Ah, yes, September 1 and the first day of school. I almost didn’ t make it for the event because I haven’t paid much attention to the Starbucks schedule lately. Let’s just say I’ve been distracted. Luckily for me, one of my compatriots needed to make a schedule switch. That gave me today off. It just means I’m looking at a week of closings, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday nights. Saturday I’m off. That’s a break. I usually open. If that had been the case, I could be considered legally brain dead. Instead, I’m opening Sunday. But I digress. Already. Call it adult ADHD.

By all accounts, it was an easy first-day-of-school morning. Aaron was up an hour early in anticipation of becoming a third grader. Thalia came waltzing out of her room at 6:20 a.m. this morning, now a seventh grader. Last year, I’d be up and down the stairs for a solid hour between the hours of six and seven. Her bus arrived at 7:10 a.m. She’d drag herself out of bed ten minutes before the bus arrived and be, amazingly, ready to go right on time. Aaron gets picked up at the door. I drove Thalia this morning because her busing situation is unclear. Busing issue aside, this will be the easiest week of the year for me. Starting next week, the battle will be engaged on two fronts. One battle will be with  the school system itself. The other battle will be with my charming and delightful bride. I’m like the crap in the middle, always getting squeezed. Call this a rant.

I have seen the enemy (in fact, I live with it)

The biggest battle of all will be on the home front. Beth will go into what I like to call “unrealistic achievement gear” early and stay there until the bitter end. Thalia, of course will have it the roughest of the two. In fact, she already told Thalia she expects all As. Thalia just looked at me and rolled her eyes. I returned the gesture. Thalia and I both know that’s not going to happen, and it’s not a major concern for me. Beth’s attitude, on the other hand, is a major concern for me. Why? Because Beth is already planning Thalia’s college education without actually participating at this level. How does that work? Hint: It doesn’t.  Hell, I’m just trying to deal with a seventh grader. Never the twain shall meet on this one. Let me tell you why Beth should be thrilled about what Thalia has been able to achieve so far.

Thalia, for the first time since the first grade, will not be considered a special ed student. This is a child that has overcome a language-based learning disability and dyslexia to bring home a certificate of excellence in language arts at the end of last year. (Of course, let me tell you that I saw this certificate for the first time four days ago when she cleaned out her book bag.) I also found out from her language arts teacher that Thalia’s writing a book. She spent some of her summer working on it. Thalia did not spend a lot of time in front of the television this summer, although she did keep up with CNN, the History Channel and the Discovery Channel. She spent a lot of her time on Korean and Japanese multi-player adventure gaming sites and I have to admit she’s really good. I have no idea how she got access to some of them, and I don’t want to know. But this is a far cry from where she was when she entered middle school.

Her first year in the middle school (fifth grade) she brought home an F in social studies her very first term. It was a rough transition from grammar school, and she was in one-on-one Language Arts and Math. The F was the result of a failure to mesh with her homeroom teacher, also her Social Studies teacher. Now, I’m not saying that Thalia handled that whole conflict correctly, but I’m not sure I expected her to either. I used to call her homeroom teacher that year Mrs. Switchblade because I didn’t like her much either. So, we’ll call her that here.

My feeling about Thalia and Mrs. Switchblade being a bad fit was confirmed by Thalia’s teacher from the previous year in grammar school. She thought Mrs. Switchblade was too rigid a teacher for Thalia. She was being kind on that assessment.What a difference a year (and a new teacher made). Last year, Thalia decided that social studies was her favorite subject. She did exceptionally well in it.

Why all of this isn’t enough for Beth will forever remain a mystery to me. Let’s also be quite candid here and add that Thalia is just about blind in one eye and you’d never even know it. According to the doctor at Mass Eye and Ear, Thalia has managed to compensate for that problem. She has glasses, which we can’t find at the moment, to protect her good eye. There’s another thing about Thalia that’s tough to explain in words. She’s just different thinking in many ways, and she’s one of those square-peg kids that administrators like to try to force into a round hole. Thalia’s day care teacher and I were very good friends when Thalia attended. She saw Thalia nearly every day from the time Thalia was about five months up until she went into pre-school. She once said to me, “Your child is very different. You’ll spend the majority of your time advocating for her.” I never forgot that, and I have indeed been thrust into that role.

