wherein sue shithead gets my foot up her ass

In this season of love and giving, it seems a little dark of me to post what I'm about to post.

But I've got to let this go.

Many of you have been with me as I venture to find Miss M and Roxie a school that will continue to Grade 8; Miss M is coming up on public middle school, and where we live, that is a big, scary thing.

So we've been doing the private school dance. Jig. Shuffle. Call it what you will. We've been met with statements such as, "We only take children worth investing in," and flat out refusals to even see Miss M because of her residual PDD NOS diagnosis.

Not to scare you all, but the diagnosis that was put in place to help us has now officially bitten us in the ass as we drop off the spectrum.

Some of you might recall this.

Here is the follow up to my dealings with dear Sue S. I think the letter contains most of the shocking details you'll need to know.


A letter written to Ms. Shithead -

Ms. Shithead:

Per our conversation this morning, in which you informed me that my daughter would not be considered for admission to your school, I am requesting total refund of our Registration Deposit in the sum total of $100, for both of my daughters, Miss M and Roxie. I feel that you were negligent in your review process of my daughter, for the reasons that I will discuss.

In our conversation, you referred to my daughter as “Kelly” (her name is M________, thank you) and asked me twice where she attended school. You thanked me for the records I sent, which I had repeatedly told you were now outmoded, as my daughter has exceeded her goals and has resolved almost all the issues outlined in the documents. Her diagnosis is prefaced by the word residual, (which you asked me the definition of) and was given two years ago. I followed up with an update from her therapist, as her diagnosis no longer fits. Besides not knowing her school or name, you incorrectly surmised that “she had trouble speaking” and had “social problems”. While it is true that we have worked extensively on social issues, she has friends, is friendly and warm to everyone, and, it is safe to say, her issues are in complete remission. She has no trouble speaking whatsoever.

You went on to say that her success is due to her small class size and supports, which I informed you, have all but been removed. You thought that public school would best suit her, even though you have never met her, nor knew where she attended school. You told me that Your School is academically advanced, and that it “might not be the right place for her”, even though I replied that she is in the accelerated groups at school. When I asked your specific reason for rejecting my daughter sight unseen, you cited class size and “other reasons, I don’t know.” When I asked what you meant by “I don’t know,” you were unable to provide me with a concrete answer.

I am an educator who has the experience of teaching many Your School’s alumnae, who grapple with issues such as marked ADHD, organizational and attention difficulty, and Dyslexia. I’m sure you know who they are. Their issues are no more challenging than those of my daughter (at eight, she functions better than many of them) and I find it interesting that your initial reaction to my queries was “We don’t take children with issues.”
This statement borders on discriminatory. Let me explain. As I have taught alumnae from Your School with learning challenges in the course of my professional career, I have to wonder what has caused its retrenchment from what I perceived to be a commitment to provide students with a learning disability who are qualified to meet the rigorous standards of the curriculum, the opportunity to participate in the educational offerings of the school. Your lack of knowledge regarding my daughter -- from not knowing her name to her most recent diagnosis – and your inadequate answer to my probe regarding “other reasons” for rejecting her suggest to me that you have not made an adequate assessment of M_________'s ability. My impression is that your rejection of my daughter is not based in any factual way on her qualifications. This is dangerously close to what I perceive as discriminatory. In your roles as a M_________’s qualification to participate in the educational offerings of Your School and in this regard, I believe you have been derelict. Had you taken the time to know my daughter, you would discover that she attends regular school, plays on the playground, takes dance and acting classes, loves to read, and has sleepovers and play dates. She loves animals, is very sociable, and has a strong spiritual base. Her sister is equally as charming and delightful, and both girls are a joy to have in the classroom. Had I submitted her application without prefacing her former challenges, you would have had no idea that they once existed. I know this, because she attends camps and extracurricular activities with absolutely no detection whatsoever.

As an educator, I would never put my daughter in an academic situation where her success would not be guaranteed 100%. I work with many different kinds of students, many kinds of minds, and understand what it takes to run a classroom.

I write this letter today, hoping that you will take pause at your words, and in the future, consider students a bit more carefully before blithely rejecting another jewel.


Drama Mama

cc: Principal, Your School


May she rest easy this Christmas.

