Kitchen makeover

So, we now have a house. I'm finally joining the Cult of Domesticity. I (not we!) have a kitchen.

This means I get to decorate the kitchen! Oh boy!

Here are two current pictures of my kitchen.

This is the right side of the kitchen. I don't know if you can see the fish sauce on the lazy susan, but I assure you, it's there.

This is the left side of the kitchen. That's our Desean Jackson/Jason Avant collectible cup on the counter. We got it when we ordered some overpriced lukewarm pizza combo at the horrifying Eagles-Giants game in October, the one where Michael Vick was still the quarterback, the Giants only scored field goals, the Eagles had a single touchdown, Matt Barkley finished out the game, and the final score was a boring 12-7, Giants. Oh, and the next week, Nick Foles threw seven touchdowns against Oakland. Yes, I am bitter about shelling out to see the most unexciting NFL game of all time. Also, why is Jason Avant on the cup? Does anybody really care that much about Jason Avant? Why couldn't they just have two pictures of Desean Jackson in two epic poses? Anyway, back to the kitchen.

Here's the basic problem with Grace's kitchen makeover. We don't really have any wall space, aside from a bit that you can't see to the left of the coffeemaker on the island. Except for that small area, wall art is out. This might be a blessing in disguise, because pretty pictures are one of those things upon which  I have a very hard time bringing myself to spend money. We do have counter space, island counter space, space on top of the cabinets, and a window that doesn't actually have a windowsill.

I spent some time over the break Googling "small kitchen decor" while hangin' out in my pajamas at 2 PM lying on the couch. Apparently, according to Google and HGTV and Better Homes and Gardens, a "small kitchen" is an open-concept 3000 square foot monstrosity that's bigger than my house. I had a little more luck Googling "tiny kitchen decor", although that came back with quite a few pictures of galley kitchens and other such actually tiny kitchens. I did get some ideas, however.

One awesome suggestion I found was to use pretty things as functional items in the kitchen. Functional is music to my ears. I learned long ago that as sure as I am Mr. Spock's illegitimate daughter, I can't do pretty without functional, because I either destroy pretty or I throw out pretty for functional. Basically, it's my clothing issue in kitchen form - if it has to be dry-cleaned, I'll destroy it, so I won't buy it. But pretty functional is definitely a possibility!

That's why, in the first picture, you can see a cute blue vases in the corner that I'm using as a utensil holder. We had been using a fairly sterile OXO holder, which was certainly nice and functional, but lacked pretty. I like the blue holder, it's fun! I'm hoping to find other nice ceramic gewgaws to use in the kitchen, preferably in brown, yellow, blue, or cream, which is the color scheme for the main floor.

Google also suggested using flowers to liven up the kitchen. This could be more of a challenge. Flowers are pretty foofy, not very functional, and I kill them all. (I don't even bother watering my flowers half the time since I know I'll kill them at some point down the road, so what's the use?) But they are so, so pretty! And Wegmans has flower sales all the time! Like that poinsettia on the island - that was only four bucks at Wegs, and it is a HUGE plant. I actually felt that the addition of the poinsettia did a lot to make the kitchen seem cozy and welcoming. I mean, when I go into the kitchen, I don't want to leave the kitchen, and frankly, I should be running away from the kitchen screaming at the top of my lungs from the dirty dishes that await. Once I kill the plant, I think I'm going to buy another one on super sale.

I must now depart. I am feeling an overwhelming urge to be domestic and make some jook. Dan will be proud.

I have a black belt in failure, just so ya know

I'm five feet tall. I've been told that I look like I weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet, but this was several years ago so unfortunately quite out of date. I have trouble doing things like, you know, opening soda bottles. Which is why, if you didn't know this already, your jaw is going to drop on the floor momentarily, like the craniofacial orifices of numerous individuals did when I gave individual Great Reveals.

I actually have a black belt in karate.

Yes, I can shatter boards with my fists and/or feet, and yes, it hurts.

