Social Work…er, parenting in a socially responsible way – Also known as Lincoln destroys the garden

So today marks one week since I last worked.

I have planted a garden, like I do every year – but this year, it will be different, because I am not running home from work madly, cooking, cleaning, doing the mom gig for about 1.25 hours before we start bedtime and bathtime and dinner…sometimes even in that order.

This year, I will be able to take care of my own garden.

In social work, we all too often forget what that means.  Taking care of ourselves becomes secondary to taking care of others; our clients, our communities, our families, our homes – our own mental health…instead, we document, and report, and try to prove that what we are doing is WORKING! so that we can continue to have a job.  We study, we read, we make and receive after hours phone calls trying to find solutions for others, trying to help them have a chance, attempting to patch up the constant leaks that their poverty make inevitable.

I could go off on a tangent about all of that, but I suspect that anyone in a position in this field understands, and it goes without saying.

So today, a week free of the insurmountable obstacles of bureaucracy and other such b.s., I decide to garden.  I’m still up at seven thirty, getting kids to school and caffeinating.  I spend the morning putting out my necessary networking feelers – letting people I’ve come to respect professionally know that I am now free, signing up for workshops and volunteer gigs – seeking guidance from teachers and community people – e-mailing resumes and putting in inquiries for grad schools.  This I do every morning.  I tell Lincoln (last baby at home, four, who is the only one of my children I did not make it a priority to stay at home with) that we will be going to the park today, if he can just let me finish “working”.

He is good – he plays “Hobnopoly” with himself (a type of monopoly in which he pretends to be the banker and usually ends up making cupcakes out of the money piles).  He draws.  He sings “We are Young” to the iPod.  He then decides that it is time to garden.

So this is where the whole damn thing goes sideways.

But I don’t know that until later.

I am roused from my computer (where I am applying for energy assistance through my power company, one of the “Perks” of being unemployed officially) by the sound of wailing from the backyard.  Now this was unexpected, because I had just told him not to do anything stupid, and we reviewed the list of what “stupid” entailed, such things as CLIMBING BROKEN LADDERS utilized to support the cucumbers as they start to trail.

Turns out, he’s still four.  

FUCK…I think to myself, because it’s ok to swear when it’s self dialogue and only you can hear it.  The voices are telling me to react like my mother – a big fat WTF to the four year old, for doing what a four year old would do.  Then berating him and ruining the whole day.

Instead, I run outside, swiftly extract him from the toppled ladder, and set him on his feet.  I look him over to make sure he is ok, and he knows – he’s not even gonna cry about it now.  Because he looks like a dumb shit.  And he knows it.

This would totally work, if he was 25.

Scaling it back to four, now…I bend down, and say – “are you alright?”

He looks at me, and says – “Yeah”.  He’s embarrassed.

I say – “This is the stupid I was referencing in our conversation earlier”.

He says – “I know”.

I tell him that he can come in the house and hang out with me until his brother gets home.

I had no idea, until about half an hour ago, just how much Lincoln accomplished in my garden today.  He dug a “river” in my freshly planted and turned over and carefully sawdusted strawberries – apparently, prospectors are moving in to mine for gold and they need a way to transport their goods.  The river goes neatly THROUGH my strawberries, and I’d say that this new development has wiped out a good part of this year’s crop.  Careless developing practices have also polluted my barbeque with bark dust.  Lots of it.

Not gonna freak out.  Letting this one go.

I proceed to my gazebo, and I realize that the neatly stacked pile of garden markers are those VERY SAME garden markers that I so carefully placed next to all of my plants, to discern what was what til they actually fruited.  Except, somehow, they’ve managed to make their way OUT of the garden and onto the patio table.

Interesting.  At this point, I feel it might be appropriate to let Lincoln know that my admonition to stay out of my garden has just become an ORDINANCE.  It will be clearly posted, and strictly enforced from this point forward.

And that’s when I see my lettuce.  Lincoln has pretty decent coordination, when he wishes to.  Today, he took the day off.  He has trampled at least five of my precious, delicate little lettuce plants.  And about three cabbage.

And a squash.

Ok.

This is where I remember that we deep breathe before we turn into a total psychopath.

Ten…nine…eight…seven…shit, I can’t remember if it’s supposed to be a countdown, because I think it’s supposed to be getting further away from the event, not counting down to blast off…ONE…TWO…THREE…

This all happened before I noticed that Mr. Fancy Ladder Trick also knocked over my fence that keeps the dog from tearing up my garden.