We've moved on.

two of a kind

Our family is watching a movie - Evan Almighty, at Miss M's request, being the bible aficionado that she is - and I am staring at the girls eating Haagen Dazs. In slow motion. I want to eat the ice cream. I want to eat the girls. Hell, I'd eat this laptop if I could. Six weeks on a liquid fast does that to a person. I have to remind myself that I can buy pants from Express, with all of the thin teenaged girls, and look absolutely ridiculous in the store, with my wrinkles and two kids, buying slim cut jeans and dangly earrings.

But I still want that ice cream.

We had a pleasant enough holiday, considering that I CANNOT EAT (are you sensing a theme here?) and the chicks and I have been doing the Christmas thing. Living in beautiful San Francisco, we can wear fabulous outfits and dash about the city and see ballets, sniff perfumes at Saks and not really spend much money. We're like Eloise, but poor.

Today, we were buying candles in a Bath and Body Works store. A salesperson saw us and gasped. I initially thought it was my muffin top hanging over my new teen jeans, but it became clear that she had eyes only for Roxie. "OH MY MISS! What a beautiful princess! How old are you? Do you want sparkles in your hair?" and with that, she whisked Roxie over to a mirror, and sprayed glitter in her hair, and lathered her with lotions. I watched Roxie. Suddenly, her dimples deepened, and her eyes turned into limpid pools of chocolate. She was Puss in Boots from Shrek. I could almost hear her purr. Other salesladies came over, exclaiming over The Chosen One. Worried, I looked over at Miss M. She was reading an American Girl book about the care and keeping of hair. She was nonplussed. Sometimes autism is a gift.

Throughout the day, an old lady tried to give Roxie a dollar, a man in a kilt gave her a candy cane, and she received countless compliments about her cuteness.

What is most alarming is her prowess. Roxie puts together her look. Every day. We trade clothes at a clothing recycling place, and she is allowed to select her clothes (as long as they are age-appropriate) She is the kid in the red patent boots, sparkly headbands, and fabulous party dresses. At the park. You know the kid. Even more scary is her social prowess. She jokes. She flirts. Her low rasp is in direct contrast to her feminine allure, which makes her all the more attractive. As much as Miss M struggles with social situations, Roxie thrives in them. Leads them. Laps up the goodness.

On the way home, I glanced at the back seat. Roxie glittered and glimmered, while Miss M wore her sort of oddly pieced together soft cotton "weekend clothing" with Christmas socks and sandals. Miss M was reading a Roald Dahl book. Roxie piped up. "Alot of people talked to me today," she began. My eyes darted back to Miss M. It can't be easy for her, to live with someone for whom everything comes so easy. Miss M peeped over her book. "Yah, Roxie. People think you're cute." I held my breath.
"I mean, you are cute and everything." Silence. I piped up. "Miss M, you are a beautiful and smart girl," I began. Miss M cut me short. "Yeah. Whatever. Why do you think Matilda has special powers? Because of her soul?" she queried of her book. She and Roxie began a long conversation about the character Matilda, a special and brave girl whose powers and talents are recognized by those who truly see her.

I looked at the two in the back seat. I worry about how they will feel about each other as they get older. The beauty of each girl is that they know exactly who they are, and autism or no, Miss M is strong. Strong in her sense of self. Roxie, in spite of all of her princessness, has a special sister, and subconsciously, she knows it. Honors it.

"So, Roxie, you are not just cute," I began, trying to be all philosophical and shit. "Yes, Muther, I know, I know. It's just part of my job," she said. And then she and Miss M laughed.

I think they will be just fine. God makes no mistakes.

8 more things about DM

I'm busted. Bonbon Momma totally tagged me on one of those "8 thingie" memes. At the risk of boring you all, I'll remind you that I've already done one.

Because BM (Good God Bonbon, I'm sorry about that unfortunate diminutive!) is so sweet and was worried about people doing her meme, I'll do another.

So eight things about me:

I am so prematurely grey, I can barely keep up with the new crop. I have to go at my head with Nice and Easy every two weeks. Two weeks. Ugh. And I have black hair, so I have to be meticulous about it. And don't be snide and tell me to go all salt and pepper on your asses, 'cause it ain't gonna happen. I'm too vain.

