Happiness at 81st and Amsterdam on a Sunny February Afternoon

The woman stood with her jaw clenched
   into her scarf and arms folded across her chest.
She was looking down at the bare curb,
   standing in the shadow of a walk-up, sunny.
It was a sunny day in February,
   afternoon, lazy and beautiful and light.
I heard a child's pleading wail, a ball of wool
   on a low stoop with a scarlet knitted cap,
her face looking up into the sunshine,
   her cheeks damp with tears, hands clasped,
the way I clasped mine together long ago,
   wishing as hard as wishing can possibly be.
The woman did not flinch, considered the child,
   her gaze final, breaths equally spaced
even as the child drew in the cool, clear air
   in wondering depth, her throat catching
at every start and end, pausing, helplessly,
   at the very middle, dipping her head to a side,
the sunlight caught and reflected in the brine
   of her eyes (how can tears be so clear?).
I can imagine a place where there would be
   an orderly happiness, when it is there
without all the wishing and your spirit would
   lift, as sunlight lifts color,
as easily as one breathes inside a weightless dream,
   cattails in a warm breeze, songbirds calling.
"Carry me!", the child cries, "No.", the firm, crushing
   reply, the ending of all that child had known,
rainbows in the sky, cattails in a warm breeze,
   an embrace, happiness on a lazy February afternoon.

p.m.

Everything we do, wrong or right, well intentioned or not, will come back to bite us square in the ass.

Just a little less than 5 years ago the boy run ended. After 3, close to carbon copies of the best of Maddad, I hit the jackpot and fathered my youngest and LAST child, an absolutely beautiful little daughter.

From day one she was "Daddy's Little Princess". This baby girl can move me to action with just the cut of her brow or look in her eyes. I love all my children with all that I am, but this one broke my heart.

All that was great till she figured out how to manipulate & make crap up. She is also very smart, already sounding out and correctly spelling words that seem advanced for her age to me. The problem is that she watched a bit of Disney and figured out what a Princess was.....So the negotiation begins....

I am waking to the fact that she is also a little girl that is more demanding of other people in the family, than she is cute. I am now saying "no" regularly and following through with it. She is slowly learning that the pouty lips and instant tear filled eyes, won't get her through real life. The times she forgets that??...well, it is amazing how loud and horribly pitched the screams of a 4 year old can be.

Negotiations continue.....She is still "Daddy's Little Princess", but the definition of that position in this particular kingdom is a matter of parenting & perspective.

Thanks for your time.

Maddad

So like the title says, "Bad Decisions" make good stories. I think that must be because we learn the most when we get it wrong.

The way it felt back then was like I was "King Of The World", I was a 17 year old seaman apprentice on a old DDG that was commissioned in 1961. We hadn't seen land since Hawaii and we stepped onto foreign land.

They made an announcement that we were advised not to go to Subic City....I just followed the sea of white uniforms heading to Subic City....Whatever you wanted and more for pennies on the dollar. A red light district that caught me in it's lights. For $50.00 American dollars I had full run of a house with a beautiful companion for 5 days. I did, and changed houses every 5 days or so. Back then I thought there couldn't be a better place. Today I understand that I was helping fuel the engine of the sex industry in the Philippines, which at that time was forcing women into prostitution, many times by their own families and a child sex trade was and as far as I know still is active.

One night as I staggered from one bikini club to another, I looked down an alley, there stood a shipmate, sexually assaulting a girl that couldn't have been more than 8 or 9. I went down and had a firm discussion with him as the girl ran back to her pimp. By the time the shore patrol found him he apparently had to be taken to the base hospital, apparently he was mugged. He was shipped back to the states for medical treatment, never saw him again. That is why it was a bad decision to fuel that engine, there were no limits for these people, they were that desperate, and enough of us were beyond the pale that the need created the supply.

I am all for legalized adult prostitution anywhere the community allows it, give some of the power back to the states. But leave the kids alone.

This is just one story. It may have been a rare event. 99.9% of the men I served with may have been out of control, but they knew where the lines were.

I also know at that time many of the girls were brought in from the country, promised legitimate jobs, then forced into prostitution and dancing in the clubs.

Now 26 years later, I see my general behavior as being normal for the conditions, but a bad decision in the long run. As a survivor of childhood abuse I have always been a bit promiscuous, but that experience followed me into and through my first marriage. She finally cheated on me just to get me to move out. It worked. My drinking also became an obvious problem overseas and remained so for much of my life.

Now I understand the rants my mother would go on when she was drunk about women's rights, and equal pay for equal work. This was the early to mid 70's. Woman are more than sex. They are complicated, intelligent, capable human beings. I knew more about N.O.W. by age 5 than most men know in their 50's. Using other's merely for what they can offer sexually is a bad idea for me. We all deserve better.

But of course sex is great & as long as you are honest about what you are doing with your partner if you have one, then fly baby fly.

Just My Opinion & Experience,

Maddad

I woke this morning to my son's voice, "Mama... Mama..."

