In this house, I’m the Mama…

This is not a list, like the last. This is just one big tip, from me to you.

If you are traveling to The Great White North, and you don’t have a non-stop flight, take carry-on luggage only. Suck it up and deal with the 3 oz. or less containers in the quart-sized Ziploc bag. Or buy your toiletries on the other end. Just do it. Really.

Save yourself the hassle of checking baggage.

It’s been at least 10 years since I was in Canada last, long before 9/11 and its aftermath. That time I flew into Toronto and connected to Ottawa. I remember spending awhile in Customs and Immigration (not as long as I did in Vancouver - read about that debacle here), but I got through and I don’t remember having any major baggage issues.

Let me say also that I didn’t have baggage issues on the flight up to Montreal. It just seemed odd to me that I had to collect my bags in Toronto, clear Customs, and then re-check the bags. It was more of an annoyance than an actual issue.

The return trip? Oh. My. Gosh. Was. It. Painful! I’m not kidding.

I had a two-hour layover in Toronto. No big deal, I thought. Plenty of time to collect my things, clear Customs, re-check, get back through security, blah, blah… and blah. I was so wrong.

This little part of the adventure began at the Connections baggage claim which, for those of you who have not previously had the pleasure, is a giant baggage claim area for all flights connecting to the US. What fun. The group of people standing around waiting for bags was about as large as the population of a small African country and the square footage alloted to this space was not much. There was lots of jostling, jockeying for position, squeezing by, elbowing, and general unkindness. Shocking, I know… the Friday before Christmas.

My favorite part was watching a couple wearing Santa hats giving the big finger to someone. It reminded me of a story I heard about a woman getting arrested for similar behavior because she was driving a car with a fish on the back and the officer assumed, given her behavior, that the car must have been stolen. I prayed, as the couple shouted some expletives to the folks behind them, that no children were present who might think Santa really acted like that.

Anyway, my flight from Montreal had landed at 4pm. My flight home was due to take off at 6:10pm. I waited in the baggage claim area for quite some time, watching the clock, getting a glimpse here and there of the baggage claim conveyor belt, not seeing my bag. I didn’t see anyone else’s bags either, for that matter. While there were a gazillion people, there were hardly any bags.

The minutes ticked by and I got nervous. Finally, many, many bags began to come down onto the belt and be collected, just not mine. I started to wonder if I was actually in the right spot. I have traveled extensively, and I usually know my way around, but there was something disconcerting about not speaking French, poor signage, and the time issue. I decided to ask at the desk.

“Am I in the right place? My bags don’t seem to be coming.”

“Oui, Madame. You are in the right place. Your bags will come. Please be patient. We have many travelers today.”

Back to the conveyor belt I went. I waited some more. At 5pm, my anxiety level ratcheted up a notch. I did NOT want to spend the night in Toronto. I was tired and I missed my family. I wanted to go home! I spied an Air Canada employee and thought maybe she could set my mind at ease.

“How long will it take to clear Customs, re-check and get back through security?” I asked.

“You should be good if you have at least a half hour,” she replied. “Where are you coming from?”

“Montreal,” I said.

“Me too. We’re waiting on baggage for these ladies here,” she said, gesturing to a couple of women in wheelchairs. “Evidently there was some sort of mixup with the bags from Montreal. They put domestic bags in with foreign bags, and foreign bags in with domestic. It’s a huge mess.”

Outstanding. At 5:15pm, I laid eyes on the only person in the place who looked like he might have authority. He had a badge, a uniform, and a radio he was talking into with great gusto. I asked him what the deal was with my bags. He agreed that there had been a problem, but assured me that they had rectified it and my bags would be on the belt in short order. He told me that I should just let Customs know that I was in a hurry when I finally got there, and they would send me right to the front of the line.

At 5:35pm, my suitcase finally showed up. The remaining 5 gazillion or so people had already collected their bags and moved on, so my bag was easy to spot. But I had checked two, and my overnight case was nowhere in sight. I was out of time.

I checked back in at the desk.

