frog arms

The big tadpole popped an arm just now...Yesterday he was so lethargic, with two bumps on his side.  Made me think of wisdom teeth trying to push their way through my gums when I was younger.  Red under the skin.  Pressure.  This morning I took this picture:

Looks stressful and painful to me.  The Metamorphosis. Then I look just a couple hours later and the left arm has popped out. What a relief for the little thing!  Check out this proud tadpole with his brand new arm!

Any time now, pow! Out will come the other. I am such a proud froggy mama.  Then the frog should start absorbing its tail...Slurp.  Fascinating.

Handouts

I feel like I won the sweepstakes.  But really I just signed on and waited.  Tomorrow, I go in for my appointment with HUD to do paperwork that should lead to my being issued a voucher to help me pay for rent.  Section 8, now called the Housing Choice Voucher Program.  I spent over three and a half years on the list.  I actually applied over 4 years ago, but didn’t get my update form in on time (5 minutes late) so was bumped of the list and had to reapply.  Don’t most of our tax dollars going to terrorizing and bullying the world anyway?

I got the letter weeks ago, but my intake appointment was of course weeks later.  That way us “clients” can collect all our paperwork (and there is a lot of documentation to collect). I am surprised at the feelings I have gone through over the weeks about this.  I was surprised at how I felt like I should keep it a secret, like it was something to be ashamed of…you know with all this anger about fair shares of taxes.  Am I paying my fair share?  Is there such thing as a fair share?  And if so, who decides?  And why should taxes be fair when everything else isn’t?  Aren’t taxes our remedy for our unjust system anyway?

What is fair?  Does fair even exist? Is being born into poverty fair?  I mean, I like who I am, and what would I be like were I not born poor?  Would I like myself then? More or less?   Poverty isn’t the thing I would change, would I?  The unfairness in my childhood is mostly fine with me now, though it wasn’t then.  What I did learn is that it was the interactions with people that affected me, that’s what I would have changed.  I would have chosen a different dad, probably. I would have wanted my mother to spend more time with me.  But if she had spent more time with me, would my relationship with my daughter as an adult have changed? Would I be so determined to give my daughter the love, compassion, consideration that I desperately wanted as a child?  Or was it actually the poverty that robbed me of the love, compassion and consideration?  Isn’t it poverty that forced my mother to destroy her body through hard work as a low-wage slave? Isn’t it poverty that forced her to choose between giving her children enough time, or giving up her passion (Art). Isn’t it poverty that drove her to the brink of insanity over and over again? So was it fair we were impoverished? Or was it just punishment for having a mother with the audacity to raise children absent of a breadwinning male head-of-household?  And should I be punished as well?  Hmmm, Some would say, “YES, I should be punished” but they’re generally the same people who would tell me I couldn’t have had an abortion if I wanted one.

Okay, stop thinking about those crazies.  I am ecstatic…just when I thought single-motherhood in America was about the gut me.  I will be able to rent a two-bedroom place for 1/3 of my income…in northern California none-the-less.  The idea of not having that huge bill to contend with has opened up so many possibilities to me.  One is entrepreneurship.  I won’t work for the stockholders and the upper crust.  So I have non-profits and myself left to work for. Having a small job that I do from home has taught me that this is what I want. I want to work from home.  I don’t want to dress up to impress others.  I need to be me.  I want to throw out my work clothes.  Since my teaching job is out for the summer in 4 weeks, and I should be moving around then…I have all summer to recreate myself.  I get to take risks because I won’t be paralyzed by the fear of not being able to pay rent. Untrapped. I get to be an asset to society again.

I still wonder if it is fair that I get to pay 1/3 my income for rent while others pay more.  Well, the program is out there…anyone can sign up.  And you know, I work all the time, I work in my community, I work with my daughter and she is a beautiful, positive, intelligent addition to society. The work I do is far more beneficial to my community and society that anything the average money mongering CEO does.  I have been doing volunteer work since I was 12…wayyyyyy before career experts and George W Bush told everyone to volunteer because it is good for our resumes.  I am so excited to have a chance to recreate and organize again.  Move back into the realm I am comfortable with and direct my energy into the systems that make sense to me.  The natural movement of my life, comfort.  I am so excited!

I am so out of here.

How can I have so little time when I hardly “work” at all? My official work tally is about 14.5 hours a week.

Drive Ramona here, drive my mom there. (Oh man, how I miss living in a walkable place). Clean up my mess in the living room. Laundry, Lesson Plan (arg the internet is out again!). Pick-up Ramona. Clean up my roommate’s mess.  Tend the garden. Play with my daughter. Appointments. Clean her preschool. Dinner? Or you’re hungry?  It’s time for “work” after a full day of mother/daughter/roommate duty. The anxiety rides high.  I remember during finals in college, I used to pop a Vicoden so I could calm down enough to think, to be a student.  Now I have to be a teacher.  Put on some strange "work" clothes to try to impress others.  Ramona still has some left-over Tylenol with Codeine from her bone surgery.  My bones ache, my muscles ache, my mind is in a whirl.  It would be okay right? A swig to get me through work?