I turn over in bed, without disturbing the dog or the two cats arranged in a furry puzzle around me, un-stick my eyelids, and ask sleepily, "What is it, Peep? Is it time to get up?"

"Well," he said, hesitantly, "There is smoke in the house, and I can't find the fire..."

"Fire?" I leap from the bed, the sudden change in altitude making me stagger to the bedroom door. "Did the smoke alarm go off?"

"No," he said, doubtfully, "but there is smoke everywhere!"

"God help us, please!" Wham! I run into the door frame, nearly knocking my right shoulder off. The hall looks hazy, and there is a funny, but not quite smoky, smell about. I sniff loudly, wondering if my sinuses are that clogged-- yet, there is a haze in the room. What is happening? I quickly inventory the upstairs floor: child, cats, dog, guinea pig, jewelry, computer, camera, pictures on dresser, old family pictures under bed... "Peep! Go get the cat carriers! Hurry!"

Knocked off kilter by my encounter with the door jam, I careen around the door and butt up against the linen closet, Quilts! I struggle down the hall to Peeps room and rattle the doorknob, finally opening it. Guinea Pig, check! He is in a cage-- we can carry him down. The room is in its usual state of total disarray, but the air is clear. Just in case, I check the power strips beneath the TV, the computer, and open the closet door... nothing. I cast a despairing glance at the bunk beds my Grandpa made for my mother, the four generations of children's books in the book cases, the soldier pictures on the wall-- "treasures" carefully saved and handed down, generation to generation... In my mind, I shout Clear!

I run into the office, careening off the door frame, and skittering into the closet door. Both computers are sitting stolidly, blinking, unaware of danger. I check all three power strips and spare a glance for my reports in the book case. 30 years of work! My reference materials! Carefully, I look all around the room—the air is slightly hazy, but nothing is in flames and there is but a faint smell of 'something'... Clear!

Staggering and careening off the walls of the hall, I run back toward the little room where I sleep, to shut the door. The cats and the dog are gone, 'spooked' by the excitement. Just about then, Peep comes running up the stairs with a cat carrier in each hand, his progress impeded by banging them on the stair railings. I call down to him, "Find the cats and put them in the carriers!"

I run into our bedroom, where my husband and I live, tripping over Grandma's little flatiron from her childhood that we use to prop open the door, and sprawl across the carpet, hitting my head on the vanity. I jump right back up-- the air is a little hazy, not as bad as in the hall, with the same strange, dusty smell...

I tear open the closet door—yes, the jewelry is ready to go, along with the bag of absolutely essential treasures— the German passports of my great-great grandparents, the deed to the family farm of 1812, the handkerchief carried by six generations of brides... No fire in the closet. I look up at the antique hat boxes, the antique jewelry, my husband's treasures... I'll try. I promise them... I run to the TV and check the power strip, then run over by the window and get down on my hands and knees to look under the table skirt—that power strip is OK, too. While on the floor, I turn and look under the bed—family pictures-- OK, grab those! Clear!

I jump back up, and tear down the stairs. At the living room door, I stop—the air is clear here. But, oh no, what can I get out? Grandma's paintings, the Marie Antoinette chair—it has lived through the fire of 1863 and the fire of 1904-- I can't leave it in the house to die... Through the living room, I can see the dining room—Great-great Grandma Sophronia's picture! Her mother's vase that survived the flatboat ride down the Ohio River! The lion's head chair! The loveseat—so many family "treasures"... Our history...

Racing through the short hallway, I reach the kitchen—the air is clear. What is happening?

I clatter barefoot down the stairs to the basement—no, the dryer is fine, the laundry has not spontaneously combusted, the water heater is quiet—no smoke, no smell... The fire must be on the roof! I race over to the washer and dryer, trying to jump over the pieces of the glass Christmas tree ornament that Blueberry must have found, and dump the clothes on the floor, stacking the baskets and running back toward the stairs... Grandma's "pretties", the trunk that came from Germany, the books, too much too much too much... I think, knowing that the water from the fire truck will ruin all the books…

I take the stairs two at a time, with the empty laundry baskets on my head... At the top of the stairs, I catch my toe and slam into the opposite wall, banging my head, and my left shoulder. Up in a flash, I stagger into the den—Loki, the chinchilla! Peep and I can carry his cage out together—together we can save him! I can use the throw to cover his cage! I ignore the "treasures" on the upper shelf. The air is clear and there is no smell here! Clear!

Galloping to the kitchen, I open the cabinet under the sink! Clear!

Peep is upstairs, chasing kitties—I can hear his footsteps racing up and down the hall, along with Lulu's excited barking. Scrambling back to the den, I look outside the sliding glass doors, and it is, naturally, raining—Loki will have to be covered tightly... Out of breath and weak-legged, I look up at the smoke alarms as I race past them back toward the stairs to the second floor.—It can't be too bad if they haven't gone off! They go off every time I fry bacon!

As I run by the living room, I heave three baskets towards the center of the room—there may be time... I crawl up to the second floor, as quickly as possible, banging and pushing two baskets ahead of me, head swimming and my legs too weak to work. Dear God, please give me the strength to get my babies out!

