone again, and in disgust said, “well, it would make a good alarm bell for in the house, I guess, but she really needs one that will dial out.” I nodded in agreement, and then called for Doodle to come and do one of his chores. He didn’t show up. I called again. Still no Doodle. I was cranky and got up to go find him and give him a good glaring-at, when a light bulb appeared over hubby’s head.

“Hey,” he said, “why don’t I put the alarm box in his room and give you the pendant? Then you can just press the button and not have to yell?” I looked at him with wonder. “Can you do that? He might unplug it,” I said. “I’ll hide it,” he replied, and he went off, sent the Doodle in my direction, and installed the alarm. We didn’t tell Doodle about it because we are sneaky, evil parents.

Later on, Doodle was sloughing off on another chore, and I opened my mouth to holler for him, spotted the pendant and pushed the alarm button. A sound like the spaceship from that “Klaatu-Barada-Nicktu” movie went off in his room, and he came dashing out of his room yelling, “HEY! WHAT THE HECK IS THAT?” I pushed the “off” button, which generates a two tone sound like the elevator in a posh department store, and said, “It’s my Doodle Call. I don’t have to yell for you any more,” and a wide, wide grin spread across my face.

“Holy Crap,” said Doodle, “well, what do you need me for?” “Dish chore,” I replied, and went back to the living room enveloped in a feeling of bliss I haven’t experienced since my last encounter with a chocolate-raspberry truffle.

The next day, my daughter decided to ignore me when I called for her, and I wound up banging on her door after the third call, opening it up, and finding her in front of her computer with a pair of headphones on, be-bopping to heaven only knows what. “Hey,” I said, “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“Well, kind of,” she replied, “but I was really enjoying this song.”

“Why didn’t you just say so? I could have waited,” I said.

“Ummmm,” was her response.

“Ah, I see,” I said.

That evening, I asked my husband if he could find another buzzer and put it in her room. I asked that it be loud enough to be heard through headphones and rock music. “No problem,” he said, “I love home improvement stuff,” and he winked at me and headed off to the hardware store.

When he came back, he had a remote doorbell, which generates a different, tinny kind of two-tone chime, and he snuck into her room when she wasn’t looking and installed it. He came back into the living room, and we grinned evilly at one another. “Need her to do anything?” I asked. He thought for a minute. “I’ll bet the dogs are in need of food and water,” he said. “I’m on it,” I replied, and pushed the bell. “HEY!” we heard, “NOT ME, TOO!” and she came into the living room looking very cranky and said, “WHAT?!” in that very special way teenaged girls have.

Hubs said, “I think your poor puppies are hungry and thirsty. Please feed and water them,” and he smiled innocently at her. “Oh, GOD,” she said and stumped off, grumbling the entire time she was filling their bowls.

“Two down,” I said, looking at hubby and quirking an eyebrow, “do we dare go for a three-fer? It’ll have to be the loudest one made, Spot sleeps pretty deeply.”

“I can do that,” replied hubs, “I love a challenge.”

He had to hit three hardware stores before finding an alarm just a few decibels below the “illegal noise level” range. It’s been hard-wired into Spot’s room. I have a little key chain now, with four alarm buttons on it (we decided not to let them hide in the basement, pretending they couldn’t hear any alarms). Each one gives a different tone, and I can choose among eight different tunes for the one in the basement.

I don’t have to yell anymore at all. I just gently push a button and wait. If no one shows up, I push it again, and again, and again. Someone always shows up. They may not be happy, but they are all getting to school on time, and I don’t have to yell until I’m cranky, or get up from whatever else I’m doing to hunt them down to remind them of chores.

I don’t think I’ve been this happy since I first discovered orgasms.

Fiddle Dee Dee

Well, it’s taken me longer to return than I expected, but here I am, in all my winter glory – snow-covered and chilly, but hanging in there. The short list of what’s been going on since I last posted looks like this:

Dad’s not dead.
Neither is anyone else in the family.

After two 24-hour + power outages in extremely cold weather, we now have a new refrigerator and a new range.

The septic field is fine, but we were nearly too late getting the tank pumped.
We have a new appreciation for phones that work consistently.
And garage doors that are not too heavy to manually lift.

I’ve made a half dozen pairs of wool socks for myself.

Two of my kids are older.

We survived the holidays more easily than I expected.

I’m at the leading edge of a “new” career.
It’s very time-consuming, but cool.

The baby dog, Gracie, is calmer, spayed, and seems to have given up shoe-hunting in favor of digging holes through the snow and permafrost and into the vicinity of telephone lines.

Urk. I want to thank (picture me in a modest evening gown at the podium) everyone who kept stopping by during my long hiatus, everyone who sent me a note, and everyone who didn’t publicly lambaste me as a totally useless wiener. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get back on a fairly regular schedule for writing.

So, the new career… Well, as you may remember, I have advocated for my own children because of their ADHD over the years – with school districts. I’ve also volunteered time and scarce brain cells to assist others lost in the morass of special education law and procedures. I’ve done some of it entirely by remote, over the computer, some of it in person, hunched over tables in the library, chairs in the doctor’s office, or while knitting at Chix with Stix.

A few months ago, another lady briefly joined the women’s group, and she has a child with profound disabilities. The table discussion that day concerned a variety of special education issues, and some of the other ladies are teachers, substitute teachers, or just have concerns about themselves, loved ones, or offspring. Apparently, without realizing it, I came off as being a real whiz kid on special ed issues. The moderator recommended that I consider becoming a paid advocate.

I pondered it and discarded the idea, feeling insecure and inadequate. She brought it up again in another group, so I pondered it again, did some research, and set my subconscious to the task of grinding away at the idea. I got closer to the precipice labeled “OK”.

Once again, in mid-January, the moderator, a clinical psychologist, brought it up, and I said, “yes”. She promptly handed me a referral. Tough case, too. It set my juices flowing, got blood pumping through my brain again, and I reached down into the dark, damp dungeon of my insecurities and examined them more critically.

I’ve spent twelve years advocating on an on-going basis for my own children. I’ve done a bang-up job of it, and I’ve had success with the assistance I’ve given other people. I checked state law and requirements, joined some support lists, and realized that I actually do have a clue about how to do this. I’ve surprised myself by feeling reasonably confident, competent and enthusiastic.

It’s that last feeling that really surprises me the most. Over the years as a stay-at-home mom, I’ve lost enthusiasm for rejoining the work world. I know how much it would take away from my ability to be a good mom to my kids, to keep my household running without lots of stress, and to maintain basic standards. I’ve learned to value myself and my needs, and they can sometimes be time-consuming. It’s been hard to try to figure out a way to put all of that in a framework so that nothing gets so badly neglected that it becomes an “issue” unto itself.

I tried signing up for at-home work, and that was a bust for several reasons. I tried signing up to be a secret shopper type person, and, really, there’s nothing intellectually fulfilling about it, and it felt more like tedious busywork. I’m not the sort to sell real estate, and other things just don’t generate enough income to make them more than a hobby. I am, however, a relentless researcher, and that’s a fine trait indeed for a special education advocate.

