TheMommyBlog

Wednesday, September 10, 2008 Me, Me, Me, Bad Mood Dude

I stayed up late tonight reading Three Cups of Tea: One Man’s Mission to Promote Peace . . . One School at a Time, the story of an American mountaineer who stumbled into a remote village in Pakistan after a failed attempt to summit K2. By the time he healed enough to go back home, he’d become determined to return to this village in order to build them a school. He was amazed to see children gather on a chilly ledge to practice lessons by drawing with sticks in the dirt on days that the teacher they shared with another village was not present.

Children, huddled in the cold, practicing lessons, alone. No one telling them what to do, or how to do it. Sitting in the cold, focused and determined.

Made it kind of hard to feel bad for my kids struggling to understand, distill, and regurgitate concepts, with pencil and paper, in a warm house, with bellies full and a comfy bed waiting.

Anywho, I’d been feeling this disquiet lately, this anxious inertia that keeps me from moving very far in any direction. Granted, movements to date hadn’t yielded much reward, financial or professional. It’s been half a step backward for too many months now. Almost seems like doing myself a favor to keep as still as possible.

Having the kids here helps, as that sort of movement and progress is circular and safe; once you get through one day successfully and happily, there is another waiting for you. And, if you’ve done a decent job, each day should add confidence and ease to the circular routine.

I can’t name, let alone justify, my anxious inertia. I was exhausted at the end of today, despite having done nothing more than piece together a few graphic design projects after taking the children to school, dropping off the application for the free/reduced lunch program (can you believe I qualify? I do.), and doing daily household and blogging chores.

That is, I didn’t understand until I read Greg Mortenson’s thoughts on page 105 of Three Cups of Tea, as he worked out at the climbing gym in Berkeley after a disappointing and unsuccessful journey to Pakistan to deliver the school he’d promised.

Preparing for K2, honing himself into shape, he’d been a hero to the members of City Rock. But now, every time he opened his mouth, his stories were about failures: a summit not reached, a woman lost, a bridge, and a school, not built.

One night, walking home very late after work, Mortenson was mugged across the street from his house by four boys who couldn’t have been older than fourteen. While one held a pistol aimed shakily at Mortenson’s chest, his accomplice emptied Mortenson’s pockets. “Sheeyit. Bitch ain’t got but two dollars,” the boy said, pocketing the bills and handing Mortenson back his empty wallet. “Why we got to jump the most broke-down white dude in Berkeley?”

Um, hello? Fate can’t be serious when she tries to hold me up. Murphy’s already cleaned me out, go pick on him.

When was the last time anyone thought, “Let’s get Mindy! She’s the Wiz! She can do anything!” Or even, “We’ve been working on this without much progress, let’s see what Mindy comes up with with all her experience.”

Experience collecting unemployment, that is. Experience juggling bills and graciously accepting loans and gifts from parents when there’s no other way to make ends meet. Experience reminding the children that we can’t just run out and buy everything we want, because we’re broke. Experience hugging the children each time they say, “I hope you find a job soon, Mama.”

Broke. Broke down. Broken. In the spring, Mortenson wallowed in his depression. He pictured the hopeful faces of the Korphe men when they’d put him on the bus to Islamabad, sure, Inshallah, that he’d be back soon with money. How could they have so much faith in him when he had so little in himself?

I finally had to put the book down when in the next paragraph, an old friend called him to ask, “How’s it going?” There I was, in the shadows behind him, whispering, “Tell him you no speakee the Inglese and hang up!” Who needs to go there, really?

Who wants to hear the same old story again? And honestly, who wants to tell it? I’ve been telling it for over two thousand pages and shockingly enough, don’t have anything original left to say. Sure, I can turn a phrase, but then again you’d better if you’ve spent six years talking about economic stress, job woes, feelings of inadequacy, and sheer helplessness.

I actually said these words to Phil the other day: “I wish you’d known me six years ago. I was bulletproof. On fire. Could do no wrong. Everything I set into motion hummed. I was a leader. I was respected. I was a champion in my field. Everyone knew me, and that was a good thing.”

Today, I have just enough contact with old friends and colleagues for them to remember that today’s conversation doesn’t sound all that different from the last time we spoke. Kids get older, things change, but I’m still that loser on the climbing wall, reminded every day of what I used to be, unsure of what I could ever be, and afraid to make it any worse.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008 Family

I want some of this. Stone cold, oblivious sleep. Knockout sleep. Olympic-sized sleep. Look at that punim.