I’m not going to go into burdensome detail here about some things that go back in time because I have yet to write narratives about my kids. Don’t want to be too repetitive. Suffice it to say that Beth and I will do battle over her need to see Thalia produce an A average. I have no such requirement. The most important column on her report card, in my opinion, is the effort column. If she’s trying, no issues. If she’s lazy, she and I will figure it out in league with her teachers.

Thalia is the kind of kid who needs to be invested in it. In other words, her teacher will say, “You know, it’s 40% of your mark. If you don’t get it in, this is the grade you’re looking at. If you get it in, you’re here.” More often than not, Thalia gets it done. In other words, I do not allow homework to become a battleground at home. There are other ways to handle it. If Beth becomes involved, it will be a battle and that is unpleasant for everyone but one person. You know how it works, Beth is largely a non-participant in parent-teacher one-on-ones, school meetings and IEP reviews. They pass around an attendance sheet and “absent” is always next to her name. Then, one day she wakes up and plays parent in this area. Pisses me off.

My discipline with Thalia is even simpler. Let’s try this: “Hey, Thalia, you don’t get your homework in and you don’ t get a Nexon game card when you want it (she always wants these).” Or, “Hey, Thalia, if you don’t bring up your marks on the next report card, I’m unplugging your Internet connection and there’ll be no gaming until you do.” That means something to her. Beth’s rant goes unheard, let alone unheeded. Thalia just turns her off.

Aaron is about to be indoctrinated into the pressure cooker

Aaron’s story is pretty amazing as well. Just before his third birthday, Aaron was given a full autism diagnosis. We were homeless at the time and I had made myself familiar with every possible angle available to me. One of those great laws was the McKinney-Vento act which allowed your children to return to their previous school in spite of homlessness. That brought Aaron to the Lynch School in Winchester, where they worked wonders with him. One thing I learned about the law was that it applied to siblings even if they had never attended that school before. Thalia was already at Lynch, which made Aaron eligible.

When I left Lynch every day, he would have to be held by his teacher to prevent him from hurting himself.  He would bang his head on the ground and just cry forever. I used to just plain fucking want to die walking down the hall towards the door hearing him call my name.  Two things kept me sane: One, it was better for him that I do this. Two, he would eventually stop and they could work with him. They did work with him and worked wonders. I was worried about moving to Amesbury, and it was unfounded. He’s improved even more here. Aaron was placed in a first-second grade multi-year class for modeling purposes. It also ensured he had the same teacher two years in a row. His teacher was amazing with him and I have no problem tell you her name is Billie McLane.

Aaron’s progress has been pretty remarkable overall. As a third grader this morning, Aaron didn’t even need me to drive him to school. That may seem like a small thing, but it’s not for Aaron. He got on the bus with no issues and he’s starting a new grade with a new teacher this morning. Luckily for Aaron, it’s Mrs. Gagnon. She was Thalia’s fourth grade teacher and the match was great. She’ll be excited she has Aaron. I’m not saying there won’t be a bit of a bumpy road for Aaron. He’ll be introverted and may not participate at the beginning until he knows his classmates. That’s a work in progress. There’s always the possibility that he’ll fall behind academically. That’s their major area of concern. Aaron is still a special ed student (in an inclusive class) with an IEP.

His problem area is reading. He has been behind from the start. However, in his final testing at the end of second grade, Aaron tested right exactly where he was supposed to be. Everyone thought that was pretty amazing. In fact, Aaron’s academic improvements in the second grade made him ineligible for summer school. I think that’ll be a problem for Aaron when he starts up. I think he’ll lose a bit of his edge. And again, the battleground here will be homework because — if it’s possible — he hates it more than his sullen sister. He’s just a bit more creative in his delivery, preferring to tell me that, “Ma,my brain is full from the school day. I can’t fit anymore stuff in here.” This year, I’ll end up being the buffer for both of them. What freakin’ fun.

Go ahead, ask Aaron the next time you see him what his favorite subjects are.  I guarantee you the answer will be gym and recess. Ask him what he likes the least about school and he’ll tell you, “The learning part.” Oh boy.