So, anyway, I decided on a fee schedule, checked the market, checked my conscience, and heard the “Click”. Everything fell into a place that felt like it fit. I met with my new (first) clients, and, more “click”-ing. Then, I let the data-mining juggernaut within loose. I roared through stacks of special education law, paperwork, historical data, case law, due process decisions, educational files going back nearly a decade, descriptions of applicable disorders and conditions, and felt… invigorated. Taller. Like I was breathing easier. Engaged. Focused.

I kept my clients’ butts covered and set loose the twin dogs of strategy and salesmanship. And we won. Everything the clients wanted. And everyone is still happy, the child is protected and in the right place with the right program in place, the clients can sleep at night, the school district was guided to the appropriate decisions and does not appear to feel steamrolled, and I can sleep, too.

It worked. I did it right, and fate smiled. I can, in fact, do this.

I’ve gotten two more referrals since then, and we’ll see how those go. Sometimes people are not going to really need me, they’ll just need someone to adjust their compasses. Other times, folks may have unreasonable expectations and it might not be a good fit for us to work together. But this does feel right for me at this point in time. I can make some measurable money and still be a mom and wife. I can say “no” if that’s the right choice. My brains are turning back into brains instead of being motherhood haggis, and I can take pride in doing a hard job to the best of my ability.

Wish me luck.

Things That Weren’t

There were a lot of things I was going to share with you last week – when I got stuck waiting for a train to pass through town and got fascinated by the “urban art” – how beautiful some of it was and wondering how the graffiti-ists ever found all the time to do it; how every household, especially mine, needs an alpha mom more often than they think; how Spawn (hereafter to be called “Spot” – if I remember) has gone ahead with his legal name change; a sweater I’m knitting; cool stuff from my women’s group and my knitting group, but…

There’d come a call from the nursing home and then from the hospital, and everything extra had to stop. “Your Dad fell and seems fine,” “Your Dad fell and has a cut on his forehead, so we’re sending him to the hospital,” “Your Dad’s temperature is elevated and his breathing is congested and he’s groggy, so we’re sending him to the hospital.” And, “his leg is swollen, hot, and red, so we’re sending him for a Doppler.” On and on. He’s still alive, and doesn’t seem as bad as so many calls would indicate, but there are small signs.

He’s stopped being aware of where he is geographically – doesn’t realize we’re in the same city and state and keeps thanking me for making the long trip to see him. He doesn’t like his nursing home because they have too many rules and he can’t go bike-riding or out for a walk (which he hasn’t done for over 15 years anyway, since he can’t even walk); he forgets that my sister hasn’t visited for some time and talks about the last time they spoke as if it were yesterday. Time and distance and reality have collided and combined into an alternate reality for him, which is more obvious and sadly disturbing than ever. He has slipped another mile down the tunnel towards the end.

I am trying to figure out if now is the time to call my sister and tell her to come back for the last good bye before he passes. His health, fragile though it is, is comparatively stable, but his mind is leaving. I’d hate to wait until he was no longer able to recognize her and enjoy her company.

I was able, this weekend, to spend a few hours with Bunny at the mall, buying far too many good-smelling things at Bath and Body Works, and sharing a fruit smoothie with her before we assaulted Linens N Things for a turkey lifter and some bathroom refurbishments. Unfortunately, I seem to have subsequently come down with stomach flu and am taking the hint from God and Nature to lie down and rest.

So, I’m just going to have to admit to and take a hiatus for a while from blogging. If I get a chance, I’ll post the little things, and I’ll certainly keep you posted on the big things.

Wish me well.

Sharing Middle Age

My neighbor lady friend and I went out the other day. She’s a few years older than I am, but my family goes through menopause early, so we’re about even on the hot-flash-o-meter. We were enjoying our cranberry scones and raspberry flavored coffee (it’s the ONLY added flavor I can stand in coffee), and I said, “I hate being middle aged.”

“Why?” she asked. “You get to be cranky, curse in public, and rearrange the furniture on a daily basis and blame it all on menopause!”

“Hair. In. The. Wrong. Places.” I responded with a corresponding grimace.

She nodded wisely. “Oh, I know what you mean. I had one on my chin that was not there when I went to bed, and when I woke up it had grown enough to have a CURL in it!”

“I hate those,” I sympathized.

“Oh, and when I pulled that bad boy out, I swear the root was 18 inches long! I felt the back of my HEAD sink in a fraction of an inch when it finally came out!” she said. “Where was yours?”

“I woke up yesterday morning and went to brush my teeth,” I said, “and when I looked in the mirror, it looked like Tufty the Nose Mouse had nested in my nostrils. I was so shocked I screamed, and then I couldn’t bring myself to explain why to my husband.”

“Has he started sprouting that gnome like ear hair men get?” she asked. “My husband has, and on those days when I decide I hate him, I have a really mean urge to put hair gel on it while he’s snoring and freak him out. Of course, he’d probably never notice.”

“Not so much, mostly it’s either end of the alimentary system that’s getting him,” I said.

She rolled her eyeballs and said, “In English, Wordsworth.”

“Teeth and hemorrhoids,” I responded.

“HEY!” yelled the guy in the booth behind us, who had been hidden by the back of the seat. “Enough already! I’m only 32, and I really, really don’t want a reason to drive off a cliff before I have kids!”

My friend and I looked sagely at each other, and she told him, “Oh, it’s the kids that will put you on THAT edge. Grandkids are the reason to stick around.”

I’m pretty sure he said a nasty word before turning back to his blueberry muffin.

WeeMed Out

Oooh, that sounds a little nasty. Anyway, it was lots of fun this year – some of the same programs and some new ones, basically the same food menu with more bounteous and more chocolaty sweets this time around (last year I was late and wound up confronted by what looked like an angry blanc mange as the sole remaining treat). It was nice having my daughter with me because I got to see some things through fresh eyes. Some of her observations:

1. No one bothers you if you’re reading, even if you’re doing it during dinner at a full table. They respect your love of reading.

2. Very few shirts for sports teams – mostly smart aleck remarks or puns or clever quips. She even spotted an IMSA t-shirt. (My favorite: I don’t think much, so I might not be.)

3. Puns and smarty-pants remarks on the posters – “Free Soda: Exact Change Required” or a sign under the quiche, “Vegetarian, not Vegan…Duh!”

4. We missed some programs because we were too busy talking with interesting people.

5. Everyone is nice, and (ahem) Mom is popular (grin).

6. The souvenir shirts are cool. So are squirrels.

Some things I noticed:

1. Many people expressed a sense of relief or joy at being with other Mensans – two memorable remarks: “I haven’t spoken that deeply on a topic in MONTHS” and “It’s so nice to be somewhere where I don’t have to explain what a Klein bottle is.”