Peep has caught Blueberry, the Siamese kitty. Blueberry is sitting in the middle of the hall, reaching through the bars of the carrier, ready to 'hook' an unwary arm or leg. The dog is barking with excitement—thankfully, she can get out on her own steam. The air is definitely hazier up here... I reach the top of the stairs and look up at the ceiling—no smoke coming from the ceiling, it seems to be hanging down toward the floor!

I stop dead in my mad dash-- Is this a gas attack? Wouldn't smoke be up at the ceiling? "Peep!" I call, in panic, standing up as quickly as possible to get away from the smoke. "Get downstairs quick! It's clear down there!" I still have to get the cats, and make the dog go downstairs. "Lulu! Stop that insane barking!" Lulu dances out of our bedroom, where Peep has chased Pharaoh up under the bed. Where is Uncle Louie's gas mask? WWI vintage, it is all I have…

I race into our bedroom, "Peep, take Blueberry downstairs and stay there! Keep Lulu with you! I'll get Pharaoh!" He slowly stands. He is wearing his underwear and a clean shirt, part of him ready for school. "Hurry, honey, the smoke is at the floor, and I want you out of it! Get Blueberry and go!" I hug him quickly, and drop down beside the bed. Pharaoh is way up under the bed, glaring at me in distrust. I lift the duster ruffle and pull out boxes of old family pictures... At least they are ready to go...

I reach up under the bed, trying to grab an arm, something... The room is getting hazier and Pharaoh hisses evilly and claws at my arm. I try to make my voice soothing, "Come on, Pharaoh, and let Mama get you out of here." Pharaoh looks at me accusingly. Nope! He is in his safe spot, and his is NOT moving...

I partially crawl up under the bed, grateful that, as an antique, it has more room under there for maneuvering, banging the back of my head and scraping my back as I scramble under among the boxes. Finally, I grab his arm, and drag him out, hissing and growling. "It's OK, Pharaoh, Mama's got you..." He violently writhes and squirms to escape, but by now, I have him tucked closely to me, and he can't get away. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel a sharp pain in both arms, my neck... But, I have him! He will be all right! I open the door to the carrier, and stuff him in head first. "It's OK, baby; it's OK. Mama's got you!" He turns around inside the carrier and glares at me through the bars.

I drag his carrier to the top of the stairs. I'm too weak from all this running to pick him up; he is just going to have to deal with it... I sit on the steps; put the carrier in my lap, hanging on to him with all my might, and we bump, step by step, down the steps to the bottom. Pharaoh claws at my arm through the carrier door. Peep is at the foot of the stairs, looking up. "Peep, take Pharaoh and Blueberry to the back door, and come back to help me with Carlos, (the guinea pig). I'll be right back!"

"Mama, it's raining outside!" he says in dismay. Oh no! I'll have to put things in the car!

"I know, sweetie, but we have to get them out of the house—you, too! Take Lulu with you! I'll go and get Carlos!" I turn back up and crawl back up the stairs. I've got to get up out of this stuff, especially if it is gas! I think, trying to stand once I'm up—it seems hazier at the bathroom there than anywhere else. Weak and breathless, I careen back down the hall to Peep's room, stagger over to Carlos cage, and pick it up. Gosh, he's heavy! Glad to see me, he squeals in glee...

"Hey there, Carlos," I say, trying to breathe and be soothing at the same time. "You're going to take a little ride for a bit." I stagger back down the hall, put his cage on my lap and bump my way down the stairs. I meet Peep at the kitchen door—"Wait-- don't go outside yet, until I check..." He nods, doubtfully, but takes half of the cage and together we push me, pull you into the den. I motion him back away from the door, and struggle with the security bar, looking through the sliding glass door outside at the pattering rain.

Other than the rain, it looks clear... Finally, I get the door open, and step out onto the patio. The air is clear, except for the rain... I run out into the yard and look up at the roof of the house. Oh no, it must be a fire in the attic, smoke is coming out of one of those little pipes up there... I'll start at the top and work my way down. I think, planning the next course of action. But, wait, it is coming up out of a single pipe—it isn't coming out of the attic vents. What is that single pipe?

Frantic over the fact that there is a fire, somewhere, even if I can't find it, I run back into the house, and start carrying animals out, setting them on the patio... Peep helps me, and together, we push me, pull you Loki's cage out on the patio, and cover it with the throw from the couch. He should be dry for awhile, anyway. We can move him later, if need be...

Peep follows me back inside, and I suddenly think to call my husband—before I call the fire department. This is like no fire, I've ever seen. Why is the smoke hanging around down at the floor? Why doesn't it smell smoky? Why would smoke be coming out only at a vent pipe on the roof? What does it vent? It isn't coming out of the chimney, or the attic vents, just out of that one lone pipe...

Carefully, knowing how number-challenged I am, I dial my husband's cell phone number. "Reee-REEE-REEE! The number you have dialed is..." I hang up, take a deep breath and try again. This time, it rings... and rings... "Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice..." Again, I hang up.