Yes, I can take you down to the ground in 2.5 seconds. I actually did it to Dan once, because I'm super clumsy, and that's why I take 2.5 seconds and not 0.5 seconds to take you down.

Yes, I do know where to hit you to make you hurt and/or die, and this is where clumsy actually comes in handy.

Yes, I can mangle more Korean words than you will probably mangle in your lifetime, I can mangle them pretty good, too. Also, Ko Hwan means groin area, just so you know.

The road to black belt, in my type of karate, was long and hard, although less hard and less long than the more hard-core martial arts that focus on beating each other up every class in hand-to-hand combat. For me it took about six years full of blood, sweat, and tears (and more blood, and pain, lots and lots of pain), lots of practice, and an impressive amount of conditioning that I can currently only dream of while lying on my couch watching Gangland. Strangely, given my general avoidance of movement, I loved it. I could break some boards, kick someone in the palm, do a couple of 360 degree roundhouse kicks, get myself a Fruitopia from the soda machine, and go home and not move for three days.

I was sixteen when it was black belt testing time.

The first thing us apprentices had to endure before the actual black belt test (held outside of Philly with a couple hundred candidates), was the dreaded pre-test, so named because, uh, because, yeah. The black belt pre-test was designed by the instructors for the sole purpose of scaring the lazy out of you. It was rumored to be so tough and so nasty that candidates fainted dead away from the pain (thankfully the rumor was blown way out of proportion, but my friend did throw up during the ordeal). You had to do 100 push-ups! Followed by 100 crunches! Followed by 100 jumping jacks! Followed by suicides! Followed by the actual warm-up to the pre-test! It was awful! We would die! All die!

Once we actually took the pre-test, I'm unhappy to report that we actually did have to do 100 push-up, followed by 100 crunches, followed by 100 jumping jacks, followed by suicides, followed by the actual warm-up. But we all survived, probably by summoning the mystical power of some ancient Korean karate-god, but whatever. We passed.

After the pre-test, we started practicing for the actual test. The black belt test had two components. The first task was the physical performance test. Could you, indeed, remember all 52 moves to the karate form and perform them flawlessly while nameless karate instructors from the greater Philadelphia region turned their ice-cold stares of judgement upon you? Great, you pass!

But it was the second component that I knew was a total lock-up.

It was a written test. It was a hundred multiple-choice questions long that asked you things like "What was the date that the Grandmaster opened his first studio in the United States?" and "What is the meaning of the color red in the Korean flag?" (the blood of us black belt candidates, if I remember correctly). And who was the nerdiest karate student to ever roam the earth?

Surprisingly, not me. It was my karate idol, Mr. Cuddy, who was the coolest 60+ year old black belt ever. I came very close to his expansive knowledge of Korean mangleizations of various karate stances, but he always knew just a little more than I did. In fact, he gave me a challenge before the day of reckoning arrived.

"Grace, I don't mind telling you that I got a 99 on the written test. That's the highest score that anyone who trains in our studio has ever received. I want you to at least get in the 90s, because I know you can."

Game on, Mr. Cuddy, game on!

Buoyed by my recent success at the pre-test, I trotted off fairly happily in the general direction of Philadelphia with my mom, who somehow got lost in Willow Grove for an hour, so then I wasn't so happy. We got there in time, but barely.

Maybe I was flustered, or maybe I was just pulling a Grace and being as awkward as humanly possible without actually playing Starcraft, but I had a really hard time with the physical test. I knew I could do it, I had passed the infinitely-harder pre-test, but I was having a difficult time keeping up with the rest of the candidates. On the plus side, I totally owned the written test. Take that, Mr. Cuddy.

A few days later, in class, my instructor gently broke the news that my physical performance had not been up to par even tough I had passed the written test, I had to have passed both the physical and the written test to receive my black belt, and long story short, I failed my black belt test and generally sucked at life. Oh, and I was apparently the first person ever from our studio who had failed the actual black belt test. Never fear, however, I could try again in six months.