Drive Ramona to my mom’s, drive me to work for 3 hours, Drive to mom’s, drive home…At home my roommate tells me she is leaving for the weekend, the kids are at their dad’s.  Well at least this time (once I clean up their mess) the kitchen will stay clean until at least Monday.  I just can’t sit in that craziness. Where can I make dinner if every counter in covered in dried food and dirty dishes?  Don’t they care that they leave huge messes for other to tread around in (or more likely with me...clean up)? I check craigslist to see if there are any potential places for me to live.  I can’t move again for a month at least, but I look.  Nothing really.  I silently pray for the perfect place to pop up…

I can hardly breathe, let alone make Art.

I can hardly spit out a cohesive thought, let alone organize.

I dream that I am bragging about how my teeth are white because I stopped drinking coffee.  Maybe they really are turning white.  And maybe my wrinkles really will stop their onslaught… green tea is supposed to do that, right?

Morning again.  I race to get my work done before Ramona wakes up.  I try because the other day she was playing make-believe.  She was a little girl who didn’t have a mom.  Her mom didn’t want her anymore.  Her mom had taken her from her real mom a while ago.  Her real mom didn’t work and played with her all the time.  Her new mom took her away and was always working, and didn’t want her anymore.  Ramona’s tears were not for pretend. 

I remember when I was a child, I could cry on demand.  Everyone thought it was a cool trick.  It really wasn’t though.  I would just think about my life and the tears ran out.

Done.  I am done with the protestant work ethic crap.  My daughter is growing up. I love her more than anything. I can always "work" another time.  I can’t always be with her.  Her and I.  Me and her. It really is that simple if I let it be.  


Pining for summer to come. I have a plan. More to come...

*note: I use "" for work, since I work a lot...but like I said, I officially work 14.5 hours a week.

My Biggie Tadpole

Well i can't seem to complete a complete idea in my writing which lead to lack of posting, but frog updates are easy!

I do think I need to share my tadpoles though.  12 hatched.  I gave 3 away. Then Ramona's fish died when she was in the hospital, so it conveniently freed up an aquarium so now they all have space.  The biggest one is really growing up! I actually saw it's tongue pop out of it's mouth today!  So cute and unexpected. 

double trouble

I spent hours researching tadpoles online. In all the posts I read about how to take care of tadpoles (which were many many many), it wasn't until I read about tadpoles from a university site from the biology department that I actually got an understanding of the little things.  Lots of sites told me to feed them frozen or boiled lettuce or spinach and to clean their water often. Lots of sharing of info with no real sharing of knowledge. Ahh, the Information Age..

my biggie tadpole

The university site told me about how tadpoles actually get most of their nutrition not from the plant, but the bacteria that decomposes the stuff...basically it is better if it is rotting. They also said that tadpoles eat their poop.  It also told me that tadpoles release a chemical that stunts the growth of other tadpoles, so it is good to partially change the water a lot so the little tadpoles can keep up growing, but not to remove the poop or clean the bottom, or flora or fauna.  Those other information  sites had said to only feed as much as they could eat in a short time...not good advice since they love the rot.  Some sites told me to completely clean out the cage every couple weeks (more bad advice). Unfortunately, anyone can make a site, or get paid for writing a "how to" page.  The internet is getting so full of empty and mediocre information, it's getting harder and harder to learn anything.  But I guess as the internet gets more mediocre, we can learn new ways to locate, process and understand info.

Anyhow, looks like we got some Sierran Tree tadpoles.

old piece of spinach, new perspective

Broken Bones

I was going to write about our trip to Southern California except that my wiggly energetic daughter Ramona fell out of her chair at dinner and broke her elbow.  We had to go to Emergency, then we were transferred to Oakland Children’s Hospital.  Ramona ended up needing surgery.  Not open surgery.  They pushed the bone back together through her flesh and then with a tiny surgical drill they made three little holes to insert wires to hold her bone together.  She doesn’t know the wires are in there.  They will be pulling them out when the cast comes off.  That was a week ago.

At times like these that I feel overwhelming gratitude towards modern medicine.  I almost considered being making a career change. The suffering and permanent damage that it can relieve are irreplaceable.  I don’t like suffering. I just wish we could get all the benefits of western medicine while skipping the Invasive/Medical Industrial Complex/We Control Your Body part.  Of course, it isn’t the medicine itself.  It is the way that power and society use it.  As a weapon of power, like everything else.  That could be a dissertation.  It probably already is. Well Ivan Illich has written a lot about it… 

She will be in the cast for a month.  It’s hard to see a four-year-old body and spirit go through it.  Besides the pain, I feel like I have gotten the smallest glimpse of what it might be like to have a special needs kid; a physical disadvantage.  We do everything with two hands!  To open things we use two hands.  To balance we need two hands.  We hold items with one hand and manipulate them with another.  It is only in having one hand that we can truly appreciate two!  No more dressing up dolls, dressing herself.  Even going to the bathroom takes a lot more work and thought when a giant cast is dangling from one’s arm.  She has, however, become very ingenious in adapting and finding other ways to do things.  R’s best friend came over the third day, while she was still on pain meds and hadn’t ventured out of bed much.  After about 45 minutes, everything fell apart.  They didn’t know how to play together with her disability. 