I can't remember the number at his work... Is it 477-2200? 422-7700? Or is it, 407-2007? 402-7002? Cursing my dyslexic brain, I try his cell phone again! This time, when it rings, he answers. "Hello?"

My husband's voice! All will be well, now—he will know what to do! Stuttering, I tell him of the morning's events—realizing as we speak that I've been running around outside in my nightgown, barefooted, and that, suddenly, everything hurts. Blood is streaked on the front of my gown, there are bloody footprints on the kitchen floor, and my heart is pounding when it isn't supposed to be able to. I plop down in a chair at the kitchen table, my voice wavering... "...And I don't know if I should call the fire department or not?"

My husband listens carefully. He asks a couple of gentle questions, his voice calming and soothing—"It doesn't smell like a fire? You can't find the source? The smoke is down on the floor, not up at the ceiling?"

At my explanation, he chuckles softly. "Honey, don't you remember me telling you that they were going to run smoke tests on the sewers this week? Go upstairs and make sure there is no smoke coming up out of the bath tub..."

-------------------------------------------------------------

Peep was a little late, getting to school this morning. As I signed him in, the secretary asked me, looking concerned at my bedraggled appearance, "Are you all right?"

"Just fine, thank you," I smile. No need to tell absolutely everyone...

Thanks for coming by!

EVER wondered why it is the case that in reading biographies of great and minor figures, the name of the father is almost always mentioned first than that of the mother? Not counting the cases of one of the parents being lopsidedly famous and powerful or influential over the other, the general trend has been that the father is almost always mentioned first. Notwithstanding if the father is a scum and it is the mother who served as major breadwinner. Even in the case of United States President Barack Obama whose father deserted them, his biographical page in the White House website cites his father first: “With a father from Kenya and a mother from Kansas, President Obama was born in Hawaii on August 4, 1961.”

Is such really the natural course to follow? Perhaps, because most human beings carry the surname of the father* it is deemed to be a most natural thing to mention the father first. Or, maybe, it is thought that God of some patriarchal religion decrees it that way. Perhaps in the days of old when outdated thinking and stiff patriarchy ruled the world, citing the father’s name first was understandably standard operating procedure for historians and biographical writers. Today in a world enlightened by science and humanist philosophy, should fathers still come first?

If it is “natural,” we should abide by, is it not logical that the name of the mother–who carried the infant in her womb for 9 months and risked her life giving birth to the child–instead come first in the biographies of noted humans of this planet? Why should the father, whose paternity is not obvious or readily verifiable be mentioned first?

In the olden times when it was exclusively the men who eked out a living and financially supported the wife and child, such practice of crediting the paternal roots first over the maternal can be justified. But even that is arguable from an objective, non-patriarchal viewpoint.

In the modern times when women also work, if not actually serve as the family’s main breadwinner, should it not be fair SOP to mention first the mother over the father. I mean, it is the woman, after all, who is the biological source of the child, notwithstanding the genetic contribution of the man. So long as there’s a (valid) witness to the pregnancy and the delivery, the fact of motherhood is always undeniable. It is the woman who suffers the discomfort and extreme pains of pregnancy/labor, and, usually, the responsibility of nurturing the child in the critical early stages of infancy. So why prioritize giving credit to the father whose paternity cannot be perfectly guaranteed unless the mother was under fool-proof eunuch-guarded house arrest for a few months before the estimated date of conception.

In the Philippines, there is a saying that ‘the grandparents can only be certain that a grandchild is theirs if it is the mother who is their offspring.’ Indeed, the marriage of, say, a son to his wife will not guarantee that any grandchild such a union produces carries the grandparents’ genes. The context of the saying is, of course, the traditional setup where DNA paternal testing was not yet available. However, even such DNA testing does not provide 100% accurate confirmation of paternity. Unless, perhaps, the procedure is repeated multiple times.

I say it is high time that humankind flow with the biological and reverse the patriarchal viewpoint of biography writing. Let the naming of mothers come first before that of the fathers. Mothers not only deserve first credit for all their pregnancy woes but, also, such a practice should provide more accurate, biologically founded biographical information.

*At least one exception is Sweden, as a Swedish friend informed me that couples have the option of choosing which surname (the wife or the husband) they wish to legally carry.

_________

Photo credits

www.filart.com:

Mother and Son – Fruit and Flower Background
by Norma Belleza – 1996

Mag-Inang Nagpipili ng Bigas
by Cesar Amorsolo – 1983

Reference:

President Barack Obama. White House website. http://www.whitehouse.gov/administration/president-obama

I have not been home for a few days, busy. Oh stop my business! So today I home and no hellos, no where you been, just a "when are you fixing the dryer, I need to wash." Really that was funny. So I come to my room and start checking my e-mails and I notice that my house-mate was talking to her ex who locked up right now. They've had difficulties and she must have had a bit of a mind change. The two girls talked to their dad for a while, let him know what is going on with their school and life, that the oldest one will be having her 1st communion the 1st of May, wait I just noticed that, ha! She told her dad what she had done a few minutes ago.

