Mid-CenturyModernMoms

Kvell & Mom Points

Let's start off with a king-size kvell-fest.

Abe got a 98 on his first college math test!!!!!!  This comes after a 70 on his writing journal, so it was a huge ego boost for him.  And Mom was so happy.  We know that writing isn't his thing, so if he can pass that class with a C, I'll be happy.  I'll be even happier, if he actually improves his writing.  But we've already crossed a big hurdle- he's doing his assignments without my help! (Except for some reminding)  Any help he's getting on them, comes from school resources, which he is seeking out on his own!!

(Now I jsut get to be nervous about the first computer science test- his major!)

My baby is handling college just fine.  Yeah!

And I have accumulated a large batch of good mom points that I can hold over Rosie's head next time that she is in a mood. How?

Well, I was given 4 tickets to a prized Red Sox-Yankees game.  But it was rained out (and I wouldn't go down to the stadium to wait while they decided to postpone the game!)  But it was re-scheduled to the next night.  And I mean NIGHT, it was for 9 PM!!!

The other 2 people who were going with us either had something else to do or thought that the game was too late.  But I agreed to take Rosie.

I almost couldn't GIVE away the tickets to such a late game, but we ended up going with another mother and daughter- and the husband drive us BOTH ways.

We had a great time!!  There were some empty seats because people didn't show up for such a late game, so the 2 girls sat for most of the game in the 2nd row.  We moms were in row K.  But then the people in the front row left and we all moved there. (I actually liked Row K better except for there being less leg room)

We left before the end was over, but Rosie was just so happy about having been there.  And she watched the end of the game on TV to see the win.

March Madness, Asperger's Style

Amigo showed his new-found maturity and independence by buying tickets to his high school's playoff games and making arrangements to ride the school's Fan Bus. He even contacted a teacher who would be supervising and asked if the teacher would be willing to be his sighted guide in and out of the arena. He was motivated enough to take charge of the situation and ask questions (politely!) of the right people.

 

We, merely the humble parents, were impressed.

 

The team won two close games, the second one with a 3-point shot in the last three seconds of the fourth quarter. Holy sinking basketballs, Batman, it was dramatic! Chuck and I met the fan bus on its return to school and handed Amigo an ice cream treat to soothe his hoarse throat. His response: "Guess who led the fan section cheers!" Yes, he did. "Give me a T! Give me an E! Give me an A! Give me an M!"

 

Back to 'normal' Sunday morning, he picked up his history textbook to work on his homework - and promptly fell apart. Tears. Four-letter words. Negative self-talk, not suicidal, but worrying. I sent an email to his teacher asking for an extension and hoped she would understand. 

 

Hoped. There's no guarantee in these cases. Amigo doesn't get services for Asperger's; all of this falls on the vision teacher. His blindness is the more obvious disability, so school staff tends to ignore the fact that they're teaching a student on the autism spectrum.

 

As usual, I included specifics in my email. At the risk of alienating defensive teachers, I gave them information on how his disability affects his work.

 

He does not skim and scan well. Assignments like this one are often difficult and take more time than for a typical student.

• Typical of Asperger's: if he can't find the answer, he starts to panic, making it near impossible to think clearly. He panicked and froze completely while working on this at home. He was too tense and upset to accept any options I offered, including this request for extension. 
• We often modify by using a print copy of the textbookourselves, pointing him toward the section or subheading of the text so that he can search a smaller area. This year, we do not have a print copy of the textbook.  He has trouble identifying subheading and section headings on his own in Braille.

I did not include the following, even though it is important. I'll hold it in reserve in case they claim he "should have" finished it before the basketball games.

 

"Friday he was very focused (as was much of the school!) on the basketball playoff games. This hyper-focus, also typical of Asperger's, made it difficult to focus on the work during class. The school climate of excitement and anticipation definitely has an effect on him, one he doesn't always interpret correctly or understand."

 

The next game is in the state capital: today. If they win, the championship is Saturday. I'm dreading the effects on his homework. But in all honesty, if he wants to attend, I'm planning to say yes.

 

Even if I do have to continually educate the educators.

Give me an R. Give me an O. Give me another O ...

"I don't want to cheer in college."

These were stunning words, spoken by my cheer-obsessed athlete daughter near the end of last school year.

Stunning because she and I have talked endlessly about scholarships that are or aren't available for girls who cheer competitively.

Stunning because she had previously scoured cyberspace and the airwaves for mentions of colleges with hot contender teams.

Her reason was sound, though:

"If my body is this trashed after a year of high school, I can't even imagine what it's going to be like by the time I graduate. I don't know if I can continue it past then."

So I decided to leave that decision in her hands. The Roo-girl knows what her battered body can take, and neither of us wants her damaged and hurting while in the prime of her life.

And then the team went to nationals this month.

Where there were recruiters.

No, she was not picked out of the crowd. She's talented but not a stand-out. However, her coach did bring the scouts from the University of Tennessee over to talk to her.