2. Even if I don’t care about a topic, listening to the selected programs is always interesting. Being me, a total goober, I walked into a conference room to attend a meet and greet for online Mensans. Turns out, the last program was still going on – on foreskin restoration. It took me a couple of minutes to figure that out, since there were no explicit pictures or language for those couple of minutes (although the large pink florescent penis and partial balls on the table should have clued me in, but I don’t like to assume…), and by then, I was moderately interested, even though I can’t imagine a topic I’d be less likely to seek out. It was very scientific and clinical, the speaker read testimonial letters, and I could tell he felt very sincere and earnest about his topic. Twenty minutes later he finished up, redirected a lot of people looking for a speaker on ghosts, and then the online thing started.

3. The hugs were even better this year.

4. It’s fine, even normal, to skip all the programs and just hang out and snork up beer and/or broccoli and chat with other Ms.

5. I’m not the only person who gets a little ferocious when the caffeinated coffee runs low.

6. Even the inexplicable costumes were funny.

7. No one b*tch slapped me for knitting all over the place. I even knit during the Saturday evening show and tried Very Hard not to clank like a member of a chain gang.

8. Hi, Bill! It was nice to finally meet you in real life!

OK, so I have to go catch up on laundry and get dinner started. I’m still smiling, though, which is nice.

WEEM…Plus

I’m off to WeeM today – that’s the Chicago Area Mensa Regional Gathering. I’ll be taking my daughter, since I use WeeM as a senior year treat. We’re both looking forward to it – if nothing else, one of my favorite things about staying in a hotel is the unlimited supply of very hot water – I can have a hot bath that lasts a full day (with periodic reheating) if I want! Oh, the luxury. Plus, someone else worries about the cooking.

Anyway, I’ve been a naughty blogger. Here are some of the things that have been going on since I last posted:

My dad went into the hospital twice – the first time was when his blood pressure dropped really low and he was even more confused and tired than usual, plus the congestion in his chest got worse. Once he was checked in and poked and prodded, he and his blood pressure perked back up, but they still kept him for three days. Then, a day after he got back to the nursing home, he tried to get out of his wheelchair and fell and broke open the skin on his forehead, so he had to go get scanned, checked out, and sewn up.

Then, my dear knitting friend had a partial knee replacement, the “Oxford Knee” (Name brand surgery!). I had to go up to Fringe to pick up some special order yarn, and I decided I’d pick up several skeins in autumn colors for her, too. Then, while in traffic on the way there, I had a brainstorm – a yarn bouquet. The yarn store owners looked at me like they were wondering where I was hiding my third eye, so, as I sat in traffic on the way home, I decided to try my local florist. I know the owner there, and she’s wonderfully creative.

I stopped in, showed her the yarn, and asked if she could combine it, safely, with some autumn toned flowers in a basket for a unique bouquet. She looked thrilled at the chance to do something new, and said sure. I left it in her hands, and toddled home. I got a call from my knitting friend (OK, it’s Irene. I’ve outed your first name. Be afraid!) who was overwhelmed at the lovely bouquet. I couldn’t resist, so I went over and took a picture of it:

Faboo, eh? (I have it on good authority that the yarn was severely fondled before I took the picture, so It's not necessarily in its original state.)

Then, let’s see, it was let the dog out every two hours so she didn’t pizzle in my house, I had another 504 meeting for my youngest, and he had a dentist’s appointment and a med. Management appointment; I had four bouts of volunteer tutoring, two rounds of extended length private tutoring in German (excellent adult learner, though, which is cool), and one afternoon Spawn came home to announce that he was going to legally change his first name.

I could have gotten all worked up about it, but I decided that it was probably better than getting a strange piercing or obscene tattoo, so I smiled and asked what his new name would be. He wouldn’t tell me. So, I’ve been calling him “Spot” or “Fluffy” or “Lars” in the hopes of irking him into telling me. So far, no luck. My husband has not reacted calmly, even though Spawn fully intends on keeping the family name. Being a whimsical teenaged boy, Spawn didn’t do his homework and found out it would take six weeks to legally change his name, would involve a lawyer, a fee, and publication in the newspaper. We haven’t heard much about it since then.

And then there’s knit stuff:

About 10 years ago, I made my daughter a “hot damn” afghan from a pattern on the Knitlist. It involved multiple strands of thin yarn, size 35 needles, and muscles like Conan in order to tame the yarn and needles and wrassle them into compliance. I swore, silently, that I would never make another one, and, of course, it’s Bunny’s cherished blankie. Well, between 10 years of daily use and one new dogette, the afghan developed a huge, scary, tangled hole in the middle, and then somewhere midway between middle and end, in each direction, the yarn failed and there were two splits. Bunny wanted the afghan fixed. She moped; she stuck out her lip, she said encouraging words.

I bit my tongue, yet still managed to offer to make her a brand new one. She cried and said she just wanted the old one fixed. I pointed out there was no way I could ever hope to match the yarns again, showed her the only possible yarn I have which I could use to fix it, in the hopes of getting her to agree to a new afghan instead. She perked up and said they’d be fine; that she didn’t mind if her blankie had battle scars. So, I gave in.

And I began darning, and darning, and darning. The two splits weren’t a problem, but that big danged hole in the middle took me, well, several days to build up the courage to deal with it, then four days to – a) untangle the mess and find out what was split, missing, etc., b) knit back what had unraveled, as best as possible, and c) two days to darn the 12 inch by 6 inch remaining hole. The craftsmanship is fine, but, boy, oh, boy does the darn stick out like a thick, sore thumb. Bunny, however, is delighted. I may finally be over the throbbing headache that accompanied it.

Then the Doodle came to me after dinner one night, as I was meditating over a new sock, and announced (I think I have a family of budding Walter Kronkites – they announce stuff rather than just casually mentioning it) that he needed a new sweater. I asked him about the two sweaters I made him two years ago, which were very handsome -- made with doubled sock yarn for warmth and durability, and in masculine variegated blues, which he had been wearing quite happily up until his announcement. He said they didn’t fit any more, and I made him try one on.

He was right. He looked like Pappy Yoakum, with his belly showing and most of his lower arms sticking out. The width was still fine, though. I said, “Holy Crap! When did you grow so much?” He laughed and said he didn’t know and could he please take off the sweater since it made his armpits feel funny. Aaargh. So, he got measured up for a new sweater. The durned kid has pretty much grown three inches beyond the limits of the previous sweater in all vertical zones. We picked out a yarn, and I swatched and cast on. And, no, he doesn’t want any fancy stitches or stripes or patterns, he just wants a plain John Doe sweater made by Mom. That’s OK, everyone needs a little mindless TV knitting.

Then there’s Being On Hold, which should be a paid job. Or, I should at least get extremely valuable discount coupons because I think I’ve spent 24 solid hours either talking to people in India or touch-toning my way through corporate phone labyrinths over the last two weeks in order to: update two Tracfones, get a monstrously wrong electric bill straightened out, make a consumer complaint on a product, and making an inquiry on one of my Dad’s bills. I dozed off at the dining room table twice while waiting on hold, lulled to sleep by the sound of an electronic female telling me how important my call was.