“I’m still missing one bag, but I just don’t have any more time. My flight is boarding in 15 minutes,” I told them.

They stamped my baggage claim ticket, assured me that they would find my other bag and forward it on. Someone would bring it to me when it arrived.

I took my bag and sped around the corner to Customs. The line was unbelievable. I went straight to the front and told another uniformed, badge-wearing, radio-holding employee that I had a flight that was boarding in less than 15 minutes.

“I’m sorry,” he said flatly. “The line starts back there.” So much for that plan.

I gritted my teeth and got in line. I have to hand it to the US Customs folks. They actually got me to the front pretty quickly. But by the time I cleared, it was 5:50pm. My flight was boarding and I still had to re-check my suitcase and get through security.

I re-checked my suitcase in 3.2 seconds flat and moved on to security.  Evidently the airport had planned well (dripping with sarcasm, here), and had opened up three whole lines for the multitudes. I was sure, at this point, that I would never make my flight. Even better? I was behind a gentleman that was not in a hurry, and had more on his person than I have in my home.

He proceeded to unload the contents of his 18,000 bags, boxes and other assorted parcels into gray tubs and was up to tub number 15 when I stopped counting. My jaws were clenched (probably will result in TMJ at some point in the future) so tightly that I thought I might break a tooth. I breathed in and out slowly through my nose and worked on the relaxation techniques I know. Several interminable minutes later, Boy Wonder with his 18,000 bags, boxes and parcels had made it through and it was my turn.

I laid my laptop into a gray tub, tossed my backpack in another, my giant coat and snow boots in another, and my purse and bag of souvenirs in the last one. I charged through the metal detector, praying that it would not go off for any reason whatsoever, and proceeded to gather my things.

Suddenly, the conveyor belt ground to a halt and the man and his assistant security-checker person began talking excitedly in French. The assistant snatched something out from inside of my souvenir bag and held a 20 ounce bottle of Diet Coke high in the air.

“What is THIS?” she snapped.

“Um, Diet Coke?” I said, wondering if they were having trouble reading the label which was clearly marked in BOTH English and French. I had forgotten that I had purchased said Diet Coke back in Montreal after I had cleared security and I hadn’t thought about it since because I hadn’t technically come out of a secured area. Silly me.

I’m sure that folks with Diet Coke bottles cause all kinds of horrible travesties in airports across the world and maybe I looked evil at that moment. I’m sure my hair was disheveled and I know my eyes were wild. My jaw was clenched, and I was breathing madly, trying not to panic about missing my flight. I probably looked like I was about to cause trouble…

“NOT ALLOWED!” she yelled at me, like I was some kind of criminal.

“Do you have a trashcan?” I asked in return.

She gave a curt nod that caused her bangs to fall into her eyes, and suddenly reminded me of some kind of bizarre German headmistress that might have a knuckle-rapping ruler in her back pocket.

“THEN THROW IT AWAY, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!” I yelled back. “I’m about to miss my flight.”

That seemed to calm them down. Evidently they were then convinced that I wasn’t on some sort of crazy mission, and they passed the remainder of my things through. I squashed my feet down into my boots in exactly the way I tell my kids never to do, threw my coat back on, grabbed my backpack, shoved my laptop into it, took my souvenir bag, and headed down the terminal at light speed.

As I was going, I realized that my gate was the very last gate in the terminal and I heard the powers that be paging me.

“Passenger Stephanie, please report immediately to Gate Blah, Blah, Blah for IMMEDIATE boarding. Passenger Stephanie, please report immediately to Gate Blah, Blah, Blah for IMMEDIATE boarding.”

It seemed a little redundant really–report immediately for immediate boarding–but I guess they were stressing that I wasn’t going to make the flight, too. I began to run.

This wasn’t so much running as it was thunking at a very high rate of speed. Picture me, all bundled up with my heavy coat, hat and scarf, snow boots on my feet, extraordinarily heavy backpack containing my laptop slung on one shoulder, my purse in one hand, my souvenir bag (lighter now by one Diet Coke but still not so light) in the other. I’m pretty sure I looked like The Abominable Snowman clomp, clomp, clomping through the terminal.

