It's all good.

I don't know why, but I fear the dreaded parent-teacher interview and obsess about it the day of. But usually in the end it's not that bad and the teachers don't throw us any curve balls that we weren't expecting.

So last night was nothing new. Back in December when we had Ash tested we weren't too sure what was going to happen. The best we were hoping for was an "official" diagnosis so that we could have her coded and then not have to fight with the school every fall for help.

Well, in doing all of that we got our wish. Ash was diagnosed with a Developmental Coordination Disorder and has the possibility of having a learning disability in reading (which, if needed, will be diagnosed in grade 5). With this diagnosis we were finally given the ever elusive "code" and now the school has written up their documents (the IPP) and are going to implement strategies and accommodations to help Ash get through her day. So I reviewed my copy of the IPP as well as all of my testing reports (nothing like a little light and breezy reading to get one in a great mood!) and came armed with questions. Nothing major, just things that have been on my mind. Like why they put "preferential seating" (meaning a quiet and non-distracting spot) as an accommodation but still have her sitting in the middle of a row, smack dab in the middle of the classroom surrounded by boys. I have had this discussion with her teacher at the beginning of the year and obviously she never listened to me so I finally told her this was no longer a request, make it happen. There was also the question of why Ash has it accommodated that she is allowed to go for a stress break, yet she doesn't think she can leave the classroom without specific approval. I stressed that maybe, just maybe, the teacher could assess that she was getting stressed out and tell her to go before she blows up at someone and gets herself in trouble.

It really wasn't that big of a deal at this point. And we walked away fairly happy with the outcome. Although Mrs. O, the main teacher, said at one point "I just don't know how much to ask of Ash", and I had the feeling she meant overall. Which concerns me because that means she is still lost and not getting it when it comes to Ash. I am now telling myself "Only 3 months left of school and grade 2." It just seems rediculous to me that they would write down this list of accommodations for Ash, yet not actually be willing to implement the strategies that they have written down. I don't think that Mrs. O is capable of thinking outside of the box, which is just too bad for all of her students.

I am getting better at this stuff. I guess it's practice makes perfect when it comes to addressing the "officials" at school, as well as remembering to do my homework and be prepared. Not once did I want to cry during or after the meeting. Yay me.

Now, if I can just stop with the pre-game head games then I'm doing great.

I'm a loser baby....

I have these feelings of inadequacy. And as I prepare myself for parent-teacher interviews tonight, they are coming out to the forefront. Most days I can put up a pretty good front, make people, and even myself, believe that I am pretty with it, but inside I am a puddle of doubt. It's always been this way, I don't ever remember not feeling inadequate by some means.

My first memory of this was when I was a small child, before my parents divorce, I was sitting on my Dad's lap and must have said something silly, he flicked my head jokingly and sent me off crying. I have that feeling of hurt and doubt in my heart from that moment, it's like he said to me, "My God! You are such an idiot." For as much as he is a good father, he has that insane ability to make me feel completely stupid and inept whether he means it or not.

It didn't help that I struggled my way through elementary school, finally in Grade 8 being told that unless I pulled some major grades out of my ass that I was going to be held back. Those were the worst two years of my life. We had just moved to a new city, I was failing school, I didn't have the clothes to fit into my preppy new surroundings (back in the Roots and Bennetton days), I had my spiked hairdo, I had no friends, my sister hated the word and me included and I was coping with abuse from an old neighbor. I came into the school thinking that it would be cool to be the new kid, but I was from a city that was a bit more hard rock and I just didn't fit in from day one. I had thought that I would have an ally in a second cousin that went to the school as she was always so nice at family gatherings, but she was "cool" and I wasn't and she and her best friend were probably two of the worst to me (at least of the girls). Once I hit my second year of grade 8, I had at least made some friends, but by then they were all in grade 9 and I was alone throughout classes to abuse. At home things weren't going well, during that first year my sister did everything in her power to piss my Mom off and it worked, at the end of that year she was shipped off to live with my Dad in Vancouver. I remember feeeling like, what kind of punishment is this? She gets to go live with our Dad (in Vancouver of all places!), while I have to stay back in grade 8 hell and be the focus my Mom's attention?! Mom was worried about me, so I got to go to modelling classes (with the amazingly pretty girls) to improve my self-esteem and counselling to figure out why I was so upset (um, failure anyone?!), and then to top it all off I got to attend a bonus program at school, for all of us "on the edge" kids. I think it was called a peer-relations group, it was a good idea and I see the good they were trying to do, but unfortunately it singled all of us losers out so the other kids knew just exactly who we were, if they weren't already clear before. Thankfully at the end of that year I got to go live with my Dad too, and I got to re-create myself again, but this time nobody knew that failure who didn't know how to dress or fit in, they got to meet the new-and-impoved me. The one that was good at hiding all of her failure from the world.