Oh, the IRONY of that.

I can laugh about this now, and I kinda laughed about it earlier.  Because this is the nature of my life…and because I am good at fixing things when they break.  I have learned to expect BROKEN…and I still believe it is worth fixing.  I expect to repeat myself, I expect others to decide their own fate.

And sometimes, they do stupid shit.

And this, my friends, is SOCIAL WORK.  And this is PARENTING.  And I have figured out that there is a reason I am crazy.  Because between these two things, I do this all the time – the reframing, the counting, the paraphrasing, the reflecting…and I have to do it without judgment.

Today, the prospectors and the maniacal developer bringing them to town…they won.  But Lincoln will probably think twice before he climbs a rickety ladder again, and he understands the need to get back up and resolve not to make the same mistake again (or betray your embarrassment when you do).

And then the high schooler comes home and tells me that she has managed to get two referrals in two days.

That’s a conversation for another time.

On Reclaiming Motherhood: Day Two

On reclaiming motherhood: Day Two..

On reclaiming motherhood: Day Two.

And I’m back – after a long hiatus.  I have recently found myself the victim of a lay-off in the social service industry, and now, for the first time in four years, I am a stay at home mom again.

The reason I’m writing on day 2 of this change is that day 1 wasn’t really worth reporting.  Day one was the day I forced myself to get dressed, have lunch with my dad and my son, and cash my final paycheck and pay the rent with the last paycheck I’ll get for a while.

Today, the sun is shining – my son is excited to go to the park – and I am sitting down briefly to begin a journey that I’ll share here.  I am currently without a real direction on this journey – I’m still attempting to get my bearings, and evaluate who I am without a source of income and a “mission” (because that’s what us social worker types have, MISSIONS).  

I’m reminded though – at one point, further back in my life story, my MISSION was to be a mother.  I wanted nothing more than babies and bliss.

That’s what all the ads made it look like.

Now, I have a house full of persons without frontal lobes, who appeared in four year increments. That’s right folks, 4, 8, 12, and 16.  

And I haven’t looked at the technical definition of bliss – but in my mind, I liken it to nirvana – orgasm – jelly filled doughnuts or the perfectly crafted mojito…and I’m pretty sure that THIS…is not THAT.

So…I’m going to take this fancy degree, and all of my knowledge about parenting and child development and organizing families and establishing routines and most of all ATTACHMENT PARENTING…and I’m gonna try it out on my own family.  They have now become my client base.  

I will record their progress, and my outcomes HERE.  I can’t promise that my reports will be timely, but when they are posted, they will be both relevant and informative.  They will be thorough accounts of what worked and what didn’t.  I have a sneaking suspicion that we just might end up with a good deal of the latter, and you can at least be assured that they will be humorous, because that is how I deal with my failures.

I suspect my children will be less than enthused to be my subjects. As I re-discover what a day without “work” looks like, as I am home before and after school to be “all up in their shit”…as I manage my household full time instead of my position…what will that all look like for us?

It’s exciting and terrifying at the same time.

Here’s to being “unemployed”.  

Here’s to serious thinking about my career, and my life path.  

Here’s to hanging out with my OWN kid during the day, instead of paying someone else to while he grows up and I no longer recognize him except in those moments, when he is sleeping, where his baby face reemerges, and I have a brief glimpse of my last vivid memory before I embarked on my career path.  

Here’s to cooking from scratch every night (because it’s cheaper) and actually getting to plant my garden AND take care of it.  

Here’s to extreme couponing, farmer’s market, resale stores, and frugality.  Okay, scratch the couponing.  I’m no good at that.

Day two: It’s good to be back.  Now, off to the park.

Children/Gifts 2009

by Kathryn Albert on Sunday, 29 November 2009 at 21:47

Children are gifts. Sometimes they’re diamonds…or a giftbag of your favorite perfume…or a cheese tray (that’s for you, Ang).  Other times, they’re your great Aunt’s fruitcake.

One way or the other, when you’re trying to get rid of them (no, you didn’t stumble on to the website of Diane Downs, I mean, for the evening, or something…), the rules of gift-giving apply.  This parallel occurred to me after I visited a website this Christmas, to determine the “proper” protocol for gift-giving.  It’s never been a strong suit of mine – see, being raised a Jehovah’s Witness meant that all holidays were giftless and all gatherings were potlucks.  I’ve become the self-taught guru (not really…anyone who knows me knows party-throwing is not a strong suit of mine) of, well, self-teaching.