Last night, I woke up from my unintentional nap on the couch, at 8:30, to the startling realization that the only clean pants I had were the ones I was wearing, so I headed down to the laundry room, where there was another startling discovery. My family decided to show me how much they’ll miss me by saving up all their laundry until the night before my departure. It’s piled on a waist high counter to a height over my head, and stretching about 7 feet wide. There were throw rugs, robes, uncountable towels, and, of course, all of my pants in there. I quirked an eyebrow at the mountain of pong, fished out a couple pairs of my and Bunny’s pants, and threw them in the wash. I did the same thing with underwear and shirts this morning. The rest of it can wait for me to get back, or for the weight of the laundry to turn the socks into diamonds; I don’t care. They all know where to find the soap and turn the dials.

So, I’m off to WeeM. I may never leave the room because I’ll be enjoying the hot water, the lack of phone duty, and the laundry being someone else’s business. Hope to see some of you there, and, if not, have a hot bath and a great weekend on my behalf!

The Day My Kids Grew Up

This morning I awoke to the sound of Bunny yelling, “BUS”. I ran to the kitchen to see her and Doodle lunging across the lawn and climbing onto the school bus. At my spot at the dining room table was a note, which read:

Mom –

Doodle and I got our lunch money and he took his pill. I decided to let you sleep – please don’t be mad. Love you.

- Bunny

When I read it, tears formed in my eyes because for the first time in the 20 years I’ve been a parent, someone else:

a) knew what needed to be done
b) did it
c) without being asked
d) got it right

For the first time in 20 years, I didn’t HAVE to be the officer on deck. Someone else picked up the reins, responsibly, and carried through. Only another mother can understand what that means. It means freedom.

Because there is a secret in the world of stay-at-home moms; the vast majority of us do it because we don’t have a choice. The reasons are varied – maybe our jobs didn’t pay enough to cover childcare and transportation to and fro. Maybe our spouses never did learn to pick up a 50% share of parenting without resentment and/or ineptitude. Maybe their jobs didn’t allow them to do so reliably. Maybe our kids have special needs that make extra time devoted to parenting and supervision and follow through necessary. Whatever the reason, few moms leave the security of a second income, pension, and paid health care on a whim; most of us have to leave.

And, we go back to work when and how we can – working from home, squeezing whatever income we can out between being in full charge of the children and home, working weekends when possible, working swing shift if husband’s hours are regular enough to let us do so; we know the consequences of being away from the work world for too long – lack of income, lack of financial security, lack of respect, loss of identity, etc.

I’ve made those choices myself. I am long past grieving the goodies of a full-time job and well entrenched in understanding the intangible rewards of being a stay-at-home mom. I’ve worked weekends, tutoring, small projects, doing what amounts to petty cash pick-up over the years with no reward other than the cash in my hand, a change in my routine, and a filthy kitchen and cranky family members to come home to. Sometimes it’s just not worth it, so I stop for a while.

But today, someone else stepped in where there was a need – I didn’t get to sleep until very late last night and consequently overslept. In the past, this usually meant that the kids didn’t wake up on time, didn’t get the essentials done on time, and I had to drive them to school or come in later with whatever they forgot.

If, in the past, I were sick, I needed to ask in advance for help—to ask my husband to get them up, medicated, fed, etc. He would do so, but there was always the underlying silent message that he hoped I wouldn’t thus inconvenience him for too long. Sometimes he’d even say, “why can’t they do that for themselves?” not being able to step outside of himself enough to notice that they’re children, not miniature, uncooperative adults, and they need supervision and leadership. On the rare occasions when I might have overslept, he’d blithely leave for work without waking me or the kids, and then I’d wind up in full ultra-panic mode when I did wake up. Sometimes, when he was at his least involved in the family, if I thought I might oversleep, I’d just bring my alarm clock downstairs and sleep on the couch, or stay up all night until I got the kids off to school, and then collapse with great guilt and sadness and sleep during the day. Fortunately, the worst of those days seem to be in the past.

For the last three years or so, I’ve given increasingly more serious consideration to going back to work. We have the financial need; the sticking point has been the potential stress/mishap level if I am not available to be the responsible parent when the kids need to leave for school and come home, and if I’m not here when homework needs to be monitored. I threw the suggestion out, told the family what would need to happen on their parts, and watched, as I work on getting myself more prepared for another major life transition. There are trade-offs to be weighed in terms of what can and cannot get done, the stress level I’m willing to accept for myself and the family, and compromises to be analyzed for short and long-term impact.

The results have been mixed; kids oversleeping, homework not being done promptly or without prompting, no one taking responsibility for feeding the pets, cleaning up after themselves, with some changes occurring -- helping out, working more as a team, dual grocery shopping, hubs helping to make dinner once a week and taking more of an interest in interacting with the children, the kids doing better at getting up with their alarms… Mixed, like I said.

Until today. This note is the first real ray of substantial light shining from the end of the s-a-h tunnel. There’s a chance that I could actually go back to work on a regular basis without the whole family crashing around me as a result. It’s being a surprisingly emotional moment for me, in a good way.

Powerless

We’ve had a great many heavy rainstorms lately, and while I normally enjoy rain, this was not the kind I could watch wistfully or offhandedly from my perch on the couch and daydream about hot soup and giggling children stomping in puddles. It’s been the kind of rain where the dog clamps his body to my feet, shivering in terror while the wind blows branches off trees and shingles off roofs, the lights flicker on and off, and the children get sent home early because of tornado warnings.

We lost power on Thursday night, along with several thousand other people, and made it through to Friday morning, when we listened to the car radio to find out if the kids were still supposed to go to school, which they were. It wasn’t raining at the time, and I had hopes of being electrified again, so to speak, within a few hours. Just like the last couple of weeks, it was a 90-degree sauna outside, so the dog and I decided to hang out in the coolest room in the house, the living room, for a while.

The school sent the kids home just ahead of the next big storm, and man, oh, man did it rain! My husband was out checking on some clients who’d had lightening strike their home directly, so we knew he’d be late, and since the water supply was dicey with the pump out of commission, I started instructing the children on how to preserve the potable water.

“Don’t flush the toilets!” I urged, “The water in the tank is presumably potable!” Having seen the inside of the toilet tanks, I figured we could all manage on Kool-Aid and soda pop and give the tank water to the dog, if it got that bad. “Use hand sanitizer instead of washing your hands, we’ve got Stridex pads for all for sweaty faces, and nobody open the fridge!”

The kids gave me a look like I had just announced we were going to live in a bog and feed off of swamp critters for the remainder of their lives.

“Don’t flush?” they exclaimed, “That’s yucky!”

“You get one flush, guys, if you do, and then you’ll have used up the majority of our water supply,” I responded. Naturally, that made everyone have to pee, and, of course, ten minutes later, out of habit and sheer absentmindedness, there was a flush.