Being sixteen, I cried. A lot. Being Grace, however, my stubborn soon kicked the tears in the behind and I got right back on track. I was determined to pass that test. I would. My sheer determination would make me pass the test.

Six months later, I took the test. And this time, I passed the physical part! Obviously, I had found my groove this time around, although I didn't really know what was different. Except that this time we had driven around Valley Forge for thirty minutes before the test, but aside from that, not much.

Once again, in class a few days later, my instructor pulled me aside.

Oh no.

"Grace, I've got something to tell you about your test," he growled, ominously.

Oh no.

"Let's get the big part out there first. You passed your test!"

Oh thank heavens, the ominous growling was just my hungry stomach.

"And guess what? You got a better score than Mr. Cuddy on your written test!"

Ah, recognition! I brightened up a bit more.

"You got a perfect score, 100/100. And there's one more thing!"

One more thing? Could I even take the pressure?

"The testing board couldn't report your first score since you didn't pass the physical test, but you got a perfect score on that test, too. You actually had two perfect scores."

I fainted dead away.

No, not really, but I was really, really proud of myself. Now I could gloat about it. Muahaha. Take that, Mr. Cuddy!

So, yes, well, my body does currently resemble the torso of the Pillsbury Dough Boy at the moment, but I am actually still a black belt and can toss you on your back at any time! Not only that, but I'm a black belt with records. I'm the only person at our studio to ever receive two perfect scores on the written portion of the test! The only possible way for someone to beat my record is if they fail the physical test twice, in which situation they might die of shame, so that record isn't falling anytime soon.

Guess what, guys, I'm an award-winning black belt in Tang Soo Do!

A few of my favorite things!

Merry Christmas, family, friends, and random people who read this blog!

Dan and I had a nice holiday. Historically, this has not been the case for a number of reasons, including Grace, Grace, and Grace. Grace, as I have probably mentioned, does not do well without structure. Meds have definitely helped with that, but there is still quite a bit of OH MY GOSH I HAVE NOTHING TO DO WHAT SHOULD I DO WHAT SHOULD I DO WHAT SHOULD I DO OH I KNOW I'LL YELL AT EVERYTHING FOR AN ENTIRE WEEK going on. But with a bit of determination from Yours Truly, and with a bit of obsessive cleaning from Dan (my first angry angry trigger tends to be visible clutter), we had a nice Christmas. We made cookies, ate large Chinese dinners and breakfasts, went to a (very long) Mass, exchanged gifts, the whole nine yards.

So in the spirit of childlike Christmas enthusiasm, here are a few of my favorite gifts!

My mother, bless her, is sometimes a little confused at my self-proclaimed weirdness. She knows I like weird stuff, but doesn't always know what my definition of weird includes, which is why one year she gave me a pair of salt and pepper containers shaped like the hemispheres of the brain. Great idea, but seriously, even I might have some trouble salting my food with the left side of a very-realistic brain. She's gotten better over the years, though.

Mom: So, I looked all over for a present for you. Remember that book about defunct amusement parks I got you a few years ago? I was going to get you another book from the series, but they seem to be out of print.
Me: Really? I wonder why.
Mom: So instead, I got you this book!

Yes! A book about urban decay with detailed pictures of abandoned elementary schools! What more could I want?

And yes, I actually mean that.

One of my siblings got Dan and I car decals. It speaks volumes about the public persona we present to the world. Dan is happy, large, and baking. I'm freaking out.

Another sibling, God rest their soul, got me this awesome Oregon Trail shirt.

I, like every other child of the nineties, loved playing Oregon Trail. And I, like many other children of the nineties, went out of my way to kill off my entire wagon, especially if the participants of the journey were named after my siblings. Also, dysentery. Whenever people talk about whole raw natural unpasteurized foods, I always think about... dysentery. Sometimes cholera, too. Trust me, you don't want that all-natural spring water to get any more natural - you might get funny diseases like dysentery from someone who decided to take an all-natural dump in the all-natural water.