Monday, September 08, 2008 Divorce.360.com

As it would be unwise for me to spill any of the rants ricocheting around in my skull at the moment, I offer an exciting new way to vent. Or just read the comments. They’ve got be as good as the vents, am I right?

On Divorce360:

We’ve just launched our d360 phone confession hot line. Need to vent? Scream about your ex… or soon to be ex? Have a confession you just have to get off your chest? Pick up the phone, dial 866-844-4807 right now and spill. It’s anonymous and some of the messages will be posted on the site. Come on! You know you want to share

Saturday, September 06, 2008 Bad Mood Dude

So you know how I helped found a nonprofit that would change the way the sector viewed and used grantmaking software forever? No? Well, I did. And we did an awesome job on the preliminary studies and reports. And then funding ran out. And suddenly it was harder to secure grants to continue the work. Foundations generally have all their yearly grant money committed or as good as committed by the end of the summer, so you gotta act fast and strike early.

So, when we ran out of money, I waited. I hoped. I pitched. I had faith. I ran out of money, too.

I finally applied for unemployment last month when it became clear that I couldn’t wait any longer and needed the help. They have approved my claim, but denied my request to have it backdated to the week after I received my last paycheck, the first week there was no work for me. Rarely do they grant an appeal after a denial. Well, my claim was denied this morning, and I can appeal, and will, but it’s exceedingly rare for these sorts of backdating requests to be approved unless the employer has made some huge mistake in filing or dating a claim. Not filing out of hope I wouldn’t need it is not something they honor.

I explained that it would have showed poor faith in my organization to have filed at the first sign of a skipped paycheck. It would have destroyed the possibility of receiving back pay if we did receive funds. So I waited, and am now out three months of unemployment assistance I could have collected. That’s roughly two mortgage payments. Shit on a shingle.

So if I seem lackluster or absent, please excuse me. I’m getting ready for another appeal and trial. So much fun after the last one.

Thursday, September 04, 2008 Bad Mood Dude, Family

I’ve never had one of those naked-in-front-of-an-audience dreams, but I do have some of the other standards such as forgetting where class is, missing tests, and getting lost in hotels, malls, and campuses. There’s also a plethora of dreams in which I must pack a vast amount of family clothing into hopelessly inadequate luggage, knowing full well that I will never make the flight on time—AGAIN—and that I will end up wheeling everything (sleeves and pant legs hanging out every zipper) to the curb to get a taxi home. Trouble is, I either don’t know the way, have no money, or get caught up in some underworld espionage drama where I am forced to ditch the luggage and run for my life.

I’ll let you insert your own all-too-obvious analysis here.

Last night was back-to-school night for all three my my kids, in first, third, and fifth grade. They split up the times so that grades K-3 were the first hour and 4-5 were the second hour. Only I thought it was K-2 and 3-5. You know, three and three, all logical and whatnot. What do I know? I’m not even employed.

So, of course, I went to the first grade class, knowing that it was important to get to know the teacher that would be grading my child FOR REAL, and not at all with the latitude given in Preschool and Kindergarten.

After than, I prepared to split my time between the boys’ classes, and was agonizing over which to hit first when I saw a friend outside the fifth grade classroom. “Boy, am I happy to see YOU here! Well, in general, but also because you can give me the scoop on this class while I go do third grade.” Score!

I ran over to the third grade room, which was…dark. And empty. Whafuaaa? Ohhh no. No no no no. I flagged down a teacher. “Is it at all possible that some classroom intros are not being held, say in the portables?”

“Which teacher? Oh! Well, third grade was in the first session. She’s gone home.”

Oh dear mother of God marinating in a sardine tin.

Dylan’s class was the one I didn’t want to miss. The one I need to be on top of. I will need to make a separate appointment to get the materials, warn the teacher about a few things, and ask her to feel free to vent anytime. Man, I hate the thought that Dylan is sitting at his desk, thinking that his parents were the only ones not to show. I did, but could only be in one place at a time. My poor little guy. Maybe I’ll go over at lunch time to give him a hug and tell him I’m sorry I missed meeting his teacher.

And then I’ll corner her, which I am sure is her favorite kind of lunchtime surprise.