Next Monday I am attending the LSAC Forum in San Francisco. For the past week, my e-mail inbox has been bombarded with schools shouting "Come to our table! Come to our table!". Now while, this made me feel good for about a minute, especially when some of the schools contacting me were pretty high end, I became increasingly frustrated. Some of these higher-end schools that I absolutely do not have the numbers to get into are contacting me and it's obvious that it is disingenuous. They want to boost their numbers. Get more applicants even though you admit the same number as last year and you appear more selective. Whoopity doo for you. I will not play your little game.
Unless, of course, you give me a fee waiver.
11.08.2007
10.12.2007
Yay, Motherhood.
I just read this on iVillage.
This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up spit-up laced with hot dogs, birthday cake, and fruit juice saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's here."
Who have walked around the house all night with their babies when they kept crying and wouldn't stop.
This is for all the mothers who have shown up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
For all the mothers who have run carpools and made dozens of cookies for school teas and sewn Halloween costumes.
And all the mothers who haven't because they are at work trying to earn enough to keep on top of the bills.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see.
And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes and all their love.
This is for all the mothers who have sat on cold metal bleachers at hockey, baseball or soccer games instead of watching from their cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see me?" they could say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the world," and meant it.
This is for all the mothers who have yelled at their kids in the grocery store and swatted them in despair when they stomped their feet, like a tired two-year-old does who wants ice cream before dinner, and then hated themselves for "losing" it.
This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children to explain all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn't.
For all the mothers who read Goodnight, Moon twice a night for a year. And then read it again. "Just one more time."
This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.
This is for all the mothers who taught their sons to cook and sew and their daughters to be brave and strong. (And sink a jump shot.)
This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home or grown up.
This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be just fine once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away. And they do.
This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, and who can't find the words to reach them.
For all the mothers who bite their lips, sometimes until they bleed, when their 14-year-olds dye their hair green.
What makes a good Mother anyway?Is it patience?Compassion?Broad hips?
The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?
Or is it the heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?
Or the terror in your heart at 1 a.m. when your teenager with the new driver's license is an hour late getting home?
The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?
Or to feel the dull ache as you look in on your sleeping daughter or son the night before they leave for a college in another city?
The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?
For all the mothers of the victims of all the school shootings, and the mothers of those who did the shooting. For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.
This is for mothers who have tearfully placed flowers and teddy bears on their children's graves. Whose children have died from illness, accidents and the worst of all and hardest to comprehend, suicides.
This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation.
And mature mothers who have learned and are still learning to let go.
For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.
Single mothers and married mothers.
Grandmothers whose wisdom and love remains a constant for their grown children and their children's children.
Yay, motherhood.
This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up spit-up laced with hot dogs, birthday cake, and fruit juice saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's here."
Who have walked around the house all night with their babies when they kept crying and wouldn't stop.
This is for all the mothers who have shown up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
For all the mothers who have run carpools and made dozens of cookies for school teas and sewn Halloween costumes.
And all the mothers who haven't because they are at work trying to earn enough to keep on top of the bills.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see.
And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes and all their love.
This is for all the mothers who have sat on cold metal bleachers at hockey, baseball or soccer games instead of watching from their cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see me?" they could say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the world," and meant it.
This is for all the mothers who have yelled at their kids in the grocery store and swatted them in despair when they stomped their feet, like a tired two-year-old does who wants ice cream before dinner, and then hated themselves for "losing" it.
This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children to explain all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn't.
For all the mothers who read Goodnight, Moon twice a night for a year. And then read it again. "Just one more time."
This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.
This is for all the mothers who taught their sons to cook and sew and their daughters to be brave and strong. (And sink a jump shot.)
This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home or grown up.
This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be just fine once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away. And they do.
This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, and who can't find the words to reach them.
For all the mothers who bite their lips, sometimes until they bleed, when their 14-year-olds dye their hair green.
What makes a good Mother anyway?Is it patience?Compassion?Broad hips?
The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?
Or is it the heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?
Or the terror in your heart at 1 a.m. when your teenager with the new driver's license is an hour late getting home?
The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?
Or to feel the dull ache as you look in on your sleeping daughter or son the night before they leave for a college in another city?
The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child dying?
For all the mothers of the victims of all the school shootings, and the mothers of those who did the shooting. For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.
This is for mothers who have tearfully placed flowers and teddy bears on their children's graves. Whose children have died from illness, accidents and the worst of all and hardest to comprehend, suicides.