Of course, do I think that Aaron will be put under as much pressure as Thalia by his other mom? Not even. I think he gets a huge ‘bye’ from her on most stuff. He’s the chosen one. Do I understand the reason for that? Well, he’s a pretty special little guy. Billie McLane used to tell me last year that he was a beautiful little boy. He’s very gentle and sweet. And he’s pretty funny and engaging for a kid that’s supposed to be autistic. But Thalia is pretty neat in her own right. She’s a thinker who likes to ask questions, which really aggravates Beth. I don’t know the reason for that either. I prefer to just answer Thalia’s questions straight out or show her where to find the answers if I think she’ll get a better explanation somewhere other than me.

I was just looking out my back door and it’s beautiful up here this morning. Funny thing is, I just don’t want to be here. I think I’ll take a walk to Woodsom Farm before the kids get back from school. Clear my head.

Have you ever seen tonsils that are infected? I love images; I think they add so much to a story. That’s why I decided to make this a blog and not a book. So, of course, I went looking for a photo to illustrate tonsillitis. I wouldn’t print one of those photos even if they paid me. That is one ugly illness, and I’m sticking to illustration. Now, on to my story.

After my dad died, things were pretty tough on my mom. She had not worked for years and was forced to go back to work in a donut shop across the street from where we lived to take care of us. And there’s no question that, since I was only nine when my dad died, she was going to cut me a lot of slack on a lot of things. And I knew it. However, I was prepared because even though I could pull the wool with the best of them, once I was found out I was pretty much a dead woman.

So, given that fact, I have to say I pulled off my greatest caper around this time. When we were young, taking someone’s tonsils out was pretty routine. I mean, it got to the point where people took them out even if there was no infection or inflammation. It was like precautionary surgery. “They’re going to act up sooner or later, Mrs. Della Piana, so we might as well take Mary’s out too.” I mean, wtf, who needs ‘em? My sister Joanne had to have both her adenoids and tonsils removed, so our pediatrician suggested that my oldest sister have  her tonsils removed at the same time. Since I had escaped the surgery (I was too young at the time), I used my tonsils to pull off one of my greatest capers.

School and I were always uneasy riders. It wasn’t that I couldn’t do the work. It was just…there. My son always says to me now, “You know, ma, that school doesn’t interest me.” And I do know what that feels like. I had to be pretty close to his age (he’s eight now), and there were just so many other things to do besides go school. Like, play pirates. Or go out at 3 p.m. and play baseball. That was a little more tricky since it involved suddenly feeling well enough to go out. Anyway, this went on for weeks. I mean weeks. A few days at school; several days off. My mother was obviously preoccupied and, by the time she realized what I had been doing, I had twenty-three absences. One morning after telling her I was sick, she called my bluff. Around 10:00 a.m., she came into the living room and announced that I was going to have my tonsils checked by Dr. Berson that afternoon. I knew I was in trouble. My throat didn’t even hurt. I tried to maintain a positive philosophy. Hey, all good things must come to an end. What’s the worst that could happen?

So, at 2:00 p.m., the bell rang. (Yes, those were the days when doctors made house calls.) I could hear them talking in the living room and, within about five minutes, she led the doctor into my room. The jig was up; no question. He looked at me and said, “You’re not really sick, are you?” Now, most kids my age would be meek and upset. All I could think was, when is he going to stop this game and just call my bluff. I did the best I could. I shrugged. He talked to me a little, took a look at my throat, and told me he’d talk to my mom and tell her to go easy on me. Yeah, right. Go easy on me. Like, what did that mean, I’d have some hair left on my head when she was done? Nope. She might tell the good doctor that she’ll go easy on me, but she was absolutely not going to go easy on me.

Not only was she mad at me, but she was made at herself for letting me get away with this for so long. Why? Because she looked dumb, and I had a ton-shit of work to make up in order to move up a class. She knew that portion of the program would be a misery. There was only one thing I disliked more than school, and that was homework.

Anyway, here’s how it played out that afternoon. As soon as Dr. Berson left, I heard from the kitchen, “You little son of a bitch.”  I was walking back to my room through the dining room when I saw her coming at me with the broom. “Ma, listen, I’ll never do that again.” I looked at her face. She wasn’t buying it. She heard that the last time I did it.  She was swinging the bristle end of the broom at me. My only hope was to hide under this giant mahogany dining room table that we had. It had many legs because the leaf was always left in. It slowed her, but it didn’t stop her.

She really didn’t want to whack me with the broom. No. Not enough pain inflicted with that. What she really wanted to do was pinch my ear. Yes, you heard it. Pinch my ear, and she was serious about it. All she did when I hid under the table was use the handle end of the broom and poke at me until she drove me out from under the table. Then, she pinched my ear all the way back into the bedroom. I was banished there for the day and night until I got up for school the next morning. And then, I could spend every day after school in there until she saw fit to spring me. That sucked. I can’t say I didn’t deserve it because I did. (But it was worth it.)

Writer’s Note: Funny thing about that dining room table. I think about it to this day every time I see a St. Vincent de Paul charity truck. After my dad died, we stayed in Revere for a short time. My mother really could not afford to stay out on her own, even working. We ended up living with several relatives and then, finally, moved to Everett with my grandmother. We couldn’t take everything with us when we were moving around, so we ended up donating the dining room furniture — and the table that saved my life a number of times — to St. Vincent de Paul.

This blog spends a lot of time looking back, but I’ve still got to live in the present which is not always an easy task. On the mornings I’m not at Starbucks, I’m the one who gets up at 6:00 a.m. to get the kids off to school. I usually give myself a fifteen-minute advantage so I can shake off the sleep. Got to be alert and upbeat with these two on a Monday morning. Neither of them enjoy school, and Monday mornings are the absolute worst.

Anyway, I had two thoughts this morning that I want to share with you. First, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have: Gas is creeping up again. Now, I’m paying $2.23. That would be less a problem if I were not traveling 72 miles a day, but I am. So, I was thinking how great it would be if I had a Port Key on my patio. All you Harry Potter fans know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. You know like the boot that took them to the Quiddich World Cup. That kind of Port Key. For those who don’t really know what a port key is, click here. All will be explained.

Now, I’m sure it would be embarrassing at the beginning. You know, the sight of me making a thudding entrance in the Walkers Brook parking lot would be entertaining to be sure. But I’m sure with time I’d be able to make one of those more dignified walking-style landings like Mr. Weasley. People would hardly notice me coming out of thin air.

I don’t have problems with motion sickness. I was always the master of the roller coaster and the round-up at Nantasket Beach. I can handle the spinning thing okay. And just think of the gas and time I’d save. I’d be able to hang around here and write longer (faster transport time than a car), and absolutely no need for gas. I’ll take it.

It was after this initial thought that things got wierd. I happened to be watching Death on the Nile on Beth’s computer while I write on mine. The nastiest character in the movie (and also the victim because of her shitty attitude) is named Lynette. For some crazy fucking reason, Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme came into my head. Anybody but me remember her? I was thinking what a three-time loser she is. Think about it for just a minute.

First, good old “Squeaky” was once a member of a dance group called the Westchester Lariats, and she appeared on the Lawrence Welk Show and at the White House. If that isn’t enough, she’s also a former member of The Manson Family. If Lawrence Welk doesn’t make you a loser, hanging out with Charlie Manson definitely does. You’d have to be short on gray matter to pay homage to that weasly little rat-faced git. Life in suburbia and membership in the Lariats must have really sucked and she had to be desperate for something, although I’m not quite sure what.

The ‘third’ part of the three-time loser thing is not just that she failed to kill Gerald Ford, but that she chose Gerald Ford at all. Gerald Ford? Why, man? Yeah, okay, it was infuriating that he pardoned Tricky. That didn’t make me happy either, but the important thing is that we got rid of Tricky. We held him accountable and he paid the price. (We don’t bother to do that anymore, by the way.) It wasn’t necessary for old “Squeaky” to take it to that extreme.

After this last thought, the kids took over and all thoughts left. I know there was another messed up thought coming over the horizon, but maybe it will make it later. We’ll see. Until then, I’m going to prepare myself mentally to serve coffee and various treats to the entitled masses. Have yourselves a good day.