They were encouraging, and she is left again to think about her future.

"I am going to continue as if that is the goal -- to  cheer in college," Roo told me later, "because I can always change my mind. But if I decide now not to go for it, it will be too late if I change my mind the other way."

Wise words from my little girl.

But what made me laugh out loud was what she did next.

She guided me through her Facebook account to find a certain posted instructional video and called it out, along with the men and women in orange.

"T - E - double N - E - double S - double E *pause pause* Tennesee!"

Yep. She already has learned one of the cheers.

There's no "I" in Mom

I'm a cheer mom.

I admit it freely and proudly.

I plaster it all over my own blog.

Obsessively.

The practice and performance schedule takes over my life during the summer.

And during football season.

And during basketball season.

And during competition season -- which officially started yesterday.

Pretty much all year 'round, I guess.

The way I obsess about it, though, you'd think it was ME on the mats, cheering my little brains out.

But no. It's my daughter, the Roo-girl, who has that honor.

It's her job to cheer, dance, tumble and fly through the air, going for the title of champion.

It's my job to sit in the stands and be proud of her accomplishments.

To cheer for her successes.

To hurt for her misses.

To WILL her to stick her stunts and stay in the air.

Because I'm a cheer mom.

Everyone needs a good cry once in awhile

Most people cry at the movies or when a certain song is played or even over a good book.

Apparently, I cry at football games.

It was the last game of the season. The last time for this school year that I would stand out on the track with my ever-present camera, shooting pictures of the cheer squad for both their website and the end-of-the-year memory dvd.

My daughter is a sophomore. That's 10th grade of 12 in the U.S. educational system (for those readers not on American soil!) .

So no, it wasn't her last game ever. There are two more seasons of Friday night lights in our future.

But for 10 girls I have spent the last 10 weeks photographing, it was the last hoorah.

These are the seniors. The 12th-grade girls. As is our school's tradition, they were honored just before halftime of the game.

Accompanied onto the track by their parents.

Presented with roses.

Wearing tiaras in their hair.

And I cried.

Not just because of how much I have enjoyed these 10 team members, but because I had an instant flash-forward as I photographed each beaming girl and her proud and grinning parents.

What I saw was two years from now ... when it will be Wonderhubby and me walking onto the track, with the Roo-girl between us.

Carrying roses.

With a tiara in her hair.

At her last high school football game.

Slow down, you move too fast. I've got to make the memory last ...

Hey hey, ho ho ... let's get that ball and really go!

Ah, fall.

Well. I mean: Ah, almost fall.

Well. What I REALLY mean is: AHHHHHHH, FOOTBALL!

Yes, it has begun. This was a big weekend for the Planet household.

High school football began. My Roo-girl hit the track as a varsity cheerleader for the first time.

Was it different from cheering at last year's junior varsity games?

"Oh my GAWD yes," she told me later.

But she rocked it. Her pre-game butterflies were gone, and she cheered and danced and flew like a pro.

The stands were packed. Our team won. The Friday night lights were turned off.

And Wonderhubby and I turned our attention to the pros.

We are NFL fanatics, made all the more worse by our obsession with fantasy football.

We plan. We plot. We bond over setting our lineup.

Then Sunday is our day of rest -- with two laptops, the remote control, DirecTV's NFL Sunday Ticket ...

And food.

For opening day of the 2009-10 season, we chose carefully.

Tortilla strips. (But are they big enough to scoop with? There was a huge debate over this.)

Spinach dip. (Yummmmm)

Mango-peach salsa. (Be still, my beating heart!)

Alas, the Roo-girl was satisfied not.

"No guacamole????" she complained. "This is NOT OK!"

Apparently we have failed football food.

Visiting Day

It's been 26 days since I've seen Rosie (not that I'm counting or anything). 

I've actually gotten letters from her that have some content in them (which is a miracle).  I've gotten a few calls from the camp nurse about her (but nothing serious).  And I've read accounts of some of her group's activities on the website and even seen a picture or 2 of her.  But I haven't had a hug or a kiss or a cuddle from her. (I also haven't had to deal with any PMS moods or not wanting to do her chores....)

But now, it's visiting day at camp. 

Rosie has some activities that simply MUST be done every visiting day.  These involve supporting the local businesses.  She has to have lunch at Friendly's (where she will wave to and chat with all of the other camp kids that she sees there) and she has to go shopping at Wal-Mart (see previous comment).

The camp is only 1.5 hours away from home, so it's not too big an excursion, but it hurts my knee to do all of that driving and standing around and more driving all in one day.  So this time I'm staying overnight beforehand at cousins- and then in the morning the cousins will come visit Rosie with me.  She's definitely looking forward to seeing little Ben! (And the stuff that I bring/get her, too!)

There's no crying in cheerleading. Oh, wait. Yes there is ...

Do you have a teenage daughter?

Do you like roller coasters?