She came into my room and asked me to help her draw a face of a character from one of her books. This is the first time she has done this and it must have taken a lot in her to do so. I am not an easy person to approach. I know this, but her coming to me could have been an idea from her mom, or maybe I am over thinking this. As she left my room she had a little hop in her step, because she got to talk to her dad. Not sure what kind of person he is, I know one side of the problems he had with my house-mate, and I will give him the benefit and hope that when he heard I was helping her daughter do her school work, it hurt deep inside him as it would have hurt me if I would have heard those very words. I certainly hope that when he gets out he puts a lot of effort in getting her daughters to understand why he did what he did to take himself away from them.

As I went to get a drink, one of the girls asked her mom if it would be possible for their dad's girlfriend to spend the night at our house, to which my house-mate responded with an adamant no. I could not help myself, I had to ask why not, maybe they can become "comadres."

Off Topic: I just called Madison's mom because Madison fell off the bed yesterday, because she was jumping like a monkey, and her front tooth was a bit lose. Dentist told her the new ones are coming out, son of a bitch, she is already losing her teeth, puberty here she comes.

I just saw the picture to the left 5 minutes ago, which answers what My little one was doing a few hours ago. I asked and she simply told me I am working on something. She likes to do little things that show me that she can do certain things and that she is doing what I tell her to do, practicing her numbers. She will always tell me no and then either a few days later or a few hour later she does something like the doodling she did tonight. It is a game we both have come to love. Some people don't understand that what I tell her sometimes is not meant as mean, but rather it is the relationship we have and still are creating. She already told me that when she grows up she will be smarted than me, the trick is making sure she those not know that she already is. Like how I know all her classmate's names, when she finds out that I know because I read them from their class mailboxes she is going to smack me and tell me that she figured it out. All I will do is laugh and ask what took her so long.

I will not bore you with any long descriptions of her, I have written a lot of articles about Madison, but I will say this much, I am lucky that I got such a kind, smart, strong, energetic, playful, child. She really makes my day and now that her mother and I are going to start a new arrangement of custody, one week with her and one week with me, I am sure to treasure the time with her more. I waited a long time to have a kid and I think it paid off. She is the only one that knows when I truly am angry or when I am upset over something, it is like she senses it, at those times she will just calmly, unhesitant, and unafraid approach me and give me a huge hug or kiss and tell me she loves me, now how can I stay angry or upset at anything or anyone with something like that.

Usually the bark is louder then the bite even for me, but there are times that my bite takes a bigger bite than I can chew. It would seem that me volunteering for the English Language Advisory Committee, at my daughter's charter school, had a other than expected result. Now I am part of two committees, the previously mentioned on and the School Site Council, each meets once a month. I am also planning on attending the PTO meetings, three different groups at my little one's school. I volunteered to be an officer on two of them and also volunteered to be the District Representative. So it seems like I will be attending the District School Board meetings and recapping the minutes directly to the three organizations.

I never expected to get so involved but when there are a limited amount of parents that are willing to immerse themselves in the more difficult groups or organizations, I saw it as an opportunity. Now I have to learn what each group's duties are, parliamentary rules, bylaws, and procedures. Not to mention the fact that some decisions might be unpopular with the other parents, I am sure I will get angry comments. Of that there is no limit, many parents complain about many aspects of the school's guidelines, rules, or procedures, but are unwilling attend meetings or even tell school staff what they think, they simply complain or tell other parents. Too much misinformation occurs in this manner. That is another reason why I volunteered, this way I have the correct information, always. If parents want their child to be a bit more successful or have a happier experience at shool, they have to get a bit involved, sure it will take some work and time but kids always do!

Truly, I was feeling real lucky that I have my daughter enrolled in a school that so many parents are taking an active role. About 30 parents have already completed the required twenty hours as volunteers for a school year and there are four months left. Some parents have gone way beyond the required hours. I am glad to say that Madison's mom was one of these parents. It would seem I need some catching up to do.

Then the reason why we were all there for the CELDT required testing, as explained to all of us, and I did not like what I was hearing but I wanted all the information. Putting labels of the gate does not sound fair to me, but I do understand the logic. Let me explain a bit About the Hispanic Heritage on raising a child; I might get some flack on this but I always do! Many of our older family members feel that children should have their heritage imprinted from a very early age and language is a huge part of that heritage. Like in any other heritage we want to keep as much of it as possible, but to some this means teaching their kids their native language, fair enough, but when you are living in a country foreign to that native tongue such traditions of teaching the kids Spanish at home because they will learn English at school is only putting the kids at a disadvantage. I tell no lie when I say that I have not pushed my little one to learn nothing when she was not ready. In fact, I was ready to take her out of school two months into the school year because she was having such a hard time, but Viners and close friends told me to give it sown more time. Am I glad I stepped aside on this one and took the advice to wait.