I give nicknames to people all the time - and they stick. Roxie is known around the house as "Dr. Cusamano" and my students have similarly odd monikers. It's usually a (gentle) play on their name, or something funny that they've done. We have Little Johnny Late-Paper, Eddie I-forgot-my-hall-pass, and Suzy Shops-alot. It's like a damned Sopranos episode in there. They love it.

Dogs totally freak me out. Happened in my old age. I'm allergic, but that's not it. There was a famous dog mauling case in my hometown a few years back, and I distrust all canines. Sad but true.

I'm Latina and Catholic, but want to be Jewish. In the worst way. I can kugel and gribnis and schmaltz with the best of you. I once almost married a guy because his last name was Portnoy, and I wanted to be his complaint. Actually, his mother and I are still close, and we call/write/send gifts fifteen years after Mr. Portnoy and I split up. A good Jewish daughter-in-law I would have been. My Yiddish is slipping a little, so someone invite me over for the high holidays, please!

The daughter-in-law that I am: I am a liberal, Latina, Catholic actress married to an east-coast blueblood whose mother sat on Congress for 12 years. She is a conservative Republican, and they live next door to Martha Stewart. (I am not making this up) My people are lively, loud, liberal, and Latin. You should have seen the wedding reception.


When I was eight, I daydreamed about being Diana Ross playing Billie Holliday in Lady Sings the Blues. And I told my Catholic school principal about my wish - that I wanted to be a black blues-singing heroin addict. Of course, I didn't know what heroin was. But I'd read the book and saw the movie.
(I had much older siblings)

In spite of my curmudgeonliness, I am the biggest Xmas Whore that ever lived. I am fighting listening to Xmas carols in the car, but today, Miss M and I snuck on a new CD and sang a few songs. She's got the bug, too.

Even though I'm an actress and wear black and drink espresso, I am very domestic. I crochet, and bake like a fiend, especially when stressed out. I'm sort of like Izzie from Grey's Anatomy, what with the dozens of muffins strewn about our kitchen. Especially around IEP time.

I am so friggin' sick of my liquid diet. I dream of food. Mario Batali is starting to look sexy.

Okay. That's nine. You got a bonus. I tag Susan and her super-cool son Isaac of Family Room.

Mazel Tov.

what we forget

Last night, our play began its final weekend. The usual assortment of parents filed in. Those whose children were featured in the show carried flowers, wore fancy outfits, and generally held court before the show. They (understandably) boasted about their children, and to be honest, enjoyed the attention their children afforded them.

I was standing at the door, helping the students take tickets, when one mother, clad in sweats and modest jacket came forward and proffered her ticket. "Hello, Ms. Drama Mama," she said, eyes glowing. I searched my databank in my head - I have so many students, it's hard to remember parents all the time. She obviously wasn't one of the Drama Kids' parents, because she wasn't drawing attention to herself in the lobby. The mother read my thoughts. "I'm Conor's mother," she said, extending her hand. Conor is the kid in my daily acting class who always says the wrong thing. Conor forgets to turn in homework. Conor is awkward and the other kids call him a stalker and a weirdo.

"Yes! Conor! I so love that kid!" I pumped her hand and gave her a hug. Then something happened. Tears sprung to her eyes. "You DO?" she said, incredulous. I told her of course I do, Conor is a great kid who puts his whole heart into everything he does. He tries so hard, I said. I love his energy, I told her.

Then there, in the foyer, she started crying and told me that she is really struggling. He is having a hard time with his grades, and she doesn't know what to do. Sometimes that's all she sees, she told me. "Well. Conor is a great kid. A really great kid. Did you know that he sends me funny You Tubes all the time? And waves and gives me a thumbs up when I drive my car out of the parking lot at the end of the day? And that his silent movie assignment was the best in my class?"

I held my hand on her shoulder. "Conor is a great kid," I repeated.

She thanked me, told me that it was a gift to hear those words. "I just forget sometimes, you know?" she smiled as I fetched her a coffee. I noticed that she attended the show alone. Conor had come the weekend before. I asked her about her solo attendance. "Well, Conor loved the play so much that he insisted I come and see what it was all about," she smiled. "Well, look at that. What a great kid that he is learning to love theatre. And that he shares it with you!" I patted her on the shoulder, and led her to her seat.