I said “Excuse Me” a thousand times (when will people read those darn signs that say “Walk Left, Stand Right”?), and finally, finally, finally, in slow clomping motion, to the last dying notes of Chariots of Fire playing in my head, made it to the gate.

The gentleman at the gate nodded at me as I slammed my boarding pass down on the counter, by this point completely out of breath and sweating profusely in my heavy down coat, and he pointed to the ramp.

“There,” he said.

I went.

I was the last person on the flight.

But I made it home for Christmas and that’s all that really mattered. Several hours later, as I was looking down at the twinkling lights of my fair city out the window, feeling the excitement of seeing my husband after several days away, relief flooded over me.

At that moment, I vowed to never check another piece of luggage to Canada again…

Ever.

Long live the carry-on.

Sorry, my dear readers, for this blogging dry spell. This past two weeks has been pure-D insanity! My company asked me to travel to The Great White North the week before Christmas to deal with some pre-audit issues — what fun! There’s nothing better than talking about compliance for lifting people’s spirits and spreading Christmas cheer!

That week threw off my groove… entirely. But I think I’m recovering from the madness of rushing around like a crazy person at the last minute, having lost an entire week of purchasing, planning, baking, decorating time. We managed to squash everything we needed to do into approximately two days, which left us exhausted and irritable… what was it I was saying about lifting spirits and spreading cheer?

To get back in the groove, I thought I would share with you some important tips for travel to The Great White North. It was an interesting trip.

1. If you are addicted to 44 oz. Diet Dr. Pepper and must have one to get through the morning (and again in the afternoon), you will suffer mightily on two fronts.

For some strange reason, folks up there don’t believe in super-sized drinks and just those little 12 ounce cans (do the math, it would take 4 of them to match my ONE 44 oz.) cost a dollar apiece! If you cave and just buy two 20 ouncers, make sure you aren’t carrying your laptop bag and your purse at the same time, because juggling doesn’t work so well then.

And? They don’t have Dr. Pepper, Diet or regular… anywhere. Thank goodness for Diet Coke.

2. If you don’t speak French? That could be a serious problem. In the city of Montreal everyone is mostly bilingual.  Everyone is mostly NOT bilingual in the suburbs which is, of course, where I happened to be.

So the entirety of the Subway menu appears in French and you had better have your pointer finger ready. Even if you have a translator, they call things like the “Cold Cut Combo” the “Cold Meat Combo” and will laugh riotously at your best efforts to explain it.

And you better not argue about anything that might be on it when it does finally arrive. Those folks are pressed for time and don’t have the cycles to deal with your “too many banana peppers” or “I asked for mayo not mustard” issues.

3. When I mentioned that $1.00/12-ounce Diet beverage thing before? It’s not just the soda that is twice as much as things here in the US. It’s pretty much everything.

So when the folks there said, “Let’s go to the mall and go Christmas shopping tonight,” my first thought was, “Yes, how lovely. I’d like nothing more than to spend my hard-earned dollars far more quickly at your shops and come home with far less than I’d planned. I’m sure my kids would be super excited about that.”

I did go shopping. I bought a six-pack of 20 ounce Diet Coke (for $7.00)… and some Oreos with the packaging written in French (a bargain at around $5.00), because other souvenirs were out of the question. (See the next paragraph for clarification.)

If you need sundries, pack them in your suitcase beforehand.  Don’t buy them there.

4. Souvenirs? Oh. My. Gosh. A single deck of cards with the maple leaf on them was $8.99.

I think if I had known I was giving those cards to my Grandmother, who loved to play cards, was the most responsible human being alive, and would keep decks of cards for longer than 20 minutes (more like 20 years), I would have shelled the nine bucks.

But knowing that I would be giving them to my kiddos, who I love very much but will almost surely lose at least a face card and two number cards within the first 24 hours? Um… no. So I bought some candy bars instead ($2.50 apiece, but I won’t feel bad when those are missing!), to go with the French Oreos.  They’ll just have to deal.  Stuff I would normally buy?  Like T-shirts and stuffed animals with “Canada” written on their furry bellies?  Out of the question.  I will NOT pay $25.00 for a Beanie-Baby-sized bear any more than I will pay $9.00 for a deck of cards.  Seriously.

