September 11, 2006 ...where I am supposed to say something, isn't it. Where I am supposed to say something brilliant, and reflective, and somber, and deep. Where I should honor the memory of those who died, and what we lost, through erudite words and carefully nurtured thoughts. I can't. I just can't. My mind is blank. My mind is full. My mouth feels like cotton and my heart aches. My husband has been descending into inexplicable pain for days, and finally, yesterday, I put it all together for him. He is homesick. We hurt for a city rent. We ache for a way of life lost. We read a book to our son about when Phillipe Petit walked between the towers, and somehow our three year old knows- from the tight control in our voices or the reference on the last page to the towers being gone but living on in memory- that this is a profound loss and it hurts his father and I deeply. I am tired, I am spent. Rage can be fuel for only so long. I look at the map of the world, of the good will we have lost, of the lives we have damaged, of the toll of lies and deceit, and I am so angry and yet so tired. This will be a fight until those who lead us into such chaos are gone from office. This will be a fight long after that- a fight to rebuild, to reprove ourselves. I do not know if we can ever recover. Not from 9/11, but from the aftermath. From what our leaders have done. It is a thought so bleak it bows my shoulders. I know it begins one person at a time. So twee, so saccharine, but there you have it. One heart and one mind, sent out like candle into the darkness. As we watched horror struck as events unfolded, I wondered how I could ever bring a child into this world, how I could ever subject someone I loved to a world that could unleash such vicious hate and hurt. And now, 5 years later, I know. It was the only thing I could do. The truest, best stand I could take, would be to have a child and raise him to know. Know what we had, and what we lost. Know what freedom truly is, and be willing to speak up, speak out, speak loud when ideologues would take it away from him. Know tolerance, and compassion, and love. Know right from wrong. And know that he would never stand alone in such a fight. Posted by chicagowench at 02:01 PM |
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Thanks to killer spambots FROM HELL I have had to disable all comments. Posted by chicagowench at 10:18 PM |
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Days like this, when I feel craptacular and blue because I've been knitting something I hate on a promise to someone else, this: looks really damn good. Except for the part where Matilda would mock me and it's several HUNDRED dollars I don't want to spend. And of course, the fact it conflicts with a conference the lad's at so there's no effin way. Posted by chicagowench at 05:35 PM | Comments (2) |
August 19, 2006 Notably, the BV branch. So, I'm sorry we came in 10 minutes before closing to get my kid his very own library card. Thank you for providing us the paperwork promptly and handling it quite efficiently. However-comma. Do not ever. EVER. Fucking question whether or not a woman is a mother just because she has a different last name than her child. I am not 'legal guardian'. I do not want to be in the computer as hislastname as my lastname. I am Chicago. Wench. Wench. Weeeeench. And your simpering of 'well we just have to ask, because the last names are different?' holds absofuckinlutely no goddamn water when, after I have explained in small words that I am his mother and I did not change my name when I got married, you ask me 3 more times about the names and then insist on trying to put me in the computer with the wrong last name. It shows you're either too goddamn small minded to handle this, or such a fucking holier than thou wank that you purposefully go out of your way to cause trouble for those of us rabble-rousin uppity womyn who refuse to cleave to our husbands as fully as we ought. I am so looking forward to the letter I'll be writing to your boss. No love what so damned ever. WENCH. Posted by chicagowench at 05:37 PM |
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Comments, please. How do you feel about uniforms (ye olde bland khaki or navy pants, white, blue or red shirt) for children? How do you feel about the uniforms being logo-ed with the school name and mascot, and thus you have to buy their stuff? How do you feel about this being required for four year olds in a pre-school? Edited to add a clarifcation or two, based on something Meg said in her comments. The school does not have a kindergarten- children switch to a regular public school or a private school after finishing preschool at this school. Public school children here are not in uniforms. The school the kid is currently at DOES have an after school program for children who are in half-day kindergarten- and those kids? will not be required to be in the school uniform (too complicated- the kids are picked up at their regular, no-uniform kindergarten school and bussed to this school). Since we intend to send Sean to public school for kindergarten (we have excellent public K-12 schools in our district), he will not be wearing a uniform when he turns 5. There is no choice on shirts. You must purchase their shirts and sweatshirts. As far as I can tell, girls are required to be in dresses (again, you must purchase theirs) or skirts. Edited to answer for Matilda Posted by chicagowench at 12:28 PM | Comments (12) |
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Almost no snark to be had, if you've not in the mood for seriousness, don't clicky Continue reading "this work we do" Posted by chicagowench at 05:44 PM | Comments (2) |
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Last Friday, Sean stunned us. Earlier in the week, driving home from school, we were chatting. "Daddy work?" which is Sean's way of asking if Dad is still at work, on his way home, or home already. "Daddy's on his way home from work, that's who I was talking to on the phone." "Oh," he replied. "Daddy doctor." This threw me for a loop. I mean, I don't often refer to The Lad as 'Dr.--'. "Well, kinda. Some people are doctors for people- like your doctor, Dr. B-. Daddy is a doctor of science, he works in a lab." "Oh!" Sean replied. "Daddy play cars wit' me?" And I thought that was the end of it. (Side note: there is a very well known Dr. of the same name as the Lad- who specializes in behavior modification. Bad news, he's a local as well, so often in social situations where people just hear the Lad's name, they momentarily think he's that other Dr. No no, we're the parental fuckups who let our child listen to the Ramones and play Guitar Hero) So fast forward to another morning as I was explaining Daddy was mad at someone on the phone for doing something 'hurtful' and 'not what a good friend does' and 'not good helping' is when the li'l genius put it all together into: "Mommy? Daddy mad?" Posted by chicagowench at 05:39 PM | Comments (2) |