I thought about Conor's Mother, Conor, and all of the parents assembled in the lobby. We project so much of our hopes and successes on our children. I looked at all the parents holding flowers and waving to each other. I looked at the parents of one kid who has severe learning difficulties. They thank me every night, and always hand me a Starbuck's card - "Because you need it!" they laugh and hug me. It's always the parents whose kids struggle who show gratitude. It's always those kids who knock on my office door every night to thank me for the opportunity I give them. I always thank them back for their hard work.

When I told Conor's Mother that she had a great kid, I meant it. I also was telling myself that I have a great kid. I thought of the hour before, when Miss M and I were struggling over her (dread) math problems, and I sucked in my breath as not to lose my patience with her.

She is a great kid.

Conor is a great kid.

Sometimes, as parents, that's all we really need to hear.

with a nod to mr. timberlake

First, let me preface this post by saying that my children are exposed to a lot of pop music. I do a lot of cardio, and they play with my iPod, and well, Miss M knows alot more about Madonna and her electronica music and Fergie and the Black Eyed Peas than I care to admit. This will help you understand the upcoming dialogue.

I lost another 4.6 lbs last week. I think I'm all that. I shop in the Juniors Department - I'm 41 years old, but I don't really care, thank you very much, and I have to run my hands over my hips and belly to really, really believe that there is nothing there. Less there.

So this morning I was getting dressed for work, as usual. Miss M warily watched me out of the corner of her eye. I came strutting downstairs in hot patent boots, a fitted bodice, slacks, and a suede jacket. I paused as I was putting on my new MAC glitter eyeshadow. After all, I do teach in a Catholic school.

Screw it. Just a dab.

I emerged, a little shiny and sparkly. As I paused at the door to put on my earring,
Miss M tugged on my sleeve.

"Mother," she said seriously, "I have a question to ask you. You might want to sit down," she beckoned to the nearby ottoman.

I sat.

"I am curious about this - " she waved her hands about me. "Mother," she leaned in close. "Is this what they mean by getting your 'sexy on'?" I could hear the quotation marks in her voice.

I sat, not knowing whether to laugh or run and take off my glitter.

"Mom," she whispered, eyes huge, "are you trying to bring sexy back?"

Aw Christ, Miss M. I sure hope so.

what makes a mother kvell

This is Miss M assistant teaching in Mr. L's class. This is the child, who, at three, the evaluator told me to hope for the best and expect the worst.

We're reaching for the stars.

self-care

Well, It happened. The show opened last night to resounding success, though watching the whole thing go down in front of an audience is nerve-wracking. Suddenly, actors get cute and show off a bit, the technicians forget to move a set, the sound is a little zealous. All things missed by the naked eye, but not mine. Me, who sits in the corner, clutching a little lukewarm black coffee. Such a stereotype, me.

Now. Today. I took the day off. Slept in until - can you believe this? - 11:27am. I was so tired yesterday, I fell asleep at stop lights. When I turned my head too fast, I stumbled. I couldn't think. Speak. Also, ingesting 500 calories a day will do that to a girl, too, if she does not rest enough.

So my plan was to take the day off and see a movie or get a massage. Now the day is half over, and I am content to turn on the TV (verboten in our household during day light) and clean and putter and read some blogs.

I've lost somewhere around 25lbs on my program - I'm not sure because my scale does not match the scale at the office, and I haven't weighed in at the office this week - but I assure you that clothes are falling off and new ones are fitting on, and it's heady and thrilling and a long time in coming.

I notice that I smile as I slather on nice face creams now, and do my makeup in the large bathroom mirror instead of a tiny compact. I buy nice (smaller) panties. I have a big pink furry robe, and I take my time diffusing my hair so it's curly and shiny, and I wear the big dangly "pretty" (per Roxie) earrings. Subtle changes. Small changes. But changes.

People notice right away. Some don't notice at all. Some squint and ask me what I've done. Some just like my cherry-red lipstick. My friend maintains that I move differently, and that suddenly, my short stature is noticeable. "You're so petite," she said, and for the first time, I stood next to my students and felt diminutive.