I still see myself hiding these inadequacies, hoping that it will make people like me more (and from my hordes of friends you can see that I have accomplished this, or not). I still struggle to fit in, to wear the cool clothes, to be as smart as everyone else. Some days I feel like I never left grade 8 and that soon everyone will see the real me and my cover will be blown. Even with this blog, I know I'm not a great writer, I haven't taken any literature courses since high school nor do I have the urge to. I read other blogs and say to myself, "No wonder nobody but friends read your blog, you suck." I can do this to myself about anything, dieting, writing, artist-ing, even parenting. I can tell myself "What makes you qualified to say anything about what your daughter needs at school? You are not very smart, my dear. Just shut up and do as they say." And if I let myself talk that way for too long then I loose my nerve to stick up for my daughter. Then I become that girl from grade 8 who was nothing.

So this afternoon I want to wallow in the self pity and doubt. But tonight I will be that person, the one that has it all together. I will hide behind my mask and become who I need to be, so that maybe my girls won't ever feel the way that I do.

Artist? Nah...Crafty? YES!

Sometimes I like to think of myself as a bit of an artist.

Well, maybe I'm the artsy type (in my mind) but with no formal training. I have a friend that is an artist, and although I haven't seen any of her work lately, I know that she is really good at it. I wish that I lived closer to her so she could give me formal lessons, I would LOVE to take one of her classes.

Instead of formal lessons I head over to the ceramics studio every Tuesday night for classes. It's my night out, my break from the munchkins and it gives me my creative outlet. I'm not that good, but I am getting better. I see some of the pieces from others that are so much more experienced than I am and I am in awe. But I love to go to my classes and it helps me to fulfill my artist fantasy. I'm really missing it right now that I can't go (because Junior is in school and money is extra tight).

Every Christmas my mommies group does a secret Santa and I have always made my Santee a special cup with her name on it. I think back to my first few cups, and I feel a tad sorry for my friend that has to have that cup in her cupbord. They were very "crafty" and not very nice. What can I say, I was learning. But as I continue on with my classes I am finding that now that I kind of know what I am doing and I know what to expect from certain things my pieces are getting much more presentable in public and so I am happy to give away pieces, instead of being ashamed of them. Although now it makes me sad to give away those pieces because I want to keep them for myself!
The matching Clyde and Flapper cats I made for my step-Mom and the elephant pot I will be giving my mother-in -law for her birthday.


So to curb my urge to keep everything I occassionally make things just for me, and it gives me a little rush to see them in use.
I have recently made myself some new bowls for veggies and such, as well as an appetizer set, you know for all that entertaining I do.

These pieces were so much fun to do, and I am really proud of their outcome. When I go back to my classes in May I have to start on my Christmas pieces for friends and family next year, hopefully I will like those enough to give them away, but not so much that I want to keep all of them.

Hair Issues.

I have always been one to think that hair's hair, it really doesn't matter if you chop it off, it will always grow back. So I've always felt little guilt over whatever I do to my hair, maybe this is because I don't look too bad with either short or long hair.

(This was about 6 months before I cut it off for the first time)
I remember the first time I cut my hair short, I was in elementary school and my Dad came to visit for the weekend. I told him I wanted to cut it off so he took me down to the salon and got it all cut off for me. I remember sitting in the living room when my Mom and sister came home and surprising them with it. It felt so good, so freeing. I also remember that my Mom was pissed with my Dad over it. (They were fairly freshly divorced so I'm sure it didn't go over well.)