This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation.
And mature mothers who have learned and are still learning to let go.
For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.
Single mothers and married mothers.
Grandmothers whose wisdom and love remains a constant for their grown children and their children's children.
Yay, motherhood.
6.25.2007
J-Mail.
Two days ago I recieved a tiny thin envelope envelope with a large red stamp on the back, "This corresponsedence is forwarded from the ______ County Sheriff's Office and Correctional Center. The contents may not have been evaluated and the Sherriff's Office is not responsible for the substance or content of the enclosed material."
I am the reluctant recipient of jail mail. Aren't I special?
Who might this letter be from? Why Ol' Blue Eyes, of course.
Now, I had been informed by his mother last week that I would be recieving this letter. I didn't actually speak to her though, considering the history that I have had with her son, I try to avoid the uncomfortable telephone calls if I can. It is much easier, albeit cowardly, to trade voicemails. So I had a good four days to ponder the contents of the letter. It did not contain what I thought that it would though. I was expecting a sob story about how he got drunk and rowdy. In reality it was nothing of the sort. It was quite comical actually, because it was the classic "I told you so" scenario. The best part is that it is not my problem. I don't have to worry about getting money to bail him out or taking off work to go to court or anything of the sort. It is glorious and wonderful to be able to say, "It is not my problem."
Sad to say, this is not the first j-mail that I have recieved. I find it interesting though, because every time, he writes of these profound things that he has realized while incarcerated. However, once he is out again, all that seems to go out the window.
Maybe this time will be different.
Probably not.
I look at brown-eyed babe and I realize how right I was in leaving. She is a joyful terror of a toddler who is completely oblivious to the mess that her father is, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
I am the reluctant recipient of jail mail. Aren't I special?
Who might this letter be from? Why Ol' Blue Eyes, of course.
Now, I had been informed by his mother last week that I would be recieving this letter. I didn't actually speak to her though, considering the history that I have had with her son, I try to avoid the uncomfortable telephone calls if I can. It is much easier, albeit cowardly, to trade voicemails. So I had a good four days to ponder the contents of the letter. It did not contain what I thought that it would though. I was expecting a sob story about how he got drunk and rowdy. In reality it was nothing of the sort. It was quite comical actually, because it was the classic "I told you so" scenario. The best part is that it is not my problem. I don't have to worry about getting money to bail him out or taking off work to go to court or anything of the sort. It is glorious and wonderful to be able to say, "It is not my problem."
Sad to say, this is not the first j-mail that I have recieved. I find it interesting though, because every time, he writes of these profound things that he has realized while incarcerated. However, once he is out again, all that seems to go out the window.
Maybe this time will be different.
Probably not.
I look at brown-eyed babe and I realize how right I was in leaving. She is a joyful terror of a toddler who is completely oblivious to the mess that her father is, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
6.20.2007
For the Record.
Monday night was the first night in 18 months that I spent away from brown-eyed babe. Suprisingly, the world did not come to an end. When I picked her up on Tuesday evening, she blinked sleepily at me. No cries of joy, no clapping, no smiling. Talk about anti-climactic.
The reason for this milestone in my mamahood was an AmeriCorps Conference in Sacramento. Through AmeriCorps, I work at the library's adult literacy program. Apparently, California is the only state that has a state-funded adult literacy program. The rest of the nation's programs are working on yearly grants.
I learned more about a great program from Jumpstart called Read for the Record. You will see the button on my sidebar. I encourage all you mamas out there to participate. If you can't make a donation, volunteer with your local library or school, or at least pledge to read to your child. It will be September 20, 2007. This year's book is "The Story of Ferdinand", the bull who would rather smell flowers than participate in a bullfight. It is incredibly important. As early as the age of 3 there can be a learning gap due to economic inequalities. This event is a way to bring awareness to early childhood education for all children.
Last year, they set a record for the largest shared reading experience with 150,000 people participating. Hopefully, that record will be broken this year.
So go on and pledge....you know you want to.
The reason for this milestone in my mamahood was an AmeriCorps Conference in Sacramento. Through AmeriCorps, I work at the library's adult literacy program. Apparently, California is the only state that has a state-funded adult literacy program. The rest of the nation's programs are working on yearly grants.