But the next day she stopped taking her pain meds mostly and ventured about. Four days later she went to a birthday party (yesterday), one of the only two girls there.  She was the fragile one.  She had to stay out of the jumpy house, only six days after her surgery.  She couldn’t go into the rolly-ball, or even play in the sand box. She ate snacks and collected candy from the broken piñata she didn’t hit, but her spirit was visibly dampened.  

At the end of the party, when she saw that there was only one girl in the jumpy house, her face lit up.  She excitedly and nervously asked me if she could go in, that she promised not to jump high or run into anyone.  Of course I had to against the doctor’s advice.  It paid off.  For the first time in a week she was herself - free from all the things she couldn’t do.  The girl left and a couple boys came and she got to play pirates for over an hour in the jumpy house, sword-fighting with her plastic skeleton.  That girl is always the last to leave a party…

I guess broken bones are a “cool” handicap, at least from what I remember in school.  Alas, we just get to experience it for a several weeks and then we are free of it.  Like the college student who goes to visit a third-world country for the summer to experience poverty.

 I get to watch my child grow “normally.”  Whatever that means.   

We don't value "things" at all...

I had a hard time falling asleep.  I thought I would have welcomed sleep, as I have been sickish lately, but it didn’t happen.  Maybe it was all that nutritional yeast on my popcorn, or maybe I am really upset.  I was lying there thinking about our discovery today, wondering why I just couldn’t seem to let it go.  Ramona went outside to make her potion in the little playhouse, and found her potions had been emptied from her bottles.  She saw one of the carrots – the ones she made of air-dry clay and paint and little green plastic things that look like carrot tops – cracked and with the carrot top yanked out.  She showed them to me, very discouragedly. The dishes and bottles we had neatly arranged in the playhouse after scrubbing it down were strewn around the patio and a few things on the lawn.  The second carrot she had made was missing as well as the tops to the nice glass bottles my mother had recently given her for potion making.  The other day I saw my roommate’s daughter and a friend playing crazy-wild outside with the hose and hula hoops and some pans, but I didn’t pay much attention. I wish I had.  My roommate is out of town a couple days, so no way to deal with it now…  I keep telling myself that it is just a thing that kids do, it is just a little thing, but it keeps nagging at me.  It is upsetting to me.  It feels like a personal violation.  It feels mean.

I also keep telling myself not to care so much, they are just things…we are too attached to our things in this culture, right? But really we, in this culture, aren’t attached to our things at all.  We are attached to “having” things.  We might be attached to some vague sentimental memories that specific things bring back to us, but really Americans are mostly attached to having things and consuming things, not the things themselves.  New things, not old things.  We are so overwhelmed with things, cheap things, junky things, made to break things, that it actually takes some thought when it comes to valuing things.  Many people react by trying to get rid of things, and feel better for it.  A good Mexican friend of mine used to berate me now and again, about how we Americans don’t have a clue about value.  I since have slowly been opening my eyes to exactly what he means.  In the USA value is attached to costs (which rarely actually reflect any other sort of value), or the prestige or envy that our shiny possessions generate.   If we truly valued our new set of pots and pans, wouldn’t we use them gently and for decades? Wouldn't our garbage dumps be a little smaller? I proudly use the pan my mother gave me that she has been using for 21 years.  But at the same time I feel a tinge of embarrassment when I look around at all the shiny new pots in the houses of my peers (are they really my peers?). What happens to those useful “old” pots anyway? They get tossed so that we can buy something new and shiny.. Or is everything made so poorly now, and then washed so many times in the destructive dishwasher that 20 years is now a dream for a pot?  I miss the depressed rural economy in which I was born…houses full of gently used old things. Garages made into music and art spaces (not full of things that are only there for the purpose of "having.")

Did I get off track?  Yes, I feel a little violated.  Ramona looks up to her friend.  Again I return to the mind changing idea one of my professors once related, “The question is not what it is, but what does it do?”   What does this do?  Something that Ramona feels is important (making potion in her special bottles, using her hand made items for play) has been totally disregarded and decimated.  Something that she valued has been brutally unvalued by someone she admires.  I wonder what that does. 

And I wonder what to say when my roommate comes home. 

Maybe this is our All-American lesson in not valuing "things", but rather "having things".  I can just BUY new ones, right?

Our first tadpole hatchling!