Dan got me the following article of clothing to encourage my recent interest in the Cult of Domesticity. 

Yes, it's an actual functioning fashionable apron! It's very pretty! It certainly does encourage me to go ruin some large cuts of meat, but Dan unknowingly broke one of the cardinal rules of Grace Apparel - the apron is hand-wash only, line dry. Any bets on the longevity of the apron?

And then, of course, there's the Statistical Abstract of the United States: 2012-2013!

And it's complete with the most up-to-date statistics on Persons 18 Years of Age and Over With Migraines and Pains in the Neck, Lower Back, Face, or Jaw by Selected Characteristics!

All joking aside, this book actually was on my Christmas list. I have an older version, but if you enjoy living life as an amateur social scientist, it's a bookshelf must. 

Until next Christmas! Or my birthday in July! Hint hint!

Grace buys a new coat

Yesterday, I bought this coat.

My last coat was from Kohl's. It was a little big on me and not the best, but it was nice and warm and functional, which is just what I needed. When I buy clothing, I make sure that the label says something like WASH WITH LIKE COLORS, TUMBLE DRY LOW. Occasionally, when I'm feeling a little fancier, I'll get something with a tag that says WASH WITH LIKE COLORS, DRY FLAT, DO NOT IRON. If I'm looking to blow sixty bucks on clothing, I'll look for the tags that say HAND-WASH ONLY, DRY FLAT. I never, ever, ever buy clothing that says DRY CLEAN ONLY. I tend to wreck my clothing in six months or less, unless the item is specifically tailored for abuse. My Kohl's coat was, thankfully, tailored for abuse.

Anyway, as of Wednesday, my Kohl's coat was working out just fine. By Thursday my poor Kohl's coat was beyond my repair. Here's how it happened.

On Wednesday morning, I was given the distinctive honor of changing one student's particularly messy diaper. I actually don't mind poop and pee at all (hand lotion and perfume are a different story, however), so this was a pretty routine job. The diaper was far from the worst I've seen. To give you the idea of what worst means, imagine your baby's grossest, most puke-worthy diaper. Now imagine that same mess on a third-grader. Third-graders have a lot more poop to give, let me tell you, and you have to change them standing up, which means that the grossness is magnified through the help of gravitational pull. Anyway, this particular child is a second-grader and apparently does not yet have the capacity to poop out an epic diaper, so I was joking around with this kid as I spent five minutes of my life cleaning his rear end.

"What the heck did you eat for dinner last night, dude?"
"UH!" (This student attempts to make conversation, but the only sound he is able to produce is UH.)
"I mean, seriously, why did you pick me for this? Couldn't you wait a couple minutes until Miss More Fashionable Than Grace was ready to take you?"
"UH!"
"I'm gonna get you for this later, dude. I know where you keep your Thomas the Train book."
"UH!"

So I changed the kid. He ran off to rescue his Thomas book. I took a couple of swigs of coffee. All good.

Now remember, this wasn't a particularly revolting diaper, but it did smell pretty bad. The aroma lingered all day long, even after someone (voluntarily!) hauled the thing out to the dumpster. I was quite thankful to go home and shower off at the end of the day.

But later that evening, after I had showered, I noticed something. That diaper. I could still smell it. It had somehow managed to invade my house. Where could it be hiding?

I had torn off my work clothes two minutes after I got in the house. They had been duly purified. Couldn't be the perpetrator.

I went around the house sniffing various items for the next fifteen minutes. Then I found it. The smell had burrowed into my Kohl's coat and my right-hand glove. I hadn't been wearing my coat or my gloves while changing the student, but I had brought the student in from the bus. The diaper must have been vicious enough that it snuck in my outerwear in the three minutes it took to get from the bus to the classroom. Gross.

Luckily, I had purchased my coat for just this type of situation. WASH WITH LIKE COLORS, TUMBLE DRY LOW. I tossed it in the washer and went upstairs to eat a nice big bowl of pureed split pee soup (just kidding on that last one, it was actually refried beans for dinner).