“AAARGH!” I yelled at the flusher, “What were you thinking?”

“Dang… Oops,” he replied. I handed him a bucket. Then I handed buckets to the other children. “It’s time to learn about manual flushing,” I said, “go get a bucket of water from the swimming pool.”

Bunny looked at her bucket and then looked at me in dismay. “You’re kidding, right, Mom? You don’t actually mean this, do you?” she asked.

I looked at her, raised my eyebrow and said, “Fortunately, it’s chlorinated, too. That’s an added boon. Shoo!” The kids trooped out to the pool like a fire brigade, returning with filled buckets. I showed them the technique. They decided it was icky. I told them it would be a lot ickier if we didn’t use that method, and had a bucket of water stationed in each bathroom. I decided against regaling them with tales from my youthful vacations to country relatives of outhouses, snake warnings, used catalogs and combining all three in the dark.

And that was only the first of the lessons in living without power. I’d have had to be more assertive and knowledgeable and really resourceful if my husband hadn’t come home. I think he was born under a lucky star in some ways. Cars that clank and thump and wheeze when I drive them run like Formula One race winners as soon as he gets behind the wheel – he doesn’t have to do anything other than exude mechanical competence at cars for them to run at peak performance. He has the same kind of luck with electrical stuff, which we found out about when he got home.

He walked in, carrying two cases of bottled water, given to him by the grateful lightening-struck clients, and said, “We’ve got power in the barn.”

“Hurray!” we all yelled, “does that mean we’ll have power back here soon?”

“Probably not,” he replied, “the barn is on a different transformer, but I can run an extension cord from there to here, and we can run the phone and maybe the refrigerator, and I’ll see what else I can figure out.”

“Holy crap,” I said, at a loss, “Well, welcome home, hero!” He replied with a smart aleck grin.

He managed to run two heavy duty extension cords, linked to smaller extension cords, over and over again into the house, and he set up the things that were important to him – One cord ran the phone and the frig and had an outlet left over for use on either the coffee maker or the electric skillet, which, with an all electric house, was going to be the only way we were going to get a meal that wasn’t straight out of a can or smeared on bread. He used the other cord to turn the living room back into his personal Man Cave – he plugged in his big screen TV, the satellite box, the VCR, a lamp, and an upright fan. “I’m fine now,” he said, “I’ve got light, moving air, and entertainment. I’m a happy camper.”

I looked at him, feeling vaguely annoyed, and said, “Well, you’ll be glad to know there’s a filled bucket in the bathroom, too.”

“Oh, good,” he said as he lay down on the couch and yawned, “I was wondering what we were going to do about that. Any dinner ideas?”

When I called the power company, so many people were suffering outages that I got an automated response telling me we wouldn’t even have an estimate for repairs until late Sunday night, so I wound up teaching the kids how to brush their teeth with mouthwash, dine cheerfully by candlelight on foods that can be cooked in an electric skillet, and take sponge baths with a minimum of water.

They were a little grumpy about having to watch Dad’s bang-clank TV choices and not having the Internet available to them, but we’re all big readers, so it wasn’t too much different for us during the daylight hours. When the power was restored late Saturday afternoon, we let out a cheer, turned on the air conditioning, and coiled up the extension cords.

All in all, it was a lot like camping only somewhat better. Lots of people in our area were not so lucky – our county has been declared a disaster area by the governor due to flash flooding that occurred, and many people are still cleaning out their manky, flooded basements. I’ve complained in the past about my nasty, sandy soil which makes it hard to grow flowers and vegetables, but I was awfully glad for it this past weekend – no leaks, no drips, no mildew, mold or mustiness.

And, no, I don’t want to buy a generator. In the 11 years we’ve lived here, we’ve only had one other significant power outage, and that only lasted 12 hours. I don’t think we’d really get our money’s worth out of it.

Now, if only my husband’s lucky star covered plumbing, too, I’d never have to worry about the septic tank ever again!

There’s a Cream for That?

Sometime ago I think I mentioned that we sent Spawn off for anger management therapy. It’s been pretty successful – we haven’t had any more scary temper storms, and I think it’s very helpful to him to talk to an adult to whom he is not related and get a third party point of view. He’s still going, and I really don’t care what they talk about; if he feels he’s getting value out of the time spent there, it’s not wasted money.

A few weeks ago, he asked me for a recommendation for a dermatologist. He’s had a slight problem with his complexion being flaky on top of teenaged acne, and it was getting on his nerves enough for him to want to talk to an expert. He went off for his first appointment today, then went to work in my husband’s office that afternoon.

When Spawn came home that afternoon, he told me the dermatologist had said he needed to use a prescription cream and cleanser, and if those didn’t work, there was some kind of pill they could try, but they were going to do this other route first. He seemed pleased with the doctor, and I went back to my normal routine.

It was a little different when Hubs came home, though. He charged in through the door, gave me a kiss and said, “Did Spawn tell you about the mix up?”

“Well, no,” I said, “what happened?”

“Well, he came into my office and announced, ‘I have bad news, good news, and better news. What do you want to hear first?’ I told him I’d take the bad news first, so he told me, ‘What I have is incurable!’ Then he said, ‘But the good news is that my doctor has it, too, and the better news is that there’s a cream for it!’ I thought he was talking about his therapist, and I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that there was a cream for anger management, so we had quite a time straightening out that misunderstanding!”

“Oh, shit,” I said, “’A cream for that, eh?’” And I started laughing and laughing and finally said, “Oh, lord, can you imagine the commercial? ‘HEAD-ON! Apply directly to the head! HOTHEAD-ON! Apply directly to the…’” And we both dissolved in laughter.

What a picture!

504 Reasons to Soak My Head

My youngest son has a 504 plan, and, now that he’s starting high school, we needed to do a review of his existing plan. If you are unfamiliar with what a 504 plan is, the short version is that for kids with learning disabilities of any type, they’re evaluated to see if they need special services and would then qualify under the federal program IDEA or if section 504 of the ADA would be more applicable. 504 plans are generally considered less expensive for the school district and generally include things to take place in the regular classroom.

Seven years ago I started my journey on learning more about special education law and the various twists and turns along the road to FAPE because Spawn also has ADHD and needed a 504. My first year was an introduction to the gatekeeper mentality of my local district, which is the most pervasive point of view of most school districts. They dithered for a year, using the Intimidation Triangle of gate keeping.

The Triangle has three levels. The first level is delay – stall, put meetings off for as long as possible, find ways to avoid having meetings, question the same things over and over again on tiny technical details, hoping to run out the school year clock. One of the favorite tactics at this level is to pretend that “necessary” people are constantly unavailable, the person in question changing for each proposed meeting. Also included is feigned ignorance – we don’t understand the law, so we need to research it to find out how we can best serve your child.