Ok, I think I am mumbling a bit. The problem is that if we teach our kids to learn not their native language but rather the language of their ancestry we are setting them up to have to work harder and be placed on a "English as a second language" program. I have no problem with the testing itself but rather we should have been fully informed what the survey questions were going to be used for. As long as a parent fills out the entrance application and checks the box that a language other than English gets spoken at home, they are routed to take the English proficiency test, CELDT. Maybe they should explain why those questions are asked and not simply ask them. Such as "does the child speak any other language them English at home." I thought it was an advantage and not a detriment. If English is he only language spoken at home the child get labeled "EO," English Only, and those not have to take the CELDT test, of course in my point of view the simple reason that English is the only language spoken at home those not make that child proficient in the English language. Sure they will also get tested but their label says it all "EO."

I simply took it as something I had to accept, until we were informed that the school need to put together a ELAC committee which will "advise and assist" the school with many aspects including curriculum, testing, setting up programs, etc. I promptly threw my hat in. Now it seems that I will have a hand in a bit more than I expected. I always said I wanted to be involved with my kids school, but never expected myself to want to get so involved.

One of my greatest pet peevs is when a child gets something that he or she isn't ready for.

Well, my irritation just got a whole lot bigger. In my humble little town of 11,000 people in MA, a kid made headlines (though not newspaper headlines) recently when he walked into his kindergarten classroom one morning carrying a brand-new blackberry cell phone that his parents had recently bought for him.

I mean seriously people. Giving a blackberry to a 5 year old? I don't even have a blackberry!

I see this often these days as technology expands and our society evolves into a more sophisticated state, with social networking and unlimited texting. I see children under the age of 10 getting brand new, expensive, shiny cell phones. Is there anything left of "you're not ready."??????

Why do these kids NEED these anyways? They're still to young to be let around town by themselves, they haven't really started forming "social circles" yet, but their parents see some unknown need to have their children on the forefront of technology?

Get real. What do you think?

I was driving back from the beach at about 5:30 this evening whenall of a sudden I felt a bit sadden, or was it happyness, yeah that's what it was. I had just spent no more then 15 minutes with Madison, my daugther on the beach, well not on the beach because we did not touch sand or water. At the time I got sentimental we were talking, she said to me, "it is like a magician put it away." Yeah that is exactly what had happened when the sun went down. I had been promising to her that I was goint to take her to see a sunset for weeks and finally had a chance to do just that. She was very exited, she did not know we were going to go all the way to the beach and all the way to the beach she was looking to see that the sun was not going down too fast. At first we were sitting on the curb, but she decided she wanted to be inside the car. We saw it go down and she kept talking about what she was seeing, hey she is not even five, she knows not of the moments to stay quiet yet, and she kept on talking about the colors and hwo little it was getting and how much she loves the color purple, and I kept answering her questions. I was not teaching her anything rather I was enjoying our first sunset, my best sunset, and making a memory. Her first was today and she alrerady wants her second one, well maybe tomorrow, maybe never! One thing is for sure I would suggest all parents, dads specially, to take the time to do the little things, sunset, an ice cream at the park, a walk to the store with their kids on their shoulders, a story before they sleep, becasue those are the happy memories they most likely will remember for a long time and hopefuly share with their own children.

In my daughter's Kinder-garden class there is a student, whom everyone knew since the first day because in the whole school he was the only one to get an "x" on his first day behavior chart. I will call him Art, this way I do not give away his name. Art disrupts the class, speaks up, does no homework, everything a trouble maker does. I even started using him as an example, if I only would have seen it earlier I would have used him as a completely different example, one of a distinguished student. I helped out the teacher this morning, so did my daughter's mother. The teacher asked, Isis, Madison's mom to help her do some pre-tests/assessments, as she was assessing one of the kids I heard her tell him to stay focus and pay attention, as I raised my look, I saw the kid was looking out in to space and focusing on the wall. I told her to leave him alone, that he was focusing. His look towards the walll and his mannerisms were those of memorization. In his own way he was recalling the way his mother or father helps him learn/memorize the sounds of letters, an effective trick for those that utilize it. After a few seconds she understood what I was trying to tell her.

Seeing this kid had me thinking all day, but could not find a way to support the fact that I had been mistaken about Art. Art has a Mohawk cut and there is no way a father or mother would give the kid a special cut for been the bad kid in class. So either he wears a Mohawk because of a reward or the parents are truly horrible. Giving them the benefit of the doubt, I concl,uded that it was a reward, which would mean the he is not a bad student, he simply is a bored student. I started thinking that Art was misbehaving because he was bored. Yes, bored! When I picked up Madison and her mom, who stayed and helped out all day, I immediately asked about Art. She told me she had worked with Art all day, to minimize the disruption. Before she even knew what I was thinking of I told her "He is really Smart, isn't he," she told me that he had told her that he knew all the sight-words, letters, numbers, etc. Damn, I owe that kid an apology for thinking he was nothing more than the bad kid in class, once I took a little time to think about possibilities, I realized my mistake. She did his pre--assessment and told me he did extremely well. What a jerk, huh? Me I mean.

Anyways, does the administration not realize they might have a gifted student? Is his acting up shadowing his intellect? Do the parents realize what having him bored might cause in the future? What can I do? Can I be wrong again and Art be just good at manipulating his environment, that would mean he is smart as well!

Whenever we observe behaviour, listen to someone speak or gather information, we draw conclusions. If we interpret (conclude) correctly, we are likely to respond reasonably and almost to expectation. If we conclude incorrectly, our response may be negative, undeserved or received in a way we did not envisage, as in when others act aggressively in 'reasonable' situations.

This is because our reality is dictated by personal perception and our perception is noticeable through communication, which is the most important tool anyone has at their disposal to interact with others. That's the way we indicate how we feel about ourselves and our circumstances. It is through communication that we are also judged. People cannot judge us on our perception or intent because that is in our subconscious, which is not visible to the naked eye. But they can easily judge us on our words and actions which demonstrate that perception.

As each of us is unlikely to perceive as another does, often our communication is not as straightforward as we hope. There are two important issues operating there.

The first is that communication always involves interpretation: trying to clarify what is being said to judge whether it aligns with how we feel and perceive and therefore acceptable to us. Without interpreting it in ways we can understand and appreciate, especially if the communication is across cultural and gender lines, it will not be as comfortable, valuable or meaningful to our perception.

Second, because we base our interpretations on individual values, beliefs and experiences, we are likely to interpret incorrectly and against expectation. This of course helps to cause bad feelings all round, especially in status, gender or culture-sensitive situations, where there is some difference or inequality. The only way to avoid such pitfalls is through feedback. A kind of reality check that takes only a few seconds. It takes effort, sensitivity and patience to allow feedback but it is worth the time spent to improve communication, to reduce assumptions, to clarify the issues and reduce conflict.

Good feedback questions could be:

"Did that make sense to you?"

"What did you understand by my statement?"

"What was it about my statement which offended/upset you?"

"Are you happy with my view of the situation?"

"You are right in your perception but have you thought of this approach/alternative?"

Any of those questions will diffuse any potential problem and demonstrate a willingness to be agreeable and empathetic, while eliciting useful information in return.

Effective, accurate communication can be used to either reinforce a positive perception or change a negative one. It is also the key to resolving conflict in relationships, whether spouse to spouse or parent to child, but perceptions have to be recognised before any attempt to move forward.

The bottom line is: You may have the best intentions and a genuine concern for your spouse, your children and your friends, or for the welfare of your employees, but if you do not communicate this in a manner they can understand or appreciate, one that is relevant and meaningful to them, their perceptions may be just the opposite of your intention.

To begin with, one has to identify what each expects to gain from the effort because we communicate expectations to partners and children through tone of voice, facial expressions, touch and posture. These signals are not always clear-cut, especially when written, and can make the situation ambiguous. Our expectations will help or hinder the development of those we care about by influencing their self-perception. For example, a child usually lives up to the expectations of the parents, which then influences the child's self-esteem. Thus anything we believe about ourselves or someone else does affect our behaviour.

If your communication is failing, in that you are not getting the results or outcome that you expected, it could have a lot to do with how you are being perceived by the recipient or how your words and actions are being interpreted by them. There would be a blockage somewhere and only by requesting feedback of what they perceive of you will you be able to identify where the problem might lie or what interpretation is blocking the communication.

Elaine Sihera (Ms CYPRAH)
Emotional Health Adviser
"Respect and love begin with the self. If we have none, how can we give away any?"

Kids I mean. Seriously, come on there is no other rational or practical reason to have kids other then to make them work for you for free! Right? I read once that by the time kids get to the age of 18 parents would have spent 500 thousand dollars. I have been working since I was 14, alright there were some periods of time that I did not for one or another reason but I had my savings, and I have barely made over that amount and most of the time I was only paying for me, damn, fine sometimes there were girls and friends. This means In the next 13-14 years I will have to make about 1 million dollars. Ouch! So why else do we have kids?

Well if I was a farmer I would have to have a bunch of children, expected to help me as they grow up to plow the lands, milk the cows, egg and kill the chickens, "tend the rabbits," and every other shore needed to be dome. And you know me girls and boys would have to do the same things, there is no difference in them. Yeah that is it , free work. Of course they would get their new shirt and pants every year, and a roof, three meals and I would even throw in some snacks here and there. Of course for their hard work they would have my undying thanks and a hug here and there.

That must be it because I have been thinking of these all day and I can't figure out why else! Ok there is that of having something that came half from you and hopefully half from someone you loved, but hell, love does not last, ah but it does you see, it does. The love for a child of yours can never be taken away, not even by you yourself. You might never talk to one of your kids because of an argument or a decision they made, but the love you have for them will always be within you. To watch Madison run around, learning her letters and numbers, telling me her shapes, and just having a conversation with her, if I was a woos, I would be in tears everyday, but since I am thew "macho" I am, I can fight them off most of the times. Of course, I have nothing to be proud of except of being her father other than that she is all her, I got lucky. All I do is give her a little influence to do the right things occasionally, other then that she is pretty much always on track. The joy that she has brought into my life is second to none I don't think that even the strongest of happy pills can compare.