(a year or so before I started spiking it, that's me in the middle)

I kept is short through middle school, a nice spikey brush cut for my rebellious early teens. I felt like such a rebel, until at a school dance in grade 8 a girl asked me to dance with her thinking that I was a boy. It was after that I decided to start growing it out again. I had it long-long until after I graduated.

(about the same time I graduated)

I was known for my beautiful long hair in high school, I was the envy of a lot of girls. But it was heavy and annoying so once I started life in the "real world" I hacked it off again. Since I've been an adult I have gone through phases of growing and cutting without any major plan. When Ash was a baby I finally found a hairdresser that did a really nice job of cutting my hair. I could go into her and say "I don't know what I want, make it look good" and she would do just that, and I would love the result.

(The result)

Then shortly after I had Harris she was forced to quit cutting hair because of allergies and I have yet to find another hairdresser. This has happened to me twice before, I've found a great hairdresser and then something happens and they quit or move and I'm lost again with bad haircuts. I've gone to countless people and always left feeling like I wasted the money. My friend Anna tells me to go to her hairdresser, but I worry that it will be another waste of money and time. Especially after my last haircut, she was a nice lady who had years and years of experience, but seemed to only want to give me her identical haircut, right down to the matching sideburns (I hate those things!), I left the salon in tears and decided that I'm growing it out again. I'm done with hairdressers and shitty haircuts.

(the Do Rag)

So now I'm back to wearing the "do rag" and waiting it out until it looks good long-ish again. I figure that if I'm going to look like shit then I might as well not be paying for it!

And through this I have discovered that I'm not so OK with just doing whatever with my hair, I now have issues. Don't I have enough of those already!?

Jaws of Death....and other things.

Ash is a happy, happy girl today.

She finally, after 6 long, gruelling months had the jaws of death, otherwise known as a crib, removed today. We have been noticing that she really doesn't have her fingers in her mouth anymore, so maybe it was safe to remove. I hope we made the right decision, because I really don't want to have the dam thing put back in. Now she can talk without a speech impediment and eat normally again. Hopefully for once in her life she won't have something like a thumb or crib in her mouth to make her outwardly different than others, just being herself is different enough.

Speaking of being different and "issues".

Yesterday when I was picking her up from school I thought I would drop by the classroom and let the teacher know about today's appointment. I'm kind of glad I did, apparently my little Missy has been having a major attitude attack. She doesn't like resource, because the resource teacher makes her work, and then when she comes back from resource she is all pissed-off that the teacher had the nerve to make her work that she feels she's done for the day. And she's convinced herself that her regular teacher is out to get her and wants to bury Ash in her back yard. She seriously told me this. Ugh. I was also told by the teacher that they had a math test yesterday (report cards are out next week, yay) this was an addition and subtraction test. The stuff she has been working on is stuff like 52-31= or 12+25= fairly basic math, and she gets it. Well, in the 40 minutes they were given to complete the test she completed TWO questions.
In 40 fucking minutes, TWO questions.

On one hand, come on Ash, what the hell were you up to? Dreaming off into space no doubt...pissed at being asked to do something that was kind of hard...watching what everyone else was doing...expecting someone to come along and help? It's hard to say because being 7, when asked what she was doing she says "I dunno! It was too haaaarrrrrdddddd! Uggghhhhh!!" Then proceeds to storm off in a huff crying.

On the other hand, why the hell did the teacher let her go completely on her own for 40 minutes without re-direction?! We all know that she can't sit and focus on her own, so why do we keep going through this?! I'm not asking for miracles, or for her hand to be constantly held, but maybe a little bit of extra consideration would be nice. I know that she can "read" the test, she knows how to read numbers. But it's always the staying focused that's a toughie. I KNOW that she can be a bitch and have an attitude, and we are trying to help her be nicer. But how does it work now that she has totally bombed a test that she could possibly do with someone making sure she DOES it? Does she get a chance to re-do it? Or is she shit-out-of-luck and her marks will reflect it? She does bad enough in math for her to get an even lower score than normal. Aren't report cards (especially in elementary school) supposed to be a reflection of what the child can accomplish?