The second level is denial – your child doesn’t require services or accommodations or modifications, tough luck, better luck elsewhere, we’re not going to tell you about your rights to mediation, that you can file a complaint, or how to resolve the issues otherwise. And, the third level is intimidation – you don’t know what you’re talking about, you wouldn’t want the teachers to cop an attitude towards your child because YOU are being so difficult, or, my favorite, larding the meeting room with as many people dressed in suits and dour expressions and sour attitudes as will fit in order to really impress upon you how outrageous your request is and how much valuable time of theirs you’re wasting.

I survived that year, bringing in the same plan I’d suggested a year earlier. We were one day away from formal mediation when they buckled. I have not had a problem since in dealing with the district or the Special Ed Cooperative. Most helpful was this website and the information on it, Wrightslaw . I read, reread, studied, memorized, highlighted and printed out reams and reams of data. I also made friends with the regional Office for Civil Rights, speaking with the head of the office, and contacted the State Board of Education as well, following the guidelines on the Wrightslaw site.

This year, in the transition to the high school for Doodle, which is in a different functional district, I’m facing gatekeepers again. Fortunately, my skills are still sharp. I started the meeting by placing a tape recorder facing the staff and nicely offered to provide them a copy at cost, if they desired. We each introduced ourselves to the machine and carried on, discussing various issues such as extra copies of texts for home (I volunteered to pay an additional book fee – always a key ingredient – make it easy for them to say “yes” and thereby remove objections proactively), they indicated they’d need documentation on extended test time, we discussed discipline factors, and then the big issue came up.

In addition to ADHD, Doodle has a slight processing disorder. It has the most significant effect in on-demand writing tasks, be they longer essays or short answers to questions. He locks up and his brain locks down. When it was originally diagnosed, it affected a wider range of areas, but over the years we’ve strategized, worked around it, and gotten him habituated to working past it to the extent that he is a fantastic student in math, science, and all other subjects that don’t require writing, and his marvelous brainpower can shine through. Not so with writing, unfortunately.

Up until the last two years, that hasn’t been a critical issue. We worked with prompting, outlines, brain mapping, and a wide variety of approaches here at home and in school. He was able to do extra credit work to counteract his classroom problems and get a reasonable grade. Standardized tests requirements for writing on demand have become increasingly more difficult, and the problem is becoming more significant. His last set of tests showed the problem in glaring relief – 100% in all multiple choice questions and next to no points at all in extended response or essay areas. His teachers last year tried and tried, but nothing worked.

So, this year, I specifically asked for Special Education services to be implemented to assist him in overcoming the processing disorder’s effect on writing initiation. It’s not that I want him to become Shakespeare; I’d be happy if he became a midget Dave Barry. Heck, I’d be happy if he could manage to squeeze out the bare minimum. I was very clear and very specific about my request. I included references to FAPE intents of teaching students to state standards, and indicated that he was clearly falling below those standards in this area. Nevertheless, I could hear the gatekeeper mentality locking into place.

First was the round of “is it because he doesn’t like the topics,” then “is it just essays,” all followed by “that would mean a case reevaluation” which was supposed to dissuade me from pursuing it further. One staff member even tried to bring up the “severity” gate – that a problem has to be severe enough to cause the student failing grades before services can be suggested.

Experience was on my side. Most of the staff in the room had not been in the district as long as I’ve been advocating for my children. Those with similar longevity had it in areas unrelated to special education law. Kindly, and in a very friendly manner, I pulled out my printouts from the OCR website indicating that special ed services are included in potential 504 solutions, specifically and without restriction. I offered them my copy of the decade-old elimination of “severity” as a determining factor letter from the Department of Education. I told them I’d value a case reevaluation so that personnel trained to the master’s degree level in uncovering learning disabilities would be giving my son the expert attention that would be most helpful in resolving the problem.

I showed them copies of his last standardized test results, backing up my case. I offered to talk with the head of the Special Ed Co-Op, and mentioned him by name, glowingly (because honey catches more flies than vinegar), assuring them that I knew him to be an honorable man whose main concern was adequately and appropriately serving the children of the district. I offered to run interference for them, negating that implied obstacle. I asked for additional suggestions and ideas.

One, clearly unfamiliar with SpEd law, suggested Sylvan. I saw the SpEd representative’s eyebrows shoot up in dismay, as I turned to him and said that if all options within the district failed to serve the purpose, I was certainly willing to try any alternative the district suggested (and, by law, will need to pay for). I advised that that I had no problem bringing Doodle in early, picking him up late, arranging for transportation for weekend assistance, that my goal to was to do whatever was necessary for us to work together in resolving this one issue where he falls below state standards in performance and ability.

I’m not unsympathetic to the constraints of school districts – money is always abysmally short, and sped costs can put a district in the red in a heartbeat. Specialized personnel are hard to find, hard to keep, and hard to motivate. Often, they’re on the road between facilities for long stretches of time, the workload is crushing, the results few and often fleeting. They’re also faced with people who haven’t done their homework, who don’t want to do anything for their children at home, and nowadays, with parents of perfectly normal kids who are trying to scam extra time at exam time to improve scores for colleges. Their road is might tough, too.

It would have been easy to give up, years ago, when the first district pulled out the big guns and the intimidation triangle. It would have been easy to tell myself I was asking for too much, that I was wrong, that I was odd, that there was something peculiar about my wanting a little extra help or at least a margin of ease for my kid. Perhaps some perverse sense of aggravation, or an overblown protective maternal instinct, or just generalized frustration made me persist, and it served Spawn well. He graduated with honors, with a high ACT score, and with as much of a sense of competence as I could indirectly jam into him. I can’t do less for the Doodle, not ever.

I’d like to say that I feel triumphant, or that I’m sure the district will do what is right. I don’t, though. I will be thrilled if we can get Doodle the help he needs to continue on his journey to be his best self. That’s all any of my requests have ever been about, and they have been few, as well. But there are times when I want to soak my head, nonetheless.

It’s OK to Disagree

My husband likes to tell the story of one of his early epiphanies in our relationship. We were dating at the time, I was living with my Dad and Stepmom, and one night we all went to have dinner with her godson. Now, her godson was a former seminarian who had gotten all the way to being a few weeks before his final vows, and, in what seems like a real head-slapping “duh” moment, he realized that he liked women too much to want to be a priest, so he backed out of the whole thing. He went on to become extremely well educated in the sciences and was studying at a university known for its abundance of Nobel Prize winners. He roomed with a grad student in another branch of science.

We got our going-out-to-dinner togs on and headed off. When we got there, the godson had some good wine breathing for us all to enjoy, and as he fixed dinner, we engaged in various discussions. I spent a lot of time gargling in German with the roomie, who seemed pleased to find someone who spoke German at least as well as he did. My dad was discussing the Soviet character (which tells you how long ago this was) with the godson, and Ellen, my Stepmom, and hubs were engaged in polite chatter.