I digress.  As I was attempting to figure out what to give a mother in law that (legally) isn’t, and if it is, or is not, appropriate to gift cookies in recycled tins (in my neighborhood, yes…in the real world, only if you’re rich and it’s elaborately decoupaged)…I realized that these same rules apply to getting out, ever.  It’s like this unspoken law we all have – come on ladies, you know what I’m talking about, we all talk about it behind each other’s backs, but I’ll just come out and say it – there are just certain things that happen, when you have your own kids and are facing the (gulp) prospect of adding any more to your already burgeoning numbers…

Of course, it took me six months to mull it all over, and a day of frenetic laundry activity to shake it out, but here it is – my “insight” into the rules.  The silence is broken.

The rules of gifting are as follows:

Get a gift, give a gift: gift exchanges must be reciprocal.
Ah ha.  This was my favorite.  All of my friends seem to be conscious of this point.  We know better than to tip the balance.  If you only have one kid, I will not ask you to watch my three.  Or even my two.  If you have three kids?  You’re screwed.  Especially when all of your friends have less.  And good luck on the “reciprocal”.  One of those kids is staying home.
The get a gift rule also applies to communicable diseases.  We know what “Well, Bianca’s been coughing” means.  It means we’d better pick up the cough medicine on our way back from the bar tonight.

Even-Steven: gift exchanges must be of equal value.
You’ll see this one in practice when you have kids of un-even ages.  Yes, your five and eight year old can come play with my four and seven year old.  It’s close enough.  But your baby with my ten year old?  HA!  I think not.  I gave up diapers years ago, and I’m not going back!  Once again, I think I’m on the ass end of this spectrum.

Once begun, not undone: gift exchanges, once established, must not change.
Now this is where it gets tricky.  My girlfriends and I have alll discussed the idea of “traditions” – you know, date nights, anniversaries, school-night sleep-overs, taking a yoga class…my mom and her friends had an exchange going that didn’t change for almost my entire childhood.  It’s a great idea, in theory – you get your date night, I get my yoga class, everyone’s happy, and our kids get to play.
At some point, we all decided we’d kind of like to do things with each other, too. Each other MINUS the ten screaming kids of widely varying ages at our heels.  There weren’t enough margaritas to mask the fact that we just weren’t getting any of that quality girl time we used to have.  Then what?  Add that to the fact that all of us (vainly) try to hide the fact that we smoke from our kids…and we like to smoke when we get together…then what?

The fact is, there is no room for traditional or un-changing in this job.  Nope, no time for “you get Wednesday” and “I’ll get the kids today if you get them tomorrow”.  The fact is, today, tomorrow, and probably Wednesday, I’m still going to be convincing myself that I want my OWN kids.  Yours?  Well, they’re yours.  Catch me after a few margaritas.  Chances are, I’ll commit myself to something I won’t want to do, but I’ll do because I said I would.  I love your kids – especially because they’re yours.

Now…go.

Come one, come all: gift exchanges must extend to every member of a relationship category.
This one…well, this one means that if you watch one girlfriend’s kids…then be prepared for your phone to ring, sister.  You’re phone’s ringing already. See, friend number one knows you watched friend number two’s one, and friend number three’s two, and she’s just dying to ask you to watch her three…after all, you’ve proven yourself capable (read: STUPID!) enough.  You gonna get that?
Don’t answer it.  The best way to avoid the contingencies of this rule are to do what our good friend Nancy Reagan said – JUST SAY NO.  Don’t feel bad – if you say no to everyone, you won’t have to feel guilty for not taking those urchins with bent halos.  Yeah, there’s kids you like, and kids you…well, kids whose company you would prefer not to keep without the assistance of a bottle of wine and some valium.  Just say no to all of them.  If your friends really want to hang out, they’ll hire a babysitter – like they should.

Because the fact is, girls -we’re in our thirties now.  I don’t find babies irresistible anymore, and I’m certainly not volunteering my services like I used to, in a desperate attempt to get a baby fix.  I’m fixed.  I’m so fixed, if I were a junkie, I’d be near dead of an overdose.  I like kids, like I like pets – when they are well-behaved and accompanied by their owners.

My kids are the exception to this rule.  I love them unconditionally – I reserve the right to not be able to stand them without guilt…because I take care of them on a daily basis, and damn it, they’re not like an unruly housepet you can kick outside when they irritate you with a food bowl and a chew toy.  And yes, I know this from experience.

