Den mother
My husband is at a Law Student social event at a bar. He's flying solo tonight. Am I worried? Nah. Just a bit bored. I could have gone, but that would have required finding a babysitter.
Our first attempt was a failure. $20 an hour?! This is going to be tougher than I thought. I asked a few teenagers I met along the way, but none were available. Long gone are the days when I could call my mom and say,
Hey, ya busy? Great, we're dropping the kids off.
We had a really nice Shabbat. We decided to invite some other law school students my husband had met. A young couple came, newlyweds, I think. Both were English majors who had studied in New York. He was a native Chicagoan, she was from a well-connected family in Pittsburg. They were adorable, charming and bright, and did I mention, young? At one point, the husband teased his blushing bride about not knowing how to wash dishes.
"We had three dishwashers in my house: Meat, dairy, and pareve! I never had to!" She perkily responded.
A fellow San Antonian starting law school at De Paul also joined us. The grandson of a very dear friend, he was also young, really young. He, too, was bright, energetic, and familiar and sweet, like a long-lost little cousin.
Thirty minutes into the meal, there was a knock at the door. My husband had invited a South African gentleman starting an international LLM at Northwestern whom he'd met at orientation. The poor guy showed up red-faced and sweaty. His train broke down, the whole public transportation system was backed up, and his taxi got lost. He ended up walking several miles to get to our apartment. We happily welcomed him in and gave him lots of water. Predictibly, he was also young in age, though thankfully, not in life experiences.
While the men discussed law, law school, and sports, my fellow law school widow and I pondered our future, and talked about literature, work, and life. For the moment I also felt young and full of excitement for our shared adventure, conversing with this Scarlett Johanssen double. I was glad, however, that I kept this latter opinion to myself, when the discussion turned to movies and she declared, "I hate Scarlett Johanssen! She's as dumb as a stick!"
My kids drifted in and out of the conversation, adding completely random comments and peculiar segues. They were thrilled for the new audience and for the extra attention. They were excited to show off the experimental pinwheel cookies they helped Mommy bake, and to share their complete misunderstanding of sports. Their new friends nodded indulgently, and often laughed at their precious non-sequitors. Baby Atilla screeched in delight at the admiring smiles.
The matza balls were a bit too fluffy, and the Israeli couscous too clumpy, but the Coq au Vin was tender and hot, and the experimental cookies were a success. Conversations flowed freely and budding friendships took root. I looked around this table of new law students, excited and eager to begin their new life, and I felt like... the den mother.
Ouch.
Maybe it's the Jewish mother thing, but I felt the urge to feed these young people, to look after them, to bake them cookies.
Ouch.
While preparing the Shabbat meal I got a call from my son's new elementary school. We had visited there this week, and had spoken with one of the administrators. At least I think this woman was an administrator. She didn't really give me her title. She just grabbed up the official documents we brought - my son's report card and his testing evaluations for learning disabilities - and trotted him off for an informal assessment.
We had our son tested for learning disabilities last year, not because we believed him to have one, but because my little prodigy, my musical, mathematical, bright, intelligent boy with a thousand great questions, and negotiating techniques these hot-shot law students could learn from, hates to write. It's not that he is unable to write, he would just prefer to do just about anything else. It once took him one hour to write four words for an assignment. He has plenty to say, and he's a crack speller. He was the only kid in his entire class who figured out how to spell segregation! He just despises doing his writing assignments.
I suspect he has too much to say, and writing it all down, getting those letters formed correctly, putting the proper space between the words, and sounding out all of the big words in his head, is just too slow a process. He forgets all of the great things he had to say before he can get it on paper. It's frustrating and torturous for the poor kid.
This woman with the secret job title looked at these official documents and declared my wonderful, sweet, brilliant, but challenging kid, a "behavioral problem". She called me before Shabbat to tell me we had to meet to discuss his behavior, and to figure out how we were going to handle the "class dynamics", and that his evaluations sent up red flags for her.
Ouch.
My hackles went up like a cornered alley cat. My son may have been a challenge to his teachers last year, but they loved him, adored him, saw his brilliance and potential, and his quirky, imaginative way of thinking. They recognized his creativity and spark. They recognized that the challenge was helping him reach his potential.
This woman just saw a boy who marches to the beat of a different drummer. And this, she proclaimed, was a problem.
I'm not one of those moms who monitors my kid's teachers. I'm not one of those moms who freaks out when a teacher expresses concerns with my kid's behavior or work. As an educator, I trust that my child's teachers are professionals and are doing their best to help my little guy develop into a smart, good, learned person. I do what I can to support the teachers, and help them do their job, but I am not the kind of mom who calls the principal to complain that the teacher is inadequate and my son a perfect angel.
That may change.
If there's one thing I don't have patience for, it's a burned out teacher who no longer sees the beauty and wonder in each child. I cannot tolerate an educator who sees problems in challenges, and sees obstacles in independence. And if this woman with the unkown position happens to be my son's new teacher, I will be pulling him out of the school immediately.
You'd better believe "ouch"!
My husband has come home, earlier than expected. "Four young, bright female law students invited me to a private party afterwards, but I told them no", He tells me, with a mischievious grin.