Because those things go together like a horse and carriage.

Can I just say ... the Roo-girl is confusing the heck out of me these days. Make no mistake, I love her to death and am enjoying her newly pleasant disposition.

But it is not ever thus, and much of our trauma drama these days is cheer-related.

For those of you who haven't followed along, Miss Roo-teeny is a freshman on a varsity advanced competitive team. They have totally had their ups and downs (heh), but a bad bad week ultimately led to a state championship, so it's all good.

Except you're really only as good as your NEXT competition, so once you win, you can't rest on your laurels, you're back in the gym working.

And work they do ... to the point of exhaustion.

And tears.

Can I tell you how many times my daughter called me from practice with the sound of sobs in her voice?

How many times I picked up this child with wet eyes and mascara-streaked cheeks?

They work those girls HARD, I tell you.

She's not alone, though. I talk to the other moms, the moms of senior girls, and they tell me their daughters come home the same way, and have since their freshman year.

What the ...?

I have tried to find out from Roo what is wrong. Is she hurt? Is she emotionally hurt? Is she just frustrated with herself or is someone ragging on her?

The answer is universally this:

"I. don't. want. to. talk. about. it."

Wait. Please repeat that sentence with sobs in place of the punctuation.

Breaks -- and frustrates -- my mommy heart.

On the other hand, the very next day, I can pick up a young lady with a smile on her face and bounce in her step ... and a jacket with her championship win stitched on the back.

Yeah, if you don't like her mood, wait five minutes and it'll change.

Guess. Just guess.

It's been snowing steadily for more than 48 hours. We have a lot of snow. Like 2 feet of the white stuff. More snow than I've seen in a while.

So yesterday afternoon my son, the one without the coat and the boots, decides he's going sledding at the golf course. Without boots and a coat. I beg him to put on a jacket. But nooooo. He's going to wear his freaking trench coat because he apparently lost his jacket, having never even worn it. It's in the house someplace, but lord only knows where. I've looked, he's looked. It's lost.

So off he goes, and a couple of hours later he comes home, soaked through to the skin. He changes every bit of clothing, down to his boxers, and comes downstairs dressed like a gigantic elf. Totally adorable.

He lays down on the sofa and he's watching TV and then he turns to me and says, "I need a pair of boots." 

NO SHIT SHERLOCK.

This is the kid I begged and pleaded with just a few days ago to buy a pair of boots. Tims. Nice Tims. On sale at Marshalls. But NOOOOOO. He doesn't LIKE boots. They aren't comfortable. Moron.

So, in two feet of snow, he determines that maybe boots might be a decent idea. OMG, I wanted to punch him.

We'll look for boots when we can get out of the driveway. Which should, according to my determination, be sometime in mid-April.

The thrill of victory, the agony of other things

I planned to write a very different post today.

I planned to write all about my daughter's first high school cheer competition.

About the anticipation.

The excitement.

The preparation.

The blood, sweat and tears.

And the elation of getting out on the floor and doing your thing.

Instead, I have a different tale to tell.

One of anticipation. Excitement. Preparation. Blood, sweat and tears.

And abject disappointment.

The team got together at 6:30 Saturday morning for hair and makeup.

They went to school to get the bus at 8:30. Drove 70 miles away (we followed later in the car).

Made up and dressed for success.

And three minutes before leaving the warmup mats, two girls collided and one wracked up her ankle.

They scratched.

Yes, it happens, but let me back up slightly and see if the slant on this moment looks a little different.

Last weekend, one of the girls went skiing. She was asked not to, since they had a competition coming up and the 12-member team had to sign a contract that included a "I won't engage in high-risk activities during competition season" clause.

But she went anyway.

And slipped on the ice and bruised her tailbone. Out for four weeks.

Then there were 11.

By Friday, when it was clear that tailbone girl was truly out, they were frantically rechoreographing the complicated (and VERY hard) routine to eliminate tailbone girl. The coach was pushing them hard and demanded one more run-through.

They had been practicing for more than two hours and had taken time out for a gift exchange and "team building."

"Run it again," he demanded.

"We're tired. We're cold. Our legs are like jelly," they moaned.

He insisted, and they ran it again.

On the last move, one of the girls twisted her ankle.

And then there were 10.

The competition was the next day, which (as I mentioned earlier) began at 6:30 for the girls.

The rechoreographing took place on the warmup mats to edit out sprained-ankle girl.

In a moment of confusion, the two girls collided.

And then there were nine.

We were in the stands, waiting and watching for our girls to enter the arena. When I spotted them, they weren't behind the mats, waiting their turn. They were filing into the spectator seats from the rear of the room.

Huh?

And then we heard the announcement: "(Ourteam) has scratched."

The disappointment from the girls and their parents was palpable.

And the burning desire to blame tailbone girl for recklessly starting this downhill domino disaster was overwhelming.

Especially since this is the only view I had of my girl all day.

 

It's hard to be a grownup.