The discussion about the nature of Russian Soviets carried over into dinner, with none of us really having a serious clue about what we were discussing, but all of us arguing over the nice spaghetti and wine with increasing fervor from positions of historical literature, wartime strategies, news reports, Russian poetry, and what we might have gleaned from news and magazine articles about life in the Soviet Union. By the time we got to dessert, some participants were waving their arms and using outdoor voices to help carry their points. It didn’t stop us from eating heartily or snorking up the wine, though. My date was, unnoted by me, sitting fairly quietly, absorbing food and the goings on without getting embroiled in them.

Ellen looked at her watch and, during a pause in a passionate point of argument said, “Oh, it’s after 10. We need to go or we’ll be standing around waiting for a bus much too late.” We put down our spoons and wineglasses, hitched up our drawers, kissed each other good-bye, said what a lovely time we’d had, and hustled out to the bus stop. As we stood there, we did basic waiting chatter… “Wasn’t that lovely?” “He’s such a good cook; I hope he finds a good wife who appreciates him.” “They were both so interesting!” “Did you have fun speaking German with his roomie?” “We’ll have to do that again soon, but at our place. I’ll have that Crème de Menthe dessert my godson likes so much.” And so on.

We hopped on the bus and headed home. When we got there, Dad and Ellen went to bed, leaving hubs and I alone in the living room. I offered him coffee, took off my shoes and innocently said, “That was fun, wasn’t it?” He looked at me with his mouth slightly open, shell-shocked, and said, “I never saw anything like that before in my life,” and clutched the hair on either side of his head and tugged it.

Alarmed, I searched my memory, trying to figure out what had happened that would cause someone to react with shock and dismay. I couldn’t come up with anything. “Are you upset that I was speaking German with his roomie?” I wondered aloud. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“No,” he said, “It wasn’t that. You all were arguing; you were arguing and waving your arms and it was like knives and spears were going to come out at any moment.” I furrowed my brow and looked at him quizzically, hoping for more information. “And then,” he said, “like there was nothing unusual at all, Ellen said it was time to go and you all acted like the best of friends, the argument stopped, and we left. Then everyone said nice things.”

“Yeah,” I said slowly, “I don’t understand. What bothers you about that?” “YOU WERE ARGUING!” he exclaimed, “And then afterwards, you all acted like it was nothing. You acted like you still liked each other!”

“It WAS nothing,” I said, taken aback. “It was a discussion that got passionate with the help of wine and good food. We do still like each other. We’ll probably argue about something the next time we get together. Unless we go to a movie or a play; we don’t argue during those,” I replied.

“Well,” he said, still shaking his head in disbelief, “I’ve never seen anything, or heard of anything like that before. We don’t argue in my family; we don’t even discuss. We don’t disagree, and if we do, it gets shut down really quickly like it’s something awful that polite people don’t do.”

“Oh, my God,” I said, “then what do you talk about?”

“Well,” he said and considered for a moment, “Nothing, really, I guess. The weather, things that have happened, church…” This time, my mouth hung open. “You don’t disagree with each other? You don’t talk about things like books or movies or plays or politics?” I asked.

“No,” he answered, “and if we do, we all express a polite point of view, or we don’t say anything at all.”

“Holy crap,” I said, and I spent a minute thinking. “It used to be like that for me when I lived with my Mom,” I said. “She interpreted disagreement as if it meant we disapproved of her, and if we disapproved of her, then we didn’t REALLY love her, and that was so incredibly wrong that we couldn’t talk, not really. That’s one of the reasons why I’m glad I’m living with Dad and Ellen now. Arguments don’t nullify the love we have for each other; they’re just opinions or points of view. We still love each other just the same the next morning. Arguments or disagreements aren’t personal attacks, they’re just people airing their positions or ideas. It’s not personal.”

“That’s so strange,” said hubs, “It’s hard to wrap my head around it. And you all really meant what you said after? That it was fun, that you were going to have them over for dinner and all that?”

“Sure,” I said, “they’re good company,” and I smiled at him. “They still like us, too. You don’t have to agree with everything someone says to love them. They’re separate things. I don’t agree with everything you say, and I still love you.”

“Oh, my God,” he said, “I suppose that’s true. I’ve just never really seen it before.”

So, I poured him some coffee and we talked about lighter stuff until he was ready to drive home.

He has never forgotten that evening. That night with my folks is burned into his brain because it was so different from the stifled, frightened way he grew up, where all dissent was silenced as if it stank and was a socially appalling crime. His family truly does not discuss; they chitchat, and they absolutely, positively never disagree, no matter what. Any disagreement, even over whether or not they like a movie, causes family members to rush to the site of the conflict and start mediating, smoothing things over, sometimes to the point where it’s offensive or bizarre, trying to get someone to back down so there won’t be any dispute or dissent – like so many white blood cells mindlessly rushing to a wound to overpower any germs.

It’s a little freaky, and it’s very, very sad to me. They’re stifled by a dread of conflict or disagreement, and I don’t think they really know each other as a result. They also view me as a disrupting influence because I’m not like that, and their conflict avoidance has caused lifelong, serious problems in jobs and personal relationships for them. They cannot separate loving each other from being of one hive-like mind, or behaving like an unthinking swarm when they’re together. Somehow they’ve confused love and acquiescence.

Fortunately, my husband knows life is different “out there” and that life is different here, at home, and he loves that about our life together. Sometimes, over the years of our marriage, I have occasionally sensed him backing away from disagreeing with me over something and called him on it, asking him to tell me his point of view because that was information I might not have. I’ve reminded him that his opinion is important and valuable too, that I’m willing to discuss things, compromise, and come to a mutually satisfactory agreement over whatever the issue is, or we can agree to disagree. If he’s still reluctant, I remind him of that evening with Dad and Ellen, and then he’ll usually speak up.

I believe that the ability to disagree, even vehemently, over something and not HAVE to back down for the false god of “family peace” and still be able to love each other without any change is very, very important. It seems to me that it’s the bedrock of a stable relationship, because if the danger exists that if I say one wrong word, I’ll become unlovable, or our relationship will be permanently altered with no chance of healing, I can’t trust you. I can’t trust you to see me as an individual with a separate life, a separate mind, a separate series of imperatives, and a separate point of view. It turns me into an unwilling, resentful, oppressed clone, and that will, to a very big extent, poison love and undermine trust.

I’m grateful that I learned that lesson, and that my husband did, too, before we married. Thanks again, Dad and Ellen. You did some really good stuff for the next generation, too.

Potpourri and Reasons for Anonymity

My computer crashed last week and took some ideas and rough drafts down with it. In the meantime, things have happened…

Crazy Aunt Purl (link on the right) has also become addicted to “How Clean is Your House?” I’d like to be mad at her for stealing my latest minor obsession, but she’s too funny.

School is starting for my kids soon, which means Large Checks must be written, and that makes me crabby. If I write when I’m crabby, I seem much more dangerous and zealous than I actually am in person, so I usually use crabby writing as rough drafts. Most of the time, anyway.