I learned more about a great program from Jumpstart called Read for the Record. You will see the button on my sidebar. I encourage all you mamas out there to participate. If you can't make a donation, volunteer with your local library or school, or at least pledge to read to your child. It will be September 20, 2007. This year's book is "The Story of Ferdinand", the bull who would rather smell flowers than participate in a bullfight. It is incredibly important. As early as the age of 3 there can be a learning gap due to economic inequalities. This event is a way to bring awareness to early childhood education for all children.
Last year, they set a record for the largest shared reading experience with 150,000 people participating. Hopefully, that record will be broken this year.
So go on and pledge....you know you want to.
5.09.2007
At Least I Have a Cute Kid.
On one of my outings over the weekend, with brown-eyed babe in tow, I found myself in line behind a guy that I went to high school with. He was with his fiancee and their infant son. Obviously I recognized him and I am pretty sure that he recognized me, though we didn't speak to, or even acknowledge, one another. Yet, I wanted to burrow myself into the ground. Mind you, I had never had a crush on this individual or had a bad encounter with him. So why was I so self-conscious?
It was the simple fact that he looked like he had it together. Whether he does or not is not the point. But he looked it. He was the strong provider. He passed her money clip (a flippin' money clip!) with a wad of bills in it to pay for the food, while he sat at the table with the baby. He wore a fitted hat, oversized shirt and short, and sneakers. All in pristine condition and all various shades of the color red. The fiancee had quite the serious ring on her finger and she was looking fabulous despite the fact that she had given birth not too long ago. Hair perfectly coiffed, cute outfit, large designer sunglasses ( y'know, the ones that make you look like an insect). I, on the other hand, wore a sweatshirt, bandanna, perscription glasses and carried a squirming toddler in my arms (who much to my chagrin was mistaken for a boy despite wearing kickass pink Vans). I wasn't looking busted, but I felt that way in their presence. To add insult to injury, I heard that he had recently purchased a home, while AB and I sleep in my childhood bedroom. Sadly, it made me feel better that he had become pudgy in the 5+ years that I had last seen him.
While I did not see their bundle of joy, (though I could tell it was boy from the socks and various accoutrements on the carseat), I found solace in the fact that my kid is probably cuter than theirs, in all her tomboy glory.
It was the simple fact that he looked like he had it together. Whether he does or not is not the point. But he looked it. He was the strong provider. He passed her money clip (a flippin' money clip!) with a wad of bills in it to pay for the food, while he sat at the table with the baby. He wore a fitted hat, oversized shirt and short, and sneakers. All in pristine condition and all various shades of the color red. The fiancee had quite the serious ring on her finger and she was looking fabulous despite the fact that she had given birth not too long ago. Hair perfectly coiffed, cute outfit, large designer sunglasses ( y'know, the ones that make you look like an insect). I, on the other hand, wore a sweatshirt, bandanna, perscription glasses and carried a squirming toddler in my arms (who much to my chagrin was mistaken for a boy despite wearing kickass pink Vans). I wasn't looking busted, but I felt that way in their presence. To add insult to injury, I heard that he had recently purchased a home, while AB and I sleep in my childhood bedroom. Sadly, it made me feel better that he had become pudgy in the 5+ years that I had last seen him.While I did not see their bundle of joy, (though I could tell it was boy from the socks and various accoutrements on the carseat), I found solace in the fact that my kid is probably cuter than theirs, in all her tomboy glory.
3.22.2007
No!
Brown-eyed babe can now say the word "no". She loves the word " no". It is the verbal emphasis that she has been waiting to use with her actions. I attempt to hold her hand outside, she pulls away defiantly with a gutteral "no", and struts off, shoulders hunched up , arms swinging with purpose. I tell her "no" as she tries to pull off the various papers on the fridge or get into the cabinet where I keep her food and her response "no?...no, no, no, no, no..." as she wanders off to the next thing.
My brother used to threaten me when she was an infant, "Just you wait, I'm going to teach her the word,'no', just you wait." I was dreading it. I foresaw loud tantrums in public with brown-eyed babe wiggling out of my arms throwing herself on the ground and crying out "NO!!!" as strangers looked on with disdain and pity at me, yet another parent who cannot control her toddler. But just the opposite has happened. I am thoroughly enjoying this whole "no" business. Perhaps it is because I am so intrigued with the sound of her voice. She says "no" and I think, dearlord my child is talking to me, really truly talking to me. "No" for me has been the official crossover into toddlerdom. There is no turning back now.
My brother used to threaten me when she was an infant, "Just you wait, I'm going to teach her the word,'no', just you wait." I was dreading it. I foresaw loud tantrums in public with brown-eyed babe wiggling out of my arms throwing herself on the ground and crying out "NO!!!" as strangers looked on with disdain and pity at me, yet another parent who cannot control her toddler. But just the opposite has happened. I am thoroughly enjoying this whole "no" business. Perhaps it is because I am so intrigued with the sound of her voice. She says "no" and I think, dearlord my child is talking to me, really truly talking to me. "No" for me has been the official crossover into toddlerdom. There is no turning back now.
2.23.2007
Bullseye.
I need to buy stock in Gerber and Pampers (or their parent companies) because the amount of money that they get from me is astounding. Target should be added to the list as well since that is where I am buying the products. I am such a Target-whore.
A few weeks back there was a scare at brown-eyed babe's 12-month check up. She had dropped in her growth percentiles. She had even lost weight! When I walked out of the pediatrician's office I felt like I had "World's Worst Mother" stamped on my forehead. I felt horrible. The doctor recommended PediaSure replacing two bottles/cups of milk a day. PediaSure?! That crap is expensive!!! So (suprise-surprise) I got her the Target brand and it has worked just as well. Her weight is back up and my faith in Target has been renewed and validated yet again.
Too bad I can't meet my next boyfriend at Target. I am getting desperate. Well, not really. But I do want a boyfriend again. I miss having a companion. I'm becoming so delusional that I am having daydreams about reuniting with blue-eyed boy. Not that this well ever happen, even he miraculously became the man that I was wanting for him to be, because he is still with Her. (I am bitter about Her and I will continue to be bitter about Her just because I can). Therefore, I am longing for a new male friend. I want that closeness. I like the guy smell. There is something so substantial about a guy. Even a guy with a slim build still has a sturdiness to him. I want sturdy. However, there are no prospects which is why I am fantasizing about white picket fences with blue-eyed boy.
Too bad Target doesn't sell boyfriends. I bet their profit margin would go through the roof.
A few weeks back there was a scare at brown-eyed babe's 12-month check up. She had dropped in her growth percentiles. She had even lost weight! When I walked out of the pediatrician's office I felt like I had "World's Worst Mother" stamped on my forehead. I felt horrible. The doctor recommended PediaSure replacing two bottles/cups of milk a day. PediaSure?! That crap is expensive!!! So (suprise-surprise) I got her the Target brand and it has worked just as well. Her weight is back up and my faith in Target has been renewed and validated yet again.
Too bad I can't meet my next boyfriend at Target. I am getting desperate. Well, not really. But I do want a boyfriend again. I miss having a companion. I'm becoming so delusional that I am having daydreams about reuniting with blue-eyed boy. Not that this well ever happen, even he miraculously became the man that I was wanting for him to be, because he is still with Her. (I am bitter about Her and I will continue to be bitter about Her just because I can). Therefore, I am longing for a new male friend. I want that closeness. I like the guy smell. There is something so substantial about a guy. Even a guy with a slim build still has a sturdiness to him. I want sturdy. However, there are no prospects which is why I am fantasizing about white picket fences with blue-eyed boy.
Too bad Target doesn't sell boyfriends. I bet their profit margin would go through the roof.
2.15.2007
Finally, I am giving this new blogger a whirl. Not as big of a deal as I thought it would be. Quite anticlimatic in fact.
In the two months that I have not written, brown-eyed babe has learned to say "apple". She calls every object "apple" and everyone "mama". If only life were so simple. Blue-eyed boy went into detox for 30 days and currently has a very rosy outlook on life. Alcoholic binges certainly due cloud up one's view, don't they? However, he is not my problem, any more. Thank heavens.
I have started my AmeriCorps position at the city public library in the adult literacy program. This combined with my other job as a paralegal and my other other job as a mother, I have been quite busy. However, things have started to settle down into a routine.
So, I'm going to be writing more.....really, I am.
In the two months that I have not written, brown-eyed babe has learned to say "apple". She calls every object "apple" and everyone "mama". If only life were so simple. Blue-eyed boy went into detox for 30 days and currently has a very rosy outlook on life. Alcoholic binges certainly due cloud up one's view, don't they? However, he is not my problem, any more. Thank heavens.
I have started my AmeriCorps position at the city public library in the adult literacy program. This combined with my other job as a paralegal and my other other job as a mother, I have been quite busy. However, things have started to settle down into a routine.
So, I'm going to be writing more.....really, I am.
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