If you are planning on bringing home souvenirs from Canada?  Maybe you can find a good place to buy them online ahead of time and just have them shipped to your house. 

5. On to the work week. Those French Canadians work a 35-hour week… including a nice, long, relaxed hour and a half lunch. I’m not kidding. Even when they’re getting ready for an audit. And things like “Red Finding” or “Shut down the site” don’t seem to phase them or worry them into working more hours. And? They’re completely closed for the week of Christmas AND the week of New Year’s.

You should consider asking your boss to give you the same courtesies here in the good, old US of A.

If Diet Dr. Pepper wasn’t non-existent, and Diet Coke wasn’t $1.00/can, I might seriously consider moving there…

6. Except for the snow. I have never seen so much snow in all of my life. While I love snow, adore snow, wish for snow, wait for snow, love to watch the snow fall, this was far too much for even me.

These folks have a dump site for snow, a whole giant parcel of land where they take huge dumptrucks full of snow and dump it, so that people can drive on the roads and do other tasks required for life. The big topic on the news while I was there was that the dump site was full. They were wondering what on earth they would do with the rest of the snow. Crazy. Pure-D insanity, I tell you.

If you can avoid flying in and staying for any length of time during the months of December and January, do it.

7.  Also except for the cold.  I had a heavy down coat, a scarf, a stocking cap (gotta love Hat Head), gloves, and snow boots, and I will still frozen to the core.  I come from snow country.  I understand the cold.  But it’s an entirely different kind of cold there.  It’s “in your bones” cold.  I think it’s possible that they have to have a 35-hour work week because it takes so much time to bundle and unbundle every time you come in or go out.

If you’re heading that way?  Pack the warmest things you own and wear at least 5 layers of clothing any time you have to go outside.

8. Also except for the driving. While I was waiting for the driver to get the car that would take me to my hotel, the snow plow came through the taxi stand. There was a cacophony of honking back and forth as taxis maneuvered in and out, the snow plow honking behind them, trying to get up close to the curb. It was like a ridiculous ballet for awhile, which was rather amusing.

But as soon as the snow plow got to the curb, the driver proceeded to mash the plow to the ground and run over every. single. sign along the sidewalk. By run over, I don’t mean that he bent them. They were all mounted on steel poles, sunk into the concrete sidewalk. No, he didn’t so much bend them as he did just rip them out of the ground, concrete still hanging on, the sound of groaning metal hurting my ears.

That snow plow driver? One of the better drivers I saw while I was there.

If you plan to be there, take a taxi.  Don’t get your own rental car.  You would literally take your life into your own hands.

I have more to tell you about my trip, and about Christmas, but to keep this from being the longest post on earth, I will stop for now.

Tune in tomorrow for The Great White North - Tips 2…

We Christmas multi-tasked last night. We took in Freddy’s choir concert, which was pure joy… with a teeny bit of hell mixed in. Picture 150 3rd, 4th and 5th graders singing White Christmas at the top of their lungs, their angelic faces a mixture of boredom, rapture, yawning, intensity, laughing, and talking. They were amazing. I had a tear in my eye as I video taped the occasion for posterity.

The event was held in the school’s too-small auditorium and we family members were about 600 strong, packed in like sardines, all there to support our little darlings–all of us included several very grouchy 2 and 3-year olds that threatened to drown out the Christmas cheer entirely. And although the temperatures outside were hovering in the teens, it felt like summer inside. I desperately wanted to strip off my down coat and my heavy sweater just so I wouldn’t sweat into the camera lens, but my allotted space was only about 1 1/2 square feet, so there was nowhere to put the coat or the sweater. There was barely room to hold the video camera over my head so I could capture each song, and my arm felt like jello by the time it was all said and done.