Although, Madison was unplanned and I had to make choices in my life suited to her well being and not mine, I would never or will never say I did not want her for a second, the moment I found out AI was going to be a dad, my life was for her. My life would be extremely different if she would not have come along, I probably would have never started writing here in the Vine, I would probably be in another part of the world, doing who knows what wrongs or rights. No regrets here. never specially her. So you think raising a child is hard, sure it is, sometimes! There can be many things wrong with a kid, but I got lucky! Hard!? Only if you make it that way. A friend gave me this
link which described exactly how I feel about children but could have never expressed it that way.

To Madi: If you should ever deem it worth your while to read any of these dumb article know only one thing, that you gave me Salvation. You saved me from myself, you gave me a path to follow, you are the light that makes me shine, you are all yourself and I am your dad.

It would seem that the roles between me and my little girls mom have changed, in an instant I became the loose parent. I took Madison back to her mother's place this afternoon and as I was sitting in their couch speaking to Madi's mom I realized that our roles had suddenly flipped. We were talking, me and my ex, about how Madison does her homework at both our places, at my place or at my parents house she acts like she is struggling and someone to hold her hand, but her mom told me that when she does her homework at her place she does it by her self.

Her mom told me that it is because I let her do whatever, not true, but I think I give her too much attention when she is sitting with her homework in front, and since I mentioned to her that if she needed help just to ask me she is acting like she really does not know how to do any of the letter or numbers when she can actually do them on her own. I am fairly stern with her but it is true I do let her slide a bit, her mom does not. She is a little girl and she know that I always give her what she wants when she does her work or shores. I think she is starting to realize that she has be wrapped! No worries though from what I saw today her mom can take care of being the stern, bad parent. I think I was been too obtuse with Madison's mom. Today I saw something different in her and I think it is good for Madi. Ok, so she's daddy's little girl, damn I am in trouble!!!!

Well My little one has been in school for exactly 7 days and we have the first parent-teacher conference, it was a general information meeting with the kinder-garden teacher. There were about 20 parents and Mrs. Bautista, Madison's (my daughter) teacher. At first I though she was being a bit hard, or rather, she was expecting too much from five year olds, she started telling us what is expected of kinder-garden students. They are required to know 50 sight words, 30 numbers, write 3 sentences, and other small things. I thought to myself it was a bit much, after all thay are just starting their academics. After a few minutes I changed my opinion, they have a year to larn all this. The kids just need to get used to the whole school environment. I just can't believe some parent.

I am all for education, the sooner the better, at the same time I do not think we should not push so much learing down their throats. The teacher explained to us that she waw not teaching the kinder-gardeners much numbers or math. Math? They are barely learning to write their names, math? By the end of kinder-garden they are supposed to learn a little math. A parent raised his hand and asked why she was not teaching math yet. Come on, they don't even know ho to count to 30 and he expects addition, subtraction, and what times tables by Christmas. I think some parents expect or push their kids too much. I have only three rules for Madison. When she gets home she is to take off her uniform, eat if she is hungry, and do her homework, after it is done she has the rest of the day to play and watch a little television, in bed by 8:30 for 15 minutes of reading to her.

I think if you push them too hard and in turn do not learn as fast as you want them to, they might get discouraged and start misbehaving or doing bad inschool. As for me she can start of slow, she is fairly bright and I am surety the time she is done with her first year of shool she will be doing well.

My little Madison started school and she loved it.

Combining the wisdom of age with the curiosity of youth, this book is a delight. Beautifully illustrated with scenes celebrating nature -- the sun, butterflies, clouds, wind, orchards of fruit -- the pages vibrantly excite the imagination, pulling the reader into cosmic mysteries unspoken.

The setting is a conversation between grandmother and granddaughter with wording that grandsons will enjoy too. Using lyrical prose, the duo explore their special bond and its eternal nature.

Grandmother, Grandmother, Have the angels come and painted your hair?

Yes, my darling granddaughter,
They have painted it white
so I may become more like the clouds

Will you float across blue skies and make shapes for me to see?

Yes, my darling granddaughter
I will float like cotton
and sprinkle rain upon your hair

As the daughter questions, the grandmother explains the changes wrought by aging and slides easily into love that survives death.

Will you sing me the songs of the earth and the grasses?

Yes, my darling granddaughter,
I will sing of our laughter and our tears.
The Angels have lit my heart with the fire of love.

What will you do with this fire of love?

I will touch my heart to your heart,
my light to your light
And together, light by light, flame by flame
We will set the world on fire

It is a celebration of feminine heritage and the sacredness of feminine love. Written to appeal to a child's perspective, it warms the aging heart too, reminding us that our love will always endure.

Grandmother, Have the Angels Come?

By Denise Vega
Illustrated by Erin Eitter Kono
Genre: Children's Picture Book

Kindle edition: Grandmother, Have the Angels Come?

Stephen Hawking barely needs an introduction, but his recent direction does. He is packaging the universe for the younger generation. With his daughter Lucy Hawking, he has branched out into writing children's books.

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