The teacher said to me yesterday that she is going to constantly struggle if she can't work more independently. Yes I agree, fully 100%, I bit my tongue at "No shit Sherlock!" But does she have any suggestions as to how to make things easier? Ash certainly can't be the first un-focused grade 2 that the school has had before!

Ugh. I am SO looking forward to parent-teacher interviews in two weeks. Junior can put on his angry eyes and scare the teacher, and she can gloss things over that they are going great, except for those times when she pulls me aside at school and tells me the horrible things my daughter is up to.

Back at Square One...

Today is a good enough day.

It's time to stop wallowing in the pit of self pity that I have been in for the past month and get back into it. I have been making excuses since I hurt my ankle about why I couldn't exercise. "I just don't have time!" "I don't want to make things worse." "I don't mind being fat, really!"

Well today when I was over at my friend Anna's house she got a call from her friend Nat. I've hung out with Nat at Anna's house before and she is a nice lady, just really intense in a "in your face" kind of way. Anyhow, a few weeks ago Nat found a lump in her breast, she has had two mammograms, an ultrasound and now a biopsy of said lump. When she called today it wasn't good. It's the big C, and apparently very aggressive. She's waiting for a call from the Cancer Clinic to find out when the surgery to remove her breast will be. Nat is 31 years old and has two kids, 3 1/2 and 2 and no family history of cancer. She is a little ball of stress, a little overweight, but otherwise healthy.

This could be me.

So when I came home today and made the kids lunch, I thought to myself that it's about time I get back to it. Where would my family be without me? It's up to me to make myself happy and make myself healthy so that I can be there for my family. When I put Harris down for a nap this afternoon, instead of doing a craft or reading or folding laundry, I strapped on my shoes and went for a run (pre-approved by my physiotherapist of course) and then lifted weights. My body didn't like it too much, but my mind did. My mind needed the workout.

So today is a good enough day. A good enough day to start over, again.

In like a lion...

Oh I am SO tired of the snow.

Here's a picture of what the view was from my front window this morning.

It's silly, really. We don't have a gigantic amount of it, we are still mobile. It's just that every day it snows. And every day it is cold. And every day I feel more trapped inside my home. I hate, hate, hate the winter. It is cold outside all the time and I am cold inside my house all day long. We are supposed to get a chinook over the weekend, which will make things a sloppy mess, but hopefully, hopefully it will be the end of the white stuff. Thank goodness for my neighbour who shovels our walk for us EVERY DAY. Are we lucky or what? And winter is the only time I am thankful for a gravel driveway, that means we don't have to shovel it. Lazy, I know.

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Yesterday we had a Dr's appt. for Harris. He has a big old brown birthmark on his back that has been doing some funky stuff. And seeing as he has red hair and a fair complexion they feel that the spot must come off. What is absolutely amazing to me is how quickly they are moving on it. I've been so used to the usual "hurry up and wait" mode that is our wonderful medical system lately that this is absolutely astounding. The dermatologist has gotten us into see a pediatric plastic surgeon on Monday. How's that for fast? Who knows when the surgery will be, probably in a few months. Unfortunately he will have to go under anesthesia for it, but that will be the biggest risk out of the whole thing, as far as I can tell.

Onto other news with my wonderful little man. He is embracing the Terrible in Terrible Two's with a vengance. He has taken on the name Terrible as his own. It's really starting to drag me down. He had a massive meltdown yesterday leaving my friend Anna's house, I had to carry him away screaming and crying (him not me). Then he did the same when we were at the Dr's office. I could barely hear what the Dr. had to say because of his fit. This has been building for a few weeks now and I am sick of it.

Between the weather and Harris I am ready to head back to work. I mean really. I just need to have a bit of fun. The only good news is that my ankle is healing. But I still can't run on it. And I've been feeling rather sorry for myself and I've been doing nothing good for myself. I really ought to get back to lifting weights and maybe riding the bike or something.

Ugh. I have to stop whining now or I will just keep going on and on and on.