I hate public schools.

Let’s just get that out of the way. Sure, there’s a deal of guilt involved with that statement, guilt over not being home to educate my children myself. I understand the need for social interaction, but I felt my daughter learned the most when she was homeschooled.

Now on to the matter at hand, which at the moment is my disdain for my daughter’s Junior High. When we moved, I struggled to keep her in this particular school district, as word of mouth had it the neighboring district was not nearly as good (see earlier entry). The half-year she had been in had for the most part pleased me, with the exception of one particular teacher and two incidents dealing with her. So why had she already opened her brand new box of Kleenex in the first hour of school, because to wipe away her tears?

Over a month ago, I registered my daughter for 7th grade via the district’s website. They did not update our home address. A few weeks ago, the website stated that online registration was closed, and but you “may” register your child on the dates they listed.

Monday morning, I got my first call of the school year from the office, barely after eight. My daughter was crying – they didn’t have her registered. I was livid. I had to leave work and drive fifteen miles to the school. I did not scream at anyone, though I did let a couple f-bombs drop almost under my breath. After ten minutes, they found the online printout, which was incomplete. It was then, after school had started, that I was informed that even though I registered online, I had to register at the school also, so they could have the mandatory family composition paperwork that claimed I wasn’t a migrant field worker. And that it was necessary for them to have the form signed stating I was not interested in being a VIP parent (?) or free lunches before she could get her schedule and books.

I got a little creative filling out the forms, answering, “why is this important,” “none of your business,” and “not legal,” on the line where I was told they can charge $15 for me to retrieve my daughter’s cell phone if they steal it from her. On the corporal punishment form, my answer was, “touch my child and I’ll hit you back.” Once I turned in the redundant papers, we were given her schedule, which, of course, was wrong. The child that is taking two instruments this school year in band wasn’t even in a single band class. It seemed the elective paperwork they had on file was not even signed by me, blaming my daughter for not turning in the form I did approve. And one little shit, apparently a student helper, insisted more than once that my daughter never turned it in at the end of last year, repeatedly, despite the fact that he wasn’t even at the same school. One of the aides in the office actually shushed him and pretty much pushed him out of the way, as I was about to lose it on him.

Why can’t I let it go? Because of my religious sensitivity. Recently, Texas passed the Schoolchildren’s Religious Liberties Act. At first, this seemed like a good idea to me, protecting my daughter’s religious expressions in school. But there was no mention of it in her school handbook. And this act does not protect the teacher’s religious expression, which my daughter has already witnessed by more than one of her new teachers. Her science teacher has a statement about the Ten Commandments over his door on the inside of the classroom. Another teacher showed her class the slideshow of her summer, including parts of her mission trip. And still another has a bible quote, though smaller, near her desk.

My daughter doesn’t want to say anything. I don’t blame her – I remember being twelve. Anything you do to stand out could brand you. She told me how much she was looking forward to science, and how she didn’t want to say anything since she didn’t want him to retaliate. She said the Ten Commandment poster was distracting. This is where Mommy has to step in.

I have to convince this small East Texas town that they have a responsibility to abide by the law, and move that stuff out of the classroom, out of the school. I believe they have every right to worship however they choose, but with such a strong influence over the children, it’s completely inappropriate. And I’m not looking forward to this fight, in the land of Beer, BBQ, and Baptist Churches.

Spoiled

What is spoiled when it comes to a child? I find myself defending my parenting methods to family here and there. I have often joked that a kid will end up in therapy in his 20s no matter what you do, but is it really the case?

I was raised in a loud, sometimes violent atmosphere. I was an avid reader, escaping with Charlotte & Wilbur, or the Big Brain, or later with the Cheerleaders (I can’t believe I just admitted that) so that I could be elsewhere growing up. I only began being comfortable at home around puberty, when I could surround myself with my friends as much as possible. It was also around that time my body began to resemble more of an adult than a child, making it harder for my parents to spank me.

When I started to raise Amy, I decided to try to put myself in her shoes as much as possible. I can remember easily what it felt like after a big spanking, isolated on my bed hating my parents, hating my sisters, hating myself. I loved her so much; I didn’t want her to ever feel that way. Of course, I had very high expectations of myself. I’ve not been a perfect parent, and done things I’ve regret. A lot of times, I realized it shortly afterwards, and had the guts to apologize to her.

Then, a few years ago, I experienced something life-changing. I was in a destructive marriage that had deteriorated to the point of physical violence. I’ve written about pieces of “the end” before. But what it boiled down to was me screaming, “Give me my baby! Give me my baby!” and the image of my ex-husband holding him away from me, with an expression on his face I can only describe as maniacal. It’s an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone in the world.

I’ve asked myself many times, how that affected my children. My daughter and I went through counseling for nearly a year after the experience, separately. I had to teach her that it wasn’t acceptable, even in love. But I wonder if my son remembers any of it. I hope for his sake he doesn’t. But what does this have to do with discipline? My over-compensation.

The children have only one parent steadily in their life. I am mom and dad. I am stable and fun. If I hurt them, who do they have to run to? I feel they’re both smart enough to get it without spanking, usually. And on the rare occasion that my son gets spanked, as the girl is almost my size now, it eats at me for weeks. I toss about in bed at night, asking myself if there really wasn’t anything else I could have done. I hate myself for being weak and ignorant enough to resort back to the violence I swore I would never use.

For the most part, my children are happy and well-mannered. My daughter is an honor student who earned the privilege of being allowed a second instrument in band this year. She’s a preteen, and she gets mouthy, but I know I did too. The difference was I got slapped across the face for it, and she loses her DS for a week. The boy is affectionate and fun. He gets rambunctious, but no more so than any other four year old I’ve met. And my mother has received compliments from the other ladies in her retirement community about his behavior at their weekly bingo game.

So from what exactly am I defending myself?

I cry for the city

There was nothing at all on television last night. Nothing. Flipping through my overpriced digital cable menu, I come across only one thing that might catch my interest for a bit – Purple Rain. You can never take the 80s out of the girl I suppose. I warn my daughter that the movie kinda blows, the acting is pretty bad, but she should watch it for one of the best soundtracks ever.

Purple Rain came out in 1984, when I was her age. Before that, I wasn’t a Prince fan. I was too young to appreciate the raw sexuality and funk. However, hitting puberty, Purple Rain was deep. My father worked selling cars at that point of our lives, and I remember him bringing home the cassette soundtrack that he had salvaged from a car someone had traded it. He gave it to me, probably not having a clue who Darling Nikki was or that I would serenade each one of my friends blessed with that name for years. The soundtrack still makes me tingly.

So we sit through probably an extra hour of commercials last night to glimpse the energy that was Prince in the 80s perform on stage. The fun part was checking out the Minneapolis scenery, pointing to places I recognized, somewhat, from when we lived there in the late nineties. I talked about how far away from 1st Ave I worked, and pointed out the skyway I used to go to lunch most days. She barely remembered any of it, but it made me crave the city. Of all the places I’ve lived, Minneapolis was my favorite.

And then I got up this morning to the news: the I-35 bridge over the Mississippi in Minneapolis had collapsed. I’ve been crying, lightly, off and on this morning. I can’t watch the news. I can’t read the reports. I’m not silly enough to think what ifs, but only hours after I reminisced about my favorite town, I see pain there. I cry for the victims. I cry for the survivors. But I cry mostly for the city.