Can any of them babysit?
Our first attempt was a failure. $20 an hour?! This is going to be tougher than I thought. I asked a few teenagers I met along the way, but none were available. Long gone are the days when I could call my mom and say,
Hey, ya busy? Great, we're dropping the kids off.
We had a really nice Shabbat. We decided to invite some other law school students my husband had met. A young couple came, newlyweds, I think. Both were English majors who had studied in New York. He was a native Chicagoan, she was from a well-connected family in Pittsburg. They were adorable, charming and bright, and did I mention, young? At one point, the husband teased his blushing bride about not knowing how to wash dishes.
"We had three dishwashers in my house: Meat, dairy, and pareve! I never had to!" She perkily responded.
A fellow San Antonian starting law school at De Paul also joined us. The grandson of a very dear friend, he was also young, really young. He, too, was bright, energetic, and familiar and sweet, like a long-lost little cousin.
Thirty minutes into the meal, there was a knock at the door. My husband had invited a South African gentleman starting an international LLM at Northwestern whom he'd met at orientation. The poor guy showed up red-faced and sweaty. His train broke down, the whole public transportation system was backed up, and his taxi got lost. He ended up walking several miles to get to our apartment. We happily welcomed him in and gave him lots of water. Predictibly, he was also young in age, though thankfully, not in life experiences.
While the men discussed law, law school, and sports, my fellow law school widow and I pondered our future, and talked about literature, work, and life. For the moment I also felt young and full of excitement for our shared adventure, conversing with this Scarlett Johanssen double. I was glad, however, that I kept this latter opinion to myself, when the discussion turned to movies and she declared, "I hate Scarlett Johanssen! She's as dumb as a stick!"
My kids drifted in and out of the conversation, adding completely random comments and peculiar segues. They were thrilled for the new audience and for the extra attention. They were excited to show off the experimental pinwheel cookies they helped Mommy bake, and to share their complete misunderstanding of sports. Their new friends nodded indulgently, and often laughed at their precious non-sequitors. Baby Atilla screeched in delight at the admiring smiles.
The matza balls were a bit too fluffy, and the Israeli couscous too clumpy, but the Coq au Vin was tender and hot, and the experimental cookies were a success. Conversations flowed freely and budding friendships took root. I looked around this table of new law students, excited and eager to begin their new life, and I felt like... the den mother.
Ouch.
Maybe it's the Jewish mother thing, but I felt the urge to feed these young people, to look after them, to bake them cookies.
Ouch.
While preparing the Shabbat meal I got a call from my son's new elementary school. We had visited there this week, and had spoken with one of the administrators. At least I think this woman was an administrator. She didn't really give me her title. She just grabbed up the official documents we brought - my son's report card and his testing evaluations for learning disabilities - and trotted him off for an informal assessment.
We had our son tested for learning disabilities last year, not because we believed him to have one, but because my little prodigy, my musical, mathematical, bright, intelligent boy with a thousand great questions, and negotiating techniques these hot-shot law students could learn from, hates to write. It's not that he is unable to write, he would just prefer to do just about anything else. It once took him one hour to write four words for an assignment. He has plenty to say, and he's a crack speller. He was the only kid in his entire class who figured out how to spell segregation! He just despises doing his writing assignments.
I suspect he has too much to say, and writing it all down, getting those letters formed correctly, putting the proper space between the words, and sounding out all of the big words in his head, is just too slow a process. He forgets all of the great things he had to say before he can get it on paper. It's frustrating and torturous for the poor kid.
This woman with the secret job title looked at these official documents and declared my wonderful, sweet, brilliant, but challenging kid, a "behavioral problem". She called me before Shabbat to tell me we had to meet to discuss his behavior, and to figure out how we were going to handle the "class dynamics", and that his evaluations sent up red flags for her.
Ouch.
My hackles went up like a cornered alley cat. My son may have been a challenge to his teachers last year, but they loved him, adored him, saw his brilliance and potential, and his quirky, imaginative way of thinking. They recognized his creativity and spark. They recognized that the challenge was helping him reach his potential.
This woman just saw a boy who marches to the beat of a different drummer. And this, she proclaimed, was a problem.
I'm not one of those moms who monitors my kid's teachers. I'm not one of those moms who freaks out when a teacher expresses concerns with my kid's behavior or work. As an educator, I trust that my child's teachers are professionals and are doing their best to help my little guy develop into a smart, good, learned person. I do what I can to support the teachers, and help them do their job, but I am not the kind of mom who calls the principal to complain that the teacher is inadequate and my son a perfect angel.
That may change.
If there's one thing I don't have patience for, it's a burned out teacher who no longer sees the beauty and wonder in each child. I cannot tolerate an educator who sees problems in challenges, and sees obstacles in independence. And if this woman with the unkown position happens to be my son's new teacher, I will be pulling him out of the school immediately.
You'd better believe "ouch"!
My husband has come home, earlier than expected. "Four young, bright female law students invited me to a private party afterwards, but I told them no", He tells me, with a mischievious grin.
Can any of them babysit?
posted by law school widow at 11:44 PM
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