DO your friends a favor. Set up a network of babysitters outside your inner circle.  Share their names
and numbers (and don’t forget to mention that yours is only available when you’re NOT at yoga, the bookstore, or the Doctor on the 21st).  Share horror stories about how you got home and your top drawer was rifled through, your Ben and Jerry’s was gone, and there’s a mysterious stain on the davenport…because THIS is the stuff of friendship.

I figured out semi-recently that if you want to keep your friends, never mix business with pleasure.  I’ll loan you my books, my clothes, my make-up, and my cd’s.  That makes me your girlfriend.  I’ll keep my kids to myself, and the paid staff, and I will follow the above rules faithfully til death do us part.  Don’t think of it as an insult – I’m doing it because I like you.

Letter to the Tooth Fairy

Dear Fisher,
Enclosed please find two dollars and fifty cents in change.  Due to budget cutbacks, and a stalemate in all corners of government that control any spending that is beneficial to the population, you will note that the normal tooth fairy reimbursal for front teeth has declined since you lost your OTHER front tooth.
You’re just going to have to tighten your belt, son.  Buck up!  It’s the American dream we’re living here.
And remember to brush, because by the time they figure out this universal health care thing,  your mom is still not going to be able to buy you dentures.
Because she’ll be buying her own.
Fondly,
The tooth fairy.

P.S.  Take my advice:  Invest in something from Texas.

Getting to Lego Land – 2010

by Kathryn Albert on Monday, 10 May 2010 at 20:40

My son has recently become a “lego brickmaster”.

He carries around this magazine, opened to an advertisement for lego land.  All day.  He reads the ad to me, over and over, working out scenarios about how we could travel to lego land – since there is a free ticket for an adult and a kid, he reasons, I could take him.  And Abbey, Lincoln, and Angela – they could go somewhere else, like, say, Disneyland, while we build our giant lego raft and sail into lego oblivion.

How will we get to California?  Well, says Fisher, we could always drive. I tell him how far away Lego Land is, and remind him that we have just traded our SUV for a Hybrid sedan.  He says, well, I guess we could drop Abbey off at her dad’s house. She doesn’t want to go to California, and anyway, her dad could take her in HIS car.

Or, suggests my lego-obsessed son, we could take a bus.  When I tell him that taking the bus would take even longer, and we would have to sit by smelly weird people, he says – all you have to do it sit by the bus driver, mom.  He makes sure the weird people don’t do anything to you.  And he probably has smelly spray stuff, because his job is on the bus, and he’s used to it.

Sensing that pointing out our travel limitations is not going to deter captain brickmaster, I point out that you have to have MONEY to get to Lego Land, which is in California, which is a LONG way from our house.  He says – don’t worry mom, all you have to do is take a picture of one of my creations, and post it on http://www.legoland.com, and then I’ll be famous, and people will send me money, because when you’re famous, people do that.

He’s clearly covered all the bases.  Travel? Check.  Itinerary?  Check.  Financial plan? Check.

I’m desperate now.  For all intents and purposes, I am pretty much DOOMED to find a way to lego land, because this is the ONLY thing my son has ever really asked for in his life – and how do you crush the dreams of an almost seven year old?

So I say to him – your uncle Mike is coming this weekend. I’ll bet he’d LOVE to go to lego land.  And he could help you build that giant sized raft AND he can probably even swim. I think you should ask HIM how HE feels about your plan.

And the heat is off me for a while.

Damn those lego people and their flashy advertising, and yes, even their giant rafts (even though I have to admit that would be kinda cool, giant legos…right?).

Do they think I’m made of money?

Apparently, if I were famous, people would just send it to me.

I need to ponder that one for a while.  And while I’m at it, I’m going to think about how it is that a six year old boy has all the answers.  For life to only be as simple as a little boy’s plan to get to lego land.

To Infinity and Beyond – 2009

Sunday, 29 November 2009 at 21:51

(Myspace archive file)

You probably have noted that I have posted this in the “fashion, style, and shopping” category – for those of you that know me, this seems ironic.

That’s because it is.

I have arrived at a conclusion about myself lately that I am not so sure I’m crazy about.  I’m a fashion victim.  Not in the traditional sense of the word, mind you – I mean, I am victimized by things that compromise my own personal sense of style.  I am the queen of wardrobe malfunctions, the empress of what not-to-wear…all without any consciousness until it’s too late.

