Your first…

Do you remember your first library? Mine was in a strip mall, had paperback racks filled with stories. Bean bag chairs to slip into and read to my hearts content.

Then I started going into different areas of the library. Formula racing, I remember pulling those and checking them out. Dreaming of driving fast fast fast. Then it was rally car racing, spurred on by a movie my sister took me to see.

Ohhh, but in fourth or fifth grade the librarian called my mom on me. I was going for “adult” fiction– romances and Sci-Fi and Fantasy. That poor librarian thought when my mom said she’d be right there, I’d be getting a tongue lashing.

Well, someone got chewed out.

It wasn’t me.

When Mom was younger, she was with foster families. She wasn’t allowed anything of her own, and was not allowed to read what she wanted. She told me of taking a copy of an approved book (hardback), and cutting out enough pages that the real book she was reading could slip in. Those idiots probably thought she was a slow reader.

I don’t remember Mom ever going into the library to check out books. Which is odd because she was a voracious reader.  She had floor to ceiling bookcases in the house, my dad built them on the wall just for her. But library books? Not so much.

The library is about more than books now. Maybe it always has been, but I didn’t see it because I wasn’t looking for it when I was younger.  When my son was super small and I was unemployed, I took him for storytime. It was so needed for me, got me out of the house to a place where he would be entertained and it was free. And there were other grownups there going through the same thing.

As he’s grown, he’s gone to the library for crafts and classes on coding and just to look for books. For people without wifi there is access to computers– and for people who need help with them, there are classes. The local library in California had several classes, for adults, teens and kids. Gardening. Taking care of elderly parents. Diabetes control. Coding. So many classes.

The library has become a true community center and it makes my heart hurt that so many are fighting to stay open. And I think of myself, that little library kid loving all the books.

And I’m thankful.

I think I might need to go to my new library tomorrow.  Find out about my new community. I’ve only been once (twice if you count the returning of books lol). Hope you visit yours as well.

Hello, let’s talk mainstreaming

Hello my lovelies! It’s been a while since we’ve talked. Never fear, I’m still writing.

I started taking writing classes and it is definitely keeping me on my toes. It has a secondary affect, which could have been adverse. My 11 yr old son is being mainstreamed in English Language Arts (ELA) and math. I am hopeless with math, but English? Who Ohio! I’ve got a degree in that!

This is important. If you have a child going from Special Ed to Mainstream you need to listen carefully.

His teachers are phenomenal. But most classes in the SDP range are focused on reading, writing and spelling. Parts of speech, well… So we have a child that has fought his way through everything and is ready to cross the threshold hold but doesn’t know half of what’s being asked of him. Not because he’s dumb. Not because of bad teachers. But because the program that got him this far didn’t teach him those particular things.

He also has a problem with short term memory. Don’t feel bad though, his brain goes so super fast, he’s able to convert to long term memory. It might take him a bit, but he’s able to do it. Pre Mommy taking classes it was no problem.

With me taking classes it is a problem. There’s only so much time in the day. Also, my kid will be a turkey with me:crying, pouting, fit throwing, you know the drill. Our kids will push us to our limits of patience, but will be perfect angels for everyone else. This just childhood, nothing to do with dyspraxia.

But a tutor? And a person he already loves to death? Who also happens to be card carrying member of the Grammar Police? Oh yes, that will do. That will do nicely, thank you very much. No crying, no fits, just lots of learning. And that is a wonderful thing.

Now, I’m off to do your own homework. Ack! I promise, tho, no crying… well. I won’t throw a fit…. no. I promise to do my homework. How’s that?

Tea Cups: An Essay

My Mother’s Teacups

 

My mom always drank her coffee out of a teacup. It made her feel special.

 

It drove me nuts. Coffee mugs were for coffee, teacups for tea. I could not see drinking a robust coffee out of a dainty little cup, placed on a dainty little saucer. Besides, the coffee would leave a brownish stain on the lovely white china, making it look icky.

 

One time, we went camping ala Shelton (Mom’s version of roughing it was a motor home). Mom’s teacup for her coffee got broken. So I went down to the gift shop and started looking for teacups. As much as I hated that she did it, she was my mom and I wanted her happy. Besides, she wouldn’t drink any coffee and Dad and I were both about to lose it right along with her.

 

The gift shop had nice, dainty little teacups. Doll size, but they had them. We would have to give her 50 cups in order to make her human again.  Coffee mugs, on the other hand, they had in every shape, size, and color. They had cute sayings on them, pictures, the name of the campground we were at… The variety was mind boggling.

 

Then I saw it. A coffee mug. But not just any coffee mug. This one was shaped like a teacup, only larger and made of a sturdier material. It was a neat little mauve color that would match the interior of the motor home. It had a white circle in the middle, with a rose painted in the middle of the circle. The only thing it was missing was a saucer.

 

She was gonna love it. She was gonna drink her coffee and become human again. Heck, even Dad would love the cup.

 

So I bought the cup, and a little gift bag. The sales lady threw in some tissue, and we wrapped it at the counter. I went back to the RV, swinging the bag. I was going to make her happy. She would no longer be caffeine deprived.

 

Mom said she loved the cup. She filled it with coffee right away. Dad pulled me aside and paid me back for it, and slipped me a 10 to boot. I had done good.

 

Or had I?

 

A couple of weeks later, we were out on the road again. Mom was drinking her coffee from a dainty little teacup with a dainty little saucer.

 

“Where’s the cup I bought you?” I asked, trying to be nonchalant.

 

“Oh, it’s in the glove compartment,” she told me with a smile. “I do love that cup.”

 

Me being me, I had to look in the glove compartment. And there was the cup. No coffee stains for this cup, oh no. It would have too many ink stains in it from the pens she had plopped into it.

 

Now, is there a moral to this story? Not really. But I will tell you that ever since she left us, there have been two cups on my desk. One is a neat little mauve color and has some pens and pencils in it. The other is a nice, dainty little teacup that has pens, pencils, staple remover… You get the idea.

 

But when I look at the cups, I remember that sometimes it isn’t the big things that make us special. It’s the little things.

 

Like drinking coffee from teacups.

 

 

THE END