My nice, clean, non-smelly coat was ready later in the evening. Congratulating myself on buying a coat with a tag that said WASH WITH LIKE COLORS, TUMBLE DRY LOW, I triumphantly lifted my coat out of the dryer. Then I gasped.

The zipper had come out in the wash.

I haven't got a clue when it comes to sewing. I do remember my mom telling me that zippers are a real pain to reattach. I guess I could have asked my mom to attach the zipper for me, but the turnaround time for that would be, like, three months, and the forecast foretold cold snap. Besides, the coat was about eighteen months past its due date for a good dose of Grace Destruction.

And so it was that I am now the proud owner of a new winter coat from JCPenney. WASH WITH LIKE COLORS, TUMBLE DRY LOW.

A Snow Day!

Today I have a SNOW DAY!

When I was younger, snow days sucked because snow was cold, wet, and made your toes freeze. And I couldn't avoid the snow because my mom would throw us all out in the yard to be tortured by enjoy the snow. Don't get me wrong, I love the snow. Winter is probably my favorite season. I'm just Miss Overly Sensitive in many matters, especially temperature. I adjust the temperature in my house by one degree several times a day... the heat is usually on 69, but sometimes it's too hot so I put on a short-sleeved shirt and turn the thermostat down to 68, then I get too cold, put on three layers, and hike it up to 70.

But now I have a big girl job at a school, so I'm loving the (paid) snow day! When I was a sub I still got snow days, but I would also lose out on getting paid, so it wasn't quite as fun. We've had two-hour delays before, but this is my first paid day off in this position.

Here's what I'm going to try to do today.

• Write a blog entry. Check.
• Get off the couch and take a shower. This is a big one.
• Clean. Everywhere. Dan's a dumper and does things like pile up trash on the counter... three feet from the kitchen garbage can. And I'm getting more overly-focused on cleanliness and organization by the day.
• Shop online for some Christmas gifts. I've already got a few easy ones for Dan picked out. Gift-buying is so much easier when you have a man who actually appreciates things like thick wool socks. That and ammunition.
• Re-watch the Eagles game, which was the most fun football game I think I've ever seen. If you've read my Purple Curse entry, you know that I like the Ravens. However, I also don't want to get stabbed outside of some random sports bar because I'm wearing a Ravens jersey in Eagles territory, so I'm trying to get into Philly teams. Thus far I have been having quite a bit of success. Currently following both teams; not sure if that's allowed, but hey, I'm having fun!
• Make dinner, which is pot roast and vegetables this evening. For the first two years of our marriage Dan did most of the cooking while I hung out on the couch being a general emotional wreck. Since we bought our house we've been switching on and off every week, but now that Dan has a full-fledged librarian job and doesn't get home until about 5:30 at the earliest, the cooking is on me. I've been compiling my own recipe book for a while. I find a recipe that looks pretty brainless and pretty tasty from the internet (I try for recipes with ten ingredients or less, a max of twenty minutes of prep time, and preferably calling for lots of garlic and cilantro), print it out, stick it in my recipe binder, make the recipe, and then write in my notes. "This recipe lied. Chicken cooked for 40 minutes instead of 20 minutes. Too bland. Dan thinks red pepper flakes and chicken broth."
• Try to finish my library book before Saturday. I'm reading Don't Sleep, There Are Snakes, a book about the author's experiences as a linguist with one of ethnic groups in the Amazon. Surprisingly, this book actually has a general readership base and was based on an article that appeared in the New York Times, I believe. But to be perfectly honest, this probably isn't happening. My attention span usually doesn't let me finish books, which is why ebooks are perfect for me, because I can pick them up and put them down at will.
• Relax in my most favorite way ever with some Civilization IV: Beyond the Sword. I don't think I've ever gone in depth about this game - for a reason. It truly exemplifies my supernerd and my status within society (it's probably more geeky than Starcraft, considering the latter is actually widely followed in huge tournaments in South Korea - by normal people). Basically, it's a strategy game for Windows. You pick a (usually obscure) historical world leader (like Wang Kon of Korea... who?) and build cities, improve your land, and backstab and dominate the domains of other historical world leaders (like Willem van Oranje of the Dutch... who?). I love this game in so many different ways. Yeah, I need a new hobby. At least, I tell myself, I could be watching Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, but instead I am choosing to learn the basics of diplomatic policy. And in case anyone suggests a different way of wasting time, I've already watched all the Law and Order SVU reruns, like, twice over.