Last week stands out as a stunning example.  I’m obligated to take Abbey to this birthday party, the birthday party of a classmate from the RIGHT side of the tracks.  I agonize over what I’m going to wear (tibetan fisherman pants?  My birks?  Perhaps my really cool sweater vest that Angela keeps trying to hide from me BUT I FIND IT ANYWAY!!!?), and decide that I am really putting too much effort into this.

I mean, seriously, since when have I been THAT girl?  I’m the mom that wears camo shorts and a tube top to Abbey’s graduation.  I’m the mom that stumbles into the school half-conscious in my jammies.  I’m the mom that’s still got legs – and wears mini-skirts.  P-SHAW!  It’s all good.

(I don’t truly believe this, I’m actually struggling with my 30 year old self esteem right now, I got a haircut I hate – with BANGS – and my clothing bears the scars of spit up and breastfeeding.  And compulsive use of bleach.)

So off to the party I go – Bianca’s mom (another PWT mommy like me, but better dressed with a way better haircut) drops off the girls, so all I have to do is pick them up.

I should have known when I pulled into the parking lot that I should run the other direction.  My subaru (it’s an outback, and I love it…) looks very out of place in this group.  There are, I swear to GOD I’m not exaggerating) at least ten GRAY mini-vans.  All new, all shiny…I mean, did these people all go shopping together?  Is this for REAL?  My car even knew better, and stalled before it parked.  I suspect it had an omen of what I was about to encounter.

Indefatigable.  That’s what I am.  I cannot be deterred.  My mission is to go in there, bad haircut and all, and show THEM that I am cooler than them.  Tattoos, baby sling, birkenstocks and all.  So I sling up my trusty baby, and tell Fisher (aka “Spiderman the pirate” today, as he is wearing his spidey t-shirt and arm tattoos, an eye-patch, and carrying a bag of gold) to get out.  We’re going in.

When I enter the building, I have to look in the mirror to check myself against the shock that resonates through the room.  Where is my COACH purse?  What the hell kind of pants am I wearing?  And who let ME in here?  My skin isn’t green, and I seem to be in possession of all of my clothes.  I charge ahead.
The only place to sit, of course, is in the front row – in front of these people who I am pretty sure are burning holes into the back of my head from behind their MAC-mascara laden eyelashes.

I’m chanting to myself – I’m cool.

And there I sit, watching the kids run around the gymnastics center, my heart pounding and my ears red.  Why do I care that they’re not speaking to me?  Why is this bothering me?  I clearly needed a tube top in this situation…or a bong hit.  I’m not sure…but in any event, with neither of those weapons at my disposal, I’m stuck here.  Make the best of it.

The party is finally over when the mother of the party princess comes up and says hi and introduces herself.  I note her impossibly perfect nails, freshly manicured, her fancy jeans, her expensive shoes, and her 200 dollar hair-do.  She whitens her teeth, which gleam so distractingly I can’t seem to make out her words.  I thank her for inviting Abbey to the party, and she gushes about what a sweetheart my daughter is.

Now I’m convinced she’s got the wrong mom.

So I thank her, and stand to get the girls together, rein in spider-pirate, and pull up my jeans, that have once again fallen half down my ass crack.  Abbey walks up right about the same time, with a horrified look on her face.  “MOM!” she whispers hysterically.

I see the look on her face, and it registers that something must be very wrong with the baby, happily slung on my hip in his tie-dye and legwarmers.  I check him, and he seems fine…

“What?” I ask, with some amount of concern…

“Your BACK!  What’s on YOUR BACK?”

What is on my back?  What is she talking about?  I strain to look around, and all I can see is something very closely resembling BUZZ LIGHTYEAR wings, attached to my sling.  To my dismay, this new attachment gives me nothing but the power of the pariah.  I’m a complete embarassment to myself, and my kid, at the preppy party.  I am wearing the sunshade from my car, the PINK FLOWERED sunshade that Angela and I poke fun at because we bought it without knowing what it looked like unrolled.  Right now, it is about halfway unrolled and attached perfectly to the middle of my back, where everyone has been staring at it, and NO ONE has mentioned its presence.

FUCKERS!  I’m mortified in a way that I don’t remember being since…middle school?  I mean, can my already fragile ego withstand this assault?  Why couldn’t it have been…my nipple!?  A SUNSHADE?
I extract the sunshade through a series of contortions, and cannot make my retreat fast enough.

Why do these things happen to me?  Is something cosmic trying to tell me I need to learn humility?  Is some relentless force trying to drive me into complete agoraphobia?

I don’t know.  Poor Abbey.  She’s in for a rough ride.

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