It is interesting, this weight loss. I certainly feel more of my old self. Viable. Sexy. Young. (ish) However, nothing has changed. I am still running after my kids. Still commanding the Drama Department with the same tough love approach I always have. It's the perception that is different. Dads lingered at me a little longer last night as we congratulated the kids. People talk to me at supermarkets (well, everyone has always talked to me, I'm a friendly sort - but men? Young ones?)

Roxie is agog at the makeover. She doesn't realize that I'm losing weight (I'm not advertising to the kids) but she likes the heels and lipstick and fancy coats. The coat. Yes. I'll tell you. An indication of how I denied myself when I was heavier. When I got heavier, I hit a size fourteen, which, on my frame, is HUGE. I could not fit into a LARGE coat anymore, and refused to wear a plus size. Refused to break down and do the plus. It was too much of an admission. So, for three winters, I froze. I wore a sherpa-y poncho from Hanna Andersson. Carried an umbrella. Anything but the plus.

I know wear a junior coat. A pretty one with a high collar and swing on the bottom. I also have a velvety double breasted one that I've been wearing.

I think I deserve that. To be warm, I mean. And protected.

And cozy.

Now excuse me while I drink my coffee and rot my mind with some magazines. Today is self-care day.

nighty night call

The Scene:

7pm at night, Drama Mama hunched in her office on break. The phone is nestled in her ear as she dials home for the perfunctory Good Night call.
Phone Rings.

Drama Daddy: 'Lo?

Drama Mama: What are you doing?

Drama Daddy: Cooking dinner. Broccoli and pasta and chicken. Roxie is playing Play-Doh and Miss M is doing her homework. Showers after dinner.

Drama Mama; Wow. Look at you. So organized. Wow. (pause) So, does anybody miss me?

Drama Daddy: (To room) Who misses Mommy?

Both girls shout "I do!"

Roxie Drama: Mother! Is that you?

Drama Mama: Yup.

Roxie Drama: Mama. I missed you, but I am still little. You can still snuggle me on your lap in the morning. I growed just a little today. I'm not sick, but I might need Ovaltine before you go to work. (Pause) What are you wearing?

Drama Mama: A pink sweater, slacks, and my heels.

Roxie Drama: Big heels or little heels?

Drama Mama: Big.

Roxie Drama: Good.

Drama Mama: You going to have a good night? I'll kiss you when I get in.

Roxie Drama: Yes. And you will lay out my dress in the morning? I want the purple one from H & M.

Drama Mama: Yes, I will lay out your dre-

Roxie throws down the phone and yells MISS M!

Miss M: Mommy. Mommy. Listen to this. I got the five chips from my teacher today and tomorrow I will be Mr. L's assistant for one whole hour in his class. Because I've been so on top of my work. So you know what that means?

Drama Mama: Well, Miss M, once you get five poker chips that means that -

Miss M; YOU TAKE ME TO BORDERS.

Drama Mama: Yes.

Miss M: Oh my God. I'm so good.

Drama Mama: Yes you are.

Miss M: (Sigh) We were SO born to the right mother.

Pause. For once, Drama Mama does not know what so say.

Miss M: G'night, Mom. I'll be waiting for your kiss while I sleep.

Drama Mama: I'll be waiting to kiss you, Sweet.

Miss M: Well. I gotta go. I have things to do. Bye.

Things are looking up, folks.

send hugs

So it's like day five of 17 hour work days, stuck in the Auditorium, armed with my laptop, barking commands into my Madonna mic.

Torture.

Teenagers with the attention span of goldfish, staff members with learning issues who make me repeat myself five times in a row, then require a backup email at midnight, when I am home late late late, still working.

I'm not complaining.

I just think I've got some rights to be tired and cranky.

I don't see my girls, other than a kiss goodbye in the morning, but I hear they are doing well.

I have put a photo slideshow on my computer so that I don't miss them as much. But I still do.

There is lots of drama, at the old Drama department, with main characters NOT SHOWING UP for crucial final rehearsals, and obvious lack of parent support or supervision. Friends - you with children - heed this advice: Don't give up on your kids when they are older and can "handle" themselves. I have two students who are very irresponsible, are greatly talented, and have never been taught to be accountable for themselves. They are graduating this year, and I suppose they are "old" enough to take care of themselves. But. But.

They are the kids who don't have rides home late at night, in the middle of a city neighborhood, who don't turn in permission slips, or fees, or can buy the things they need. I've taken care of everything I can for them, but when it comes to the little things - the things that show that you care, that you want your child to succeed- their parents have dropped the ball.

It sticks out in ugly comparison to the other kids, whose parents bring cupcakes or pizzas while we work long hours, and carpool loads of kids home. The kids who have Juicy Couture sweatsuits and whose parents come to every show. It's not the things - it's the time. The attention. The little things.

So I am sad, and frustrated. And tired. And missing two actors. Their parents have not returned my calls.

SOS. Need love. Need it now.

Thanks for listening.

Halloween!

update

Well, knock me over with a feather. Had the conference. Miss M is doing better than ever. On point, on task (except for Math - she's a chip off the old maternal block) and in the accelerated reading group.

She plays at recess. She has friends (in other classrooms, and outside). She is friendly to her classmates, and contributes often.

Mr. L has "hired" her as a "student teacher" to help out in his classroom, because he just loves her and her friend is in his class. She gets Borders cards for every 5 visits.

She reads with gusto and expression, and the Resource Specialist thinks that she should be an actress.

I told her that I have it covered.

So, uh. Yeah. Much better than expected. Silly old me.

Why oh why do I still do that dance? Why am I still torturing myself? Will you guys please slap me next time?

P.S. As soon as Drama Daddy can show me how to download my new mini-camera, pictures. Hopefully video of Miss M reading "The Witches," her new favorite book.

hollow (somewhat) and happy halloween

I am hunched at my desk, whilst my students watch Young Frankenstein as part of our Halloween treat/give the teacher a break. I am done. Fried. Stick a fork in me.

Halloween was grand yesterday, with Miss M as Penny Pingleton from HAIRSPRAY, Roxie as Erica from Barbie Princess and the Pauper (God, when will the princess crap end?) and yours truly as the porcine goddess, Tracy Turnblad from HAIRSPRAY. Drama Daddy wore a skeleton shirt. As Rox told him, "Sooooo uncreative!"

I got a substitute teacher for my class, and ran up to see Miss M's Halloween parade at school. She was thrilled, and I was a bit sad, to see her without real friends in the class room. She is friendly, and kids are okay to her, but her real friends are outside of school. Her old teacher, Mr. L, who adores her, stopped to chat. I told him about my school searches, and he made a comment about worrying about Miss M later, when her differences really begin to show, and he wonders if she will feel bad about herself. He and I talked school choices. I walked away feeling warm and fuzzy, because he loves and gets her , but also sad that he is worried about her.

I took the day off of rehearsals, and the girls and I went early trick-or-treating in the village shopping area, local business owners making cookies, giving tiny toys, good cheer everywhere.
At night, we went to our good friend's home, their two sons serving as de facto cousins - kids flying around, sneaking cupcakes, handing out candy, sword fighting. Very normal. Mr. B has the same DX as Miss M, and to see them so hardy and wonderful was truly uplifting. A young friend came over (he, too, with the PDD-NOS - what the hell is it with that DX?) and immediately covered his ears. He is four, and I'm guessing, is in the throes of it. I felt for his mother, who is very tense, and wanted to tell her it gets better. They left before I had a chance to.

I spent two hours in the freezing, foggy, San Francisco weather in my costume, while our pile of kids trick or treated, so unbelievably polite and sweet. Miss M brought her UNICEF box and made quite a haul. Even on Halloween, thinking of others.

It left me with a warm feeling, so proud of our progress and "normalness", and also, full of worry over how and when Miss M will "fit in". Which, intellectually, I know that I should not do. She fits in certain environments - just not school - and that's really all I could ask for.

Maybe my anxiety has something to do with the Parent Teacher conference today? The teacher is nice enough, but in my opinion, uninspired and unimaginative. Does NOT get the brilliance that is my daughter. No problems, just no love, you know?

Ah yes. I can tell it's conference day. I can feel it in my (increasingly prominent) bones.

Check back tonight. I'll have pictures.