But we clapped enthusiastically, oohed and aahed at all of their hard work, thanked the music director (who is an angel herself, I must say), got the video we needed, and took some pictures.

Then we left the concert to come home and decorate our tree.

I am a plastic tree kind of person. I’m really not into cleaning up the needles, keeping the darn thing watered (have I mentioned before that I’m the Black Thumb of the family), hauling it down to the street after Christmas, perching on a ladder trying to string lights just right, or worrying about fire danger. Like everything else in my life, I like the tree to fit nicely into its box and go, organized with all other Christmas paraphernalia, into the basement by mid-January.

And I really like that I don’t have to wander around a Christmas Tree Farm (although I think the naming convention of the Hatfields on one side of town and McCoys on the other is inspired) freezing my hiney and other assorted parts off, looking for the perfect tree.

My Hubby, on the other hand, is a live-tree guy to the end. He’s all about the smell of freshly cut pine and dripping sap, wandering around the Christmas Tree Farm picking the perfect tree, concocting the boiling water and sugar mixture that feeds it, and keeping it alive as long as possible. He would trek to the mountains to find the perfect tree to chop down if he could.

We compromised this year. We chose a live tree, but we’ll buy the plastic version on after-Christmas discount and alternate my pre-lit fake for his live every other year.

Because of this ongoing debate, it took us longer this year to actually get a tree. We brought it home Wednesday night and decorated it last night, after the choir concert was over.

My Hubby has fond memories of decorating with family, Christmas carols playing in the background, lights twinkling on the tree.  I have the same fond memories, centered around reminiscing–checking out each ornament and remembering something about the time and place. This year was no different for us.

Listening to the soft strains of Silent Night and the giggles of our children, we dug out all of the ornaments and delighted in the love that had gone into each one. We don’t have a lot of ornaments that are store bought. We have a few that give the tree a little bit of synchronicity, but most are ornaments that were handmade.

I love to look at every one of them, the year written neatly on the back by teachers or daycare folks, the front decorated with macaroni, glitter glue, popsicle sticks, pipe cleaners and construction paper. Each of our children has some special talent in the art department and we have an excellent collection of carefully constructed Santas, glittering pinecones, framed pictures, bead ornaments, dough cut-outs and lists of things we’ve been thankful for over the years.

Just as I got a tear listening to the elementary school choir sing White Christmas, I got a little misty-eyed looking at each ornament and thinking about where each child was when he or she made these memories. I lovingly traced the outline of the stocking that’s a little more wilted this year but has some amazing construction paper patchwork–that one was made by Velma in the first grade. I glued back on the pom-poms that had fallen off of the craft-foam wreath encircling a picture of Daphne in kindergarten. I fixed the bric-a-brac hanger on the measuring cup with a circular (read: sort of oblong, but good effort) cut out of Shaggy pasted in the bottom.  And we all recalled the year that Freddy went to a pottery-making event and made an ornament for each member of the family.

Each one of them remembers with such clarity…

“I was in 1st grade when I made this one…”

“Yeah, that was the year I made you a car…”

“I love this one, it’s my favorite out of all the ones I’ve made…”

“Look, I was missing a tooth in this one!”

They dug through the boxes to find their personal ornaments, reminded us of the circumstances surrounding their creation, attached hangers, and found just the right spot to place each one on the tree.  We all marveled at how beautiful the tree was when we were finished. Not Martha Stewart, for sure, but our very own work of art filled with love.

The years have gone by so fast. They’re all so grown-up these days. I’m not sure popsicle-stick Santas or glitter-glue pinecones would keep their interest now. But I’m glad that they have made these memories. I’m even more glad that we get them out every year, remember the effort and emotion that went into each one, and hang them up for us all to enjoy.

As I looked at an Angel card/ornament that my grandparents gave to me, slid a hanger through the fraying string, and read the words my Grammy wrote to me almost 35 years ago, I was grateful for this tradition.

I was grateful for the snow falling gently outside the window, for the warmth of the fire crackling in the fireplace, for the smiles of each one of our healthy children, for the family members we are blessed with, for the time we spent sifting through our memories from years gone by, and especially for the new memories we’ll make this next year.