OK, I'm not getting any younger. Time to hit Bullet Point Number Two.

Don't read this post, it's private

Because I'm supernerd with a socially unacceptable supernerd focus on things like economic demography, I sometimes (OK, I lied, sometimes actually means, like, all the time) develop my own theories about sociology and anthropology for fun. Hey, I'm the girl who purchased and actually reads The Statistical Abstract of the United States 2008 to relax, so this is perfectly normal behavior.

So anyway, one day Dan, Dan's mom, and I were all hanging out in the Chinatown in Manhattan. And just so you know, the Manhattan Chinatown is the White People Chinatown, so don't go there if you want to experience duck blood tofu stir fry or peruse the phones at questionably-legal T-Mobl outlets in huge four-story Asian malls. The Asian People Chinatown is in Queens, although according to Dan, this Chinatown is rapidly becoming diluted through the efforts of opportunistic Cantonese businessmen who have realized that White People love to blow money at the Habachi Grill and Buffett, not to be confused with the Hibachi Grill and Buffet.

But back to my original point. It was around six in the evening and I was probably freaking out because it was too loud, too crazy, too cold, and too late. We were walking down the sidewalk with hordes of White People looking for a place to eat. We passed a hole-in-the-wall that smelled funny and had lots of Cantonese people yelling, so we figured it was a pretty good place. Before we tried to shove our way in, I happened to glance over to the front of the building. There, right in the middle of all the hub-bub, was one of the cooks at the restaurant. He was squatting on the sidewalk between the sewer and an empty Orange Julius cup and happily consuming his dinner of noodles and tripe. (Tripe is the nice way of saying cow stomach, and although I'll eat it on occasion, I'm not fond of it; it tends to be pretty gamey and hard to chew.) It was then that I had my Sociological Revelation.

The human conception of privacy is totally subjective.

This guy didn't give a hoot about where he ate his dinner. He didn't need no table or chair or even a wall to lean on. He also didn't care if he was intruding on the rights of others to use the sidewalk, walk over the sewer, or squash the Orange Julius cup. He didn't need privacy to eat.

I know for an incredibly shy person like Yours Truly, it's really hard to eat in public, because people might try to talk to me or something. I'll go out of my way to find a chair or a table or something so I can eat in relative peace and quiet. I've been known to avoid restaurants because I can see through the windows and notice that (gasp!) I would have to sit next to someone else to eat my food.

Most of us, I think, conceive of privacy as the ways that we can isolate ourselves, our families, our friends, or our other social groups from the outside world. When we eat out, chances are that most people like to eat at their own tables (there is family style too, of course, but that's a horror beyond imagination). We park our cars in our own garages; if not, we try to carve out "our" parking space on the street. At night we close our doors and lock our windows. We live in our own houses, not in a boardinghouse of multi-family flats like those of early 20th-century New York. We tend to like being by ourselves, because ya know, it would be incredibly awkward to dance in our underwear in most public areas. However, as I was enlightened, not everyone has this conception of privacy, as illustrated by the Chinese chef.

Which brings us to an explanation of a slur against African-Americans or Hispanic-Americans who live in poorer areas. Please remember that I am trying to explain why this might have come about, not actually well, using the slur.

Wikipedia tells me that a porch monkey is an ethnic slur for someone who hangs out on "front porches or steps of urban apartment complexes in US cities". Although I've rarely heard this particular term used, