Some days are like that. Even in Australia.

Bad Citizenship Award

On Saturday morning I took the girls on a massive shopping trip to Walmart: We needed the usual horde of groceries, ingredients for Dos's upcoming birthday dinner, and school supplies purchased using two separate and obnoxiously specific lists for 1st and 2nd grades, respectively. The whole ordeal took way too long. Uno and Dos kept wandering away, as they are wont to do, and by the end Tres (who every day insists she's too big for naps) kept putting her head down on the handle of the shopping cart and closing her eyes. None of us had eaten. All of us were worn out, but maybe particularly the hungry / irritated / tired / hormonal pregnant lady.

After 2 hours of that madness, I loaded up the children and the boxes of crayons and eraser tops and glue sticks and pointy scissors (not safety scissors!! Fiskar's brand only!!) and the frozen perishables. We began our drive home, pausing momentarily at a light to wait for the green arrow signaling us to turn left. But as I did, a car zoomed up and swerved around me, cutting me off. This was a single turn lane, folks; you just don't do that.

But whatever. People are dumb, I figured, and at least they were ahead of me now instead of behind where they could smack into me. The car continued to drive erratically. The passenger door opened, then swung closed again. The car veered suddenly, without slowing down, onto a side street and as I passed I saw the passenger door open again and a girl (late teens, maybe early 20s?) tumble out onto the road as the car continued on. I don't know if she jumped or was pushed.

I kept going.

I drove the rest of the way home. I was exhausted. I had melty items in the car in humid, 95F weather. I had vulnerable young children who needed food and sleep more than they needed to be involved in what was possibly a volatile domestic altercation. Besides, what could I do? I didn't get the license plate number (I think it started with a K?); I don't know what kind of car it was (definitely not a sedan, but not a full SUV -- maybe a hatchback or one of those mini SUVs?) and I didn't even remember the name of the side street (I think it was the one just past the liquor store, and for sure before the stop sign).

I did call DH at work as soon as I got home, and he relayed my (not terribly helpful) information to the police officer who happened to be at the ER, but it was really nothing anybody could follow up on.

All day long -- all weekend, and even still -- I felt guilty. I should have turned around and gone back. I should have made sure the girl was okay (I did see her stumble out of the road and onto the side walk as I drove past, so I know I didn't leave her dead in the gutter). I should have at least taken a cell phone pic of the car (though my cell was in my pocket, not easily accessible as I drove). I should have done something.

I had three (and a half!) little kids with me. I'm not a very observant person and make a terrible witness. It was probably just teenagers being dumb, not something more sinister. I have plenty of reasonable, legitimate excuses for doing nothing. Still, a line from the fabulous, long-canceled tv show Brooklyn Bridge keeps echoing in my brain. Grandma Sophie Berger (played beautifully by Marion Ross) was giving her grandson a talking-to: "There will always be a reason to do the wrong thing, and the smarter the person the better the reason. You're smart. Do the right thing."

I didn't.

I've felt miserable about it ever since.


Zzzzzz!

Tres occasionally wakes up in the middle of the night. Sometimes I can tuck her in and soothe her back to sleep in her bed, but more often I have to pull her out of the crib and drag her to the living room to sleep with me on the couch. (I can't leave her in her bedroom or she'd wake up her two roomies; I can't take her to my bed because it's only a double and not big enough to fit three people comfortably -- plus DH needs his sleep so he doesn't kill anybody at his literally life-or-death job the next day.)

I wouldn't mind this arrangement if she'd stay on her end of the sofa. I always put her down foot to foot, so both our heads have an arm of the couch to lean up against and we can be together but not right on top of each other. Sadly, right on top of each other is what Tres prefers. I'll lay her down, then lie down myself and get comfy and immediately she's climbing over my legs and plopping her head right down on my belly. Which, incidentally, makes it very difficult for this pregnant lady to breathe. Breathing is kind of important.

I'll scoot her over. "I'm sorry I squashed your baby," she'll say, and then scoot back and squash the baby again. Add in some kicking (not from the kid on the inside), some tossing and turning, more adjusting and less oxygen -- not to mention all the times I'd have to get up and use the bathroom even without a fetus and a toddler pressing against my bladder -- and you have my average super-not-restful night on the couch with Tres.

We had one of those nights on Saturday.

Waaaaaaah.


My last day as teacher

I've been a Sunday School teacher for 8-12yo kids since last fall. We have a few rowdies in the class, but they're mostly good -- albeit excessively energetic -- kids. Being neither intimidating nor a very strict person by nature, I've given them a fair amount of leeway: I tolerate the wiggling and the joking and the occasional tangential conversation. We get through the stories, and I can tell by the brief review we do each subsequent Sunday that they usually got something out of the last week's lesson.

Two of the boys in my class, brothers, seem to have gotten a bad rap with the congregation. Several people have felt compelled to tell me how disruptive and disrespectful they are -- though having been with them for the last ~10 months or so, I disagree. Yes, they're ... well, rowdy; they have loud voices and excitable spirits that don't quite fit in their tween bodies. They get off track easily. But I have never sensed that they meant any harm. They're good hearted kids who just need a few years to mature into the fine men I'm sure they'll become.

Another boy in my class has had a very difficult life. He only joined us a few months ago (and he comes only sporadically) so I don't know him or his story well. The parts I do know are pretty sad: His dad is in prison; his brother was shot and killed in random gang violence; he moved here from the West coast with his mom and sister to get away from the dangers of that previous life -- which is good on the one hand, but on the other means he's adrift in what must seem like a completely foreign place with none of his familiar friends. All that's got to be tough on top of the usual angst that comes with the transition from childhood into adolescence.

I understand why he acts out. I try to give him just as much leeway as I do for the brothers or for any of the other kids. But I have my limits.

Yesterday was my last day as a Sunday School teacher (beginning next week, I'll be in charge of the entire Primary -- the organization for all the children, ages 1-1/2 to 12yo, in the congregation -- eeek!). The brothers were there, the boy with the hard-knock life was there and he had brought a friend. We also had three other younger and far more docile children who really tried to pay attention to the lesson about the OT prophet Samuel, but nearly all my energy (and remember, after a night with Tres it wasn't much) went toward defusing the combustible dynamic created by those four boys.

I should have separated them. I should have spread them out to the far corners of the room. Instead, I tried to keep them involved by having them read a verse here and there from the scriptures or making them answer questions. I tried to ignore the crude inside jokes and bad behavior and reward them when they paid attention. They wouldn't focus. Each fed off the others' energy.

At one point I looked up from my Bible to see the boy from the rough background hit his friend in the face, a nice hard smack.

I'd had enough. I tolerate a lot, more than most teachers ever would, but I draw the line at physical violence in church. Seriously, that's not asking much, is it? UGH. I told them all to remember who they were and where they were, then I pulled that boy out of class and tried to find someone who could deal with him one-on-one so I could go back to handle the rest of the class. We found his mother taking a nap on the couch in the foyer, so I left him with her and returned to finish my last lesson.

Now obviously something had precipitated that smack. All four boys had been acting up throughout the lesson so I don't doubt he was provoked; he later claimed that his friend had hit him first, though I didn't see or hear it. They all got a good firm talking-to when I got back, but everyone else got to stay in class. I thought I'd handled the situation reasonably well. All things considered. Given what I had to work with, and my own physical and emotional state.

But a few minutes before the end of class the boy's mother poked her head in the door and asked if her son could come back in. I said he could if he was willing to be calm. She asked if he had been the only one misbehaving and I said no, but -- and I was about to say that he was the only one I saw actually hit another person, but she lay into me about how unfairly I'd treated him. If they all acted up, they all should have been kicked out. How dare I single out her son, kick him out of class, and deny him the opportunity to learn? "We don't come here to sit in the hall," she said to me in front of all the kids, "and if that's the kind of treatment we're going to get maybe we just won't come anymore."

The uncharitable part of me was thinking, "Phew! That would make teaching this class much easier!" And the selfish part thought, "Geez, I don't want to be responsible for someone leaving the church and never coming back!"

But another part of me realized she was right: I could have handled it a million different ways -- from nipping the problem in the bud far earlier to making him sit in the corner alone, but where he could still hear and learn the gospel. I didn't do it right.

I muttered a meek apology and finished up the lesson. And as soon as it was over, as soon as we'd said the Amens for the closing prayer and the kids all filed out, my eyes welled up and I started to sob: Regret, for having handled things wrong for a boy in a very vulnerable situation (no matter how tough he acts); humiliation for having been reprimanded in front of everyone; exhaustion after a rough night with Tres; lingering guilt over having done nothing for the girl tossed from a moving car the day before; random unnameable hormonal emotions....

DH found me and insisted I tell him what happened -- we all know talking is a bad idea when I'm upset, so that didn't help; I just cried harder. I tried to walk briskly and discreetly to the Mother's Lounge where I could cry alone and in peace, but another of the Primary teachers saw me and hugged me and tried to console me. Also sweet, also not remotely helpful and meanwhile there I was stuck in the hallway with my eyes and nose all red and dripping for everyone to see. Cue more humiliation, more reason for tears.... Ay yi yi.

I sobbed for a solid hour in the Mother's Room with the lights off, missing singing time (including the Primary children singing Dos a happy birthday song) and Dos's talk about how she can follow the example of Jesus. I went through eleven tissues. I felt so sad and overwhelmed and worn flat out.


Burn, baby, burn

Today is Dos's 6th birthday, but yesterday was the only day DH had off for either the week before or the week after, so we had the family party last night at his parents' house. She requested spaghetti and meatballs, so I made way too much (seriously, waaaay too much -- we'd be eating leftovers for weeks if that didn't violate food safety rules and common sense). As I was taking the meatballs out of the oven (at the same time the noodles were finishing and the older girls fighting and Tres hovering dangerously underfoot), the pan slipped from my oven mitt and landed on my arm just above my elbow.

Ouch.

It's not a bad burn; mostly it just stung for a long while but stinging is different than actual pain. We didn't have anything to put on it, so I asked MIL when we got to her house if she had any aloe vera gel. She said she didn't, but had I tried pickle juice? Apparently that helps. I dabbed some on a napkin and put it on my arm. I don't know if it helped or not, really -- as I said, it was more irritating than painful anyway -- but I'll keep that trick in mind for the inevitable next time.

And in the meantime, my burn looks nice and impressive.


Raw and ragged

I never fully recovered from my meltdown yesterday. I stopped crying and started functioning eventually, of course, but my heart remained an unattractively gaping wound.

At dinner, DH asked what furniture I thought we should get for the new house right away (the negotiations are finalized, though we won't be able to close until Aug 16th for some reason; the only furniture we have so far is beds for everyone and a kitchen table and chairs -- everything else we'll have to get, though I don't plan on furnishing the entire place all at once). I said I thought we should get a couch for the family room, and everything else could wait. I said I envisioned a pretty L-shaped sectional with a sleeper in it, because we won't have any place for guests to sleep otherwise.

"Oh, don't get a sleeper," MIL said. "They're too heavy to move around and they're never comfortable. Don't waste your money."

"Oh," I said. And my eyes welled up (though I kept it in, just barely!).

Something that trivial should not make me cry. UGH.

After we put the girls to bed last night, DH insisted on talking again. (Why? Why does he do that?? What is this stupid thing called communication, anyway?) I broke down again: I just feel so ... tired. And I know I'm going to keep feeling tired, and it's only going to get worse before it gets better, and -- between growing ever more uncomfortable and then feeding a baby every two hours day and night all while taking care of three others -- it's not going to get better for a very very long time. Knowing that wears me out more. I just want to sleep. I want the sleep to be restful (ha!).

*Sigh.*

But some days (or entire weekends) are like that, I guess. Even in Australia.


~RCH~