Long after the kids had gone to bed, My Hubby and I sat on the couch, the rest of the house dark and quiet, in the glow of the twinkling lights.  We didn’t speak, just sat and enjoyed each other’s company.

These moments?  These are what it’s all about.

I didn’t quite get around to the court update I promised yesterday. Sorry. Things have been a little nutty. Since I wasn’t able to do it yesterday, here it is…

When I posted We Lost, But We Won right after we got out of court the beginning of November, I explained that The Honorable What’s-His-Name (THWHN) had laid out some very specific guidelines (not “guidlines”) for The Egg Donor (ED) to follow. THWHN reduced his verbal orders to a written order the very next day. In my experience, it usually takes several weeks for judges to issue a written order when attorneys are not involved, so we were fairly shocked by the speed with which he issued the written end of it.

There were basically three directives to ED. They are as follows (Note: ED is the Respondent, My Hubby is the Petitioner):

Respondent is to engage and pay for therapy as required by (Therapist’s Name), the child’s therapist. Should Respondent miss any session for reasons other than her present ongoing illness, her parenting time will be severely restricted by this Court.

The Court further orders that the Respondent set up and attend a doctor’s appointment with Shaggy’s doctor concerning his asthma. This appointment is to take place prior to November 14, 2007.

… the Court finds that the Respondent is in contempt and orders her to pay the Petitioner a total of $1,000.00 at $100.00 per month until fully paid.

The court also ordered My Hubby to do something, as follows:

… the Court orders the Petitioner to notify and provide evidence to this Court if the Respondent fails to abide by any of the orders issued herein. Once notified, the Court will, sua sponte, modify parenting time to every other weekend for Respondent.

What does it all mean?

What it means to me is that THWHN gave ED one more chance to act like a mother, rather than continuing to act like a spoiled, irresponsible child. THWHN basically said that if she did continue to act like a spoiled, irresponsible child, she would lose and lose BIG.

His wording (”severely restrict”) says a lot. Restriction of parenting time usually involves something like losing all overnight visitation and/or having only supervised visitation. He wasn’t just kidding around when he said it. Further, if she didn’t comply with ANY of the rest of the order, he would “sua sponte” (meaning that the court makes its own motion) modify parenting time to every other weekend for her. Serious words…

How’s she doing with that?

Yeah, you guessed it. Not so well.

• On Issue #1 (therapy), which was the MOST important issue to THWHN (see this post for a refresher), she will have missed four out of six appointments by the time January rolls around.

• On Issue #2 (understanding Shaggy’s medical needs), she pretty much missed the boat there, too. See this post for a refresher on that one.

• On Issue #3, you guessed it, we haven’t seen a single penny… not one thin dime. And? She is in contempt again because she has refused to pay her portion of the additional medical expenses that have been incurred since the hearing.

Because THWHN ordered My Hubby to let him know if she wasn’t complying with his orders, we filed a nicely wrapped Notice to the Court, complete with pretty, all-color exhibits like:

• A letter from the therapist saying she had already missed several appointments

• A letter from the PA contradicting ED’s e-mail claim that the antibiotics prescribed were preventive and stating that ED didn’t bother to tell them she was there to understand the treatment plan

• Pictures of the number of antibiotics left in the bottle (all of them) when she dropped Shaggy off to us two full days after the antibiotics were prescribed

• ED’s e-mails stating that the antibiotics were preventive, that she would be missing therapy appointments, that she refused to pay My Hubby for further outstanding medical, etc.

It was a work of art. We filed it on November 30.

This is where things get a tad anti-climactic.

My Hubby contacted the Clerk of the Court the following Monday. While THWHN said that My Hubby was to let him know “immediately,” the Clerk won’t even schedule a review of the Notice until January… a full 30 days after receipt of the Notice because ED has to have time to respond. Due process… what a fun thing.

I was incredulous. I had visions, of course, of THWHN issuing an immediate order two seconds after he received it. I wanted him to read it the same day and execute some swift justice. Not gonna happen.