And, on another blog, someone clearly illustrated why I don’t use my real name or my kids’ real names, and why I don’t post pictures of my children or myself. I deliberately, and possibly irritatingly, do not use information that would make me or my children accessible via an ordinary Google search for name, address, map location, Google Earth picture of my house (and thereby neighborhood and vehicles), etc. I’ve already made it clear that I live in a particular small town. I talk about family things, personal experiences and feelings.

I also talk about my women’s group, and I’ve said before that this group is for women who have suffered abuse, generally child abuse and frequently sexual abuse to the extent that every last one of us has complex PTSD. All of us have met evil, and we know how insidious and devious it is. If I were to knowingly and deliberately expose enough of my personal information to people who don’t know me otherwise, I would also expose my children.

This link takes you to an article about a blatant pedophile whom the police cannot arrest. I do not want to give people like this an easy path to my children, not to leering perversely at pictures of them, not to sniffing out locating information, not to finding their schools and stalking them. There are too many like him out there for my comfort level to allow me to make myself and my family a Google Earth Easy Target. Sure, the shrewd among you, or those who already know me wouldn’t have a problem finding me. It’s not YOU I’m worried about. I just refuse to bait a hook and leave it in a pool as big as the Internet, so to speak.

And, there are all brands of psychos and sickos fluttering around on the Internet looking for marks, for easy conquests, for something they want. Luckily, they are most often greedy and lazy, which works in my favor. If I can stay off the radar of the greedy crooks and the lazy perverts, then I figure I’ve done a pretty good job of balancing the act of having a publicly accessible blog and maintaining my family’s security without descending into sufficient paranoia to keep me off the net altogether.

Pedophiles, who are inherently stalkers, regular stalkers (is there such a thing?) and extremely nosy people, of whom I am occasionally one, have a quality lacking in your garden-variety criminal – persistence. They are also frequently intelligent and creative thinkers. It is harder to maintain security from them. On the occasions when I have been very nosy, usually about people with whom my children interact regularly, I have been astonished at how easy it was to find out information without spending a nickel and without leaving my keyboard. A Google search is usually enough to reveal snail trails that can lead me back to some information folks might not want me to have. Free. Readily accessible. Downloadable. Printable.

I sometimes read blogs or comments from people loudly proclaiming that they are “proud to not be anonymous” or “use their full names because [they] stand behind what they say,” and I think to myself, “And now, if I wanted to, I could find you, your house, your family, probably guess your bank, and, depending on what else you’ve said, guess some passwords, find your email, poison your dog, or any other piece of life-jolting criminal behavior I might chose to engage in. I’d know what email groups you’re on and what you’ve said, and that would reveal further information.” And so forth. The FBI has some good tips for maintaining privacy and reasonable security, as does the Internet Safety Awareness site.

So, I remain moderately anonymous without apology. I don’t expect others to feel the same way about it I do; your experiences may be different, and probably don’t include the contact level with madness and evil that mine have. My antennae are, and will, for the rest of my life, be somewhat more sensitive than those of many. If it helps to keep my children safe, and I think it does, I cannot regret it.

Spawn Trail

Well, he’s seriously thinking of moving out and moving in with friends, none of whom is actually currently living away from home. I think it’s going to be a big, group maneuver if and when it happens. “If,” being the big question mark.

I’ve said my bit, my husband has said his bit, we’ve reminded him that in a year he’ll be moving out anyway when he transfers to a four-year college, but he, like a young lion of the pride, wants to wander further afield and get away from our oversight. I happen to think, to myself, as I do so much when it comes to dealing with my oldest son, that it’s not going to come off, but I won’t deny him either the chance to dream or the chance to get a snootful of lesson-learning reality.

The idea does not disturb me, just the youthful optimism, timing and lack of experience. He’s not going to get experience otherwise, but I do wish he’d wait until he tries the dorm experience first. Not my call, though, and, at this stage in his development (a phrase he’d really hate to hear me say) admonitions and advice from mom are emasculating.

So, I’m also feeling a little sentimental. I remember him when he was a bobble-headed, hairless baby in a blue sacque; a toddler running and falling in the backyard, an eager elementary school student, an early teen, struggling mightily with new social rules, and his last few years in high school when he finally found a group of people to be friends with and a persona he was comfortable wearing. During all those times, excluding the two years when he was wearing braces, he’s had a particular favorite recipe – southern style Chicken and Dumplings. (They gummed up in his braces, which is why he would only sip the soup and avoided the dumplings.)

In honor of Spawn, whether he moves out or not, here’s my recipe for Chicken and Dumplings.

Chicken and Dumplings
Prep Time: 20 minutes
Cook Time: 120 minutes
Feeds: 6-10 (4-6 teen boys)

Ingredients:
Chicken – any amount greater than three legs up to a whole chicken, cut up
4-6 C chicken broth
2 cups water
2 chicken bouillon cubes (I like Knorr brand)
2 carrots, peeled and chopped
2 stalks celery, chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
1-cup milk
Pepper, Poultry Seasoning, Salt to taste

Dumplings:
Either: 2 C baking mix and 2/3 C milk or buttermilk
Or:
2C all purpose flour
½ t baking soda
½ t salt
3T shortening
2/3 C milk or buttermilk

Preparation:
Put the chicken in a Dutch oven or other large pot with a lid; add water, broth, bouillon cubes, carrot, onion, celery, and seasonings. Bring to a boil, cover and reduce heat to a simmer. Simmer 1 hour to 90 minutes, remove chicken. Lower heat under broth while you allow chicken to cool, debone and skin it, and chop it to small pieces. Add milk to broth. Check broth for seasonings and add more now if desired.

Dumplings: Either mix the baking mix and milk or make from scratch by cutting shortening into all combined dry ingredients, then adding milk. Mix only until all ingredients are moistened. Use a little more flour or baking mix if needed to handle the dough without it sticking to you.

Three types of dumplings, your choice:

Drop: pat dough to ¼ inch thickness and pinch off 1.5 inch pieces
Rolled: roll dough to ¼ inch thickness and cut into 3” x 1” strips
Balls: Pinch off dough to make balls about 1-1.5 inches in diameter. Roll just enough to make obvious spheres (I like this type best.)

Bring the broth to a boil; drop 2 dumplings at a time into boiling broth. Reduce heat to medium or medium-low. Cook 8-10 minutes, stirring 3 or 4 times to keep dumplings from sticking together. Add the chicken and cook another 3 or 4 minutes. Remove from heat and serve.

The broth will seem thin until you start cutting the dumplings open in it and they soak up additional broth. Yum.

Other:
I sometimes add a tablespoon or two of bacon drippings to the dumplings to add flavor, and I make them a little bigger, too.

You can add pretty much any chicken flavored thing to the broth that you have in the fridge from earlier meals, and it will still taste fine. You could even add more vegetables; it's stew, be creative.

I prefer to use dark meat only for chicken stews like this one because of the strong flavor. (For clear chicken soups, I like white meat only.)

If, like in my family, the next day you have some leftover broth and no dumplings, just heat up the broth and add a little water, then stir up more dumplings and cook them just like before.

Enjoy!