So we wait… again… while things get crazier by the day.

Actually, it’s probably a blessing in disguise. We’ll get through Christmas without some great upheaval in the kids’ lives and they won’t forever remember that this was the time of year their lives turned upside-down.

I’ll keep you posted on new developments if we get them before then.

Otherwise, tune in for the loony report just about daily and pay special attention when January arrives…

So one of Velma’s teachers responded with this:

I understand that you want to be informed with decisions made about Velma’s education. In the future I will make sure you are informed before a meeting takes place. I was planning on contacting you this week to set up a meeting with you to discuss the contract we are trying out with Velma. I have already seen great improvements with Velma as a result of implementing the contract. She is taking more ownership of her work and is very motivated.

Please let me know when you can meet next week (we both have other commitments this week). Velma’s other teacher and I are available next week Tuesday-Friday from 8:00 a.m.-8:30am or after school on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday any time between 3:45 p.m.-5:00 p.m.

Velma’s Teacher

And the crazy one responded with this:

It isn’t that I want to be informed about decisions that are made in regards to Velma’s education. I am to be apart of those decisions and you disregarded that. You waited almost three weeks to contact me. You have shown a complete disregard for BOTH of Velma’s parents taking an active part in her education and I am incredible disappointed. Had this been your child you would not have tolerated it.

The Egg Donor

How about, “Wow! I’ve seen such an improvement in Velma’s schoolwork over the past few weeks. Thanks for working with her on it!”

How about, “I’m sure getting to this point has been a challenge. I am happy that you have been able to find a workable solution with Velma.”

How about anything other than her usual derailment of any process that might benefit the kids?

I truly don’t understand why she doesn’t support the efforts these folks make, instead of making it as difficult as possible for them. She does this to doctors, teachers, arbitrators, therapists… everyone she has ever had to deal with who might be trying to help the kids. It’s astounding to me.

You would think she would have been at the school trying to have her own conference with the teacher, rather than just sending nasty e-mail back and forth. (Note: In her response above she didn’t commit to any time that she might meet with Velma’s teachers face to face - shocker!)

I continue to say that I will stop being amazed by her behavior.

It just does not happen.

Today she sent this to Velma’s teachers:

Velma’s Teachers –

It is my understanding that a meeting occurred with both of you, Velma and Velma’s father. A number of guidelines for Velma were set in place that day that no one has contacted me in regards to. Velma came home upset and confused as to why no one had told me that homework and special items that aren’t normally signed off on were to be signed off by me when she is with me.

This is an issue I have taken up with her dad but I’m asking that she not be penalized for items that she may have returned without appropriate signatures.

Furthermore, I am VERY disappointed in you both that you would put expectations in place for Velma that are also supposed to be administered in my home without my input and without notifying me.

I trust that meeting and expectations in the future are not established for Velma without BOTH of her parents notified and without BOTH parents input. I hold Velma’s father just as responsible as I do the two of you for choosing to not include me in decisions about my daughters education.

Thank you

The Egg Donor

She sounds so superior, doesn’t she?  Like she actually knows what she’s talking about, even though the decisions made were decisions made by the teacher for Velma’s benefit… even though Velma is the one who should be explaining it to ED, not someone else… even though ED has direct access to both teachers and could have met with both of them at any time.   She DID at least clean up her grammar and use spell check!  I can hardly believe it!

I wonder if she can spell p-e-r-s-o-n-a-l r-e-s-p-o-n-s-i-b-i-l-i-t-y…

Probably not.  I won’t hold my breath.

I know you didn’t think it could last… this whole posting about things other than The Egg Donor (ED). While it’s been really fun to reminisce about happier (albeit tough) times, and the first real snow before Christmas, she couldn’t make it more than a couple of weeks without dropping out of reality and into crazy land.

You’ll remember from my posts a couple of weeks back (School Fun With ED - Part 1 and School Fun With ED - Part 2), that The Egg Donor is not the sharpest crayon in the box when it comes to things like working with the kids’ school. Despite the fact that Velma is struggling mightily in school this year (as is Shaggy), ED has still not scheduled a single conference with the kids’ teachers. She has interfered as much as possible, by sending nasty e-mails to My Hubby and to the teachers directly. But she has not done ONE SINGLE THING to actually make an attempt to improve things for the kids.

We met with Velma’s teacher a couple of weeks ago. It was a great meeting… really. The teacher had plans already drawn up for Velma and they involved Velma taking most of the responsibility for getting her work done. She is responsible for getting signatures on her reading log every night, getting signatures on her math homework every night, making sure that her backpack is clean and organized every day, and in general getting her happy self organized and staying on task. This works for all of us because, really, it should NOT be my responsibility or My Hubby’s responsibility to keep Velma in line on this. And we all already know ED won’t keep her in line–she’ll just let her fail, all the while telling everyone around her what a stellar example of motherhood she is.

So Velma has to do these things each day, and it is also her responsibility to show the teacher that these things are done. When the teacher has reviewed the list, she signs off that Velma got all of her signatures, had a clean and organized backpack, had a clean desk, stayed on task in class, etc. At the end of each two-week period, if Velma has so many points accumulated from doing these things, she gets to pick something special to do or have, with the teacher’s approval. For instance, the teacher might have lunch in the classroom with just Velma one day, or she might get to skip one night of reading.

It seems to be working very well. Velma earned all but five of her points in the last two-week period and she chose a giant candy bar (outstanding). She was very excited about her progress, and so were we. It’s the first time this year she really seems to be making the effort. And she’s made comments like, “It feels really good to be doing better in school,” and “I like to get A’s, it’s awesome!” Yes! That’s what we were looking for. We’ve known all along that Velma is capable. That’s been the sticking point. If we thought she was a D-student, we would accept Ds on her report card. But we know that she is capable of being an A-student, or a B-student.

Anyway, we’ve all been rolling merrily along with this great improvement, feeling pretty good about the whole deal.

Suddenly yesterday, ED crawled out from under her rock (or whatever it is that causes her to wake up from one dreamworld and step into another), and sent the following to My Hubby:

From: The Egg Donor

To: My Hubby

Recently you chose to have a meeting with Velma’s Teachers without my knowledge or presence to determine new homework guidelines and expectations for Velma.

Velma’s guidlines were decided upon BEFORE Thanksgiving and severe punishment put into place for any items that she didnt adhere to. The problem with this is that you and her teachers are expecting this from her and Teachers are reporting to you about expectations no one had the respect to include me in or inform me of.

Let me remind you that we do have joint custody and you are not to make any decision per the arbitrator without informing me in writting. It is also highly inappropriate for you to set guidlines for MY HOME and punish Velma for guidlines I didnt set and have teachers report on items no one told me about.

In no way is this co-parenting and in the future, I would expect that you no longer have meeting concerning Velma that you do not contact me about nor set guidlines for things in my home.

Thank you,

The Egg Donor

A few things came instantly to mind.

First and foremost, what the holy heck are you smoking you crazy loon?

Second, didn’t you state that you had already set “guidlines” (which, by the way, were not communicated to My Hubby) for Velma and then, in the very same e-mail, condemn My Hubby and the teachers for setting other guidelines?

Third, no one has to notify you of diddly squat. This whole deal is Velma’s. It is her responsibility. No one is setting guidelines for YOUR home. Velma’s teacher is setting guidelines for VELMA, who has obviously communicated them to you because you’ve been signing off on her stuff for TWO FULL WEEKS now!

Fourth, aren’t you just glad that Velma is doing better in school?  Oh, sorry, I forgot momentarily that everything in life is about YOU.  I’m back on track now.  I’ll try not to forget again in the future and make the mistake of thinking that you would ever, for any reason whatsoever, put your children’s needs ahead of your own craziness.

My Hubby didn’t even respond. What would be the point? Seriously.

I just have to shake my head and refer back to my regularly scheduled amazement that she can get up every morning and brush her own teeth. I think I hear circus music playing in the background.

Tune in tomorrow to read the latest on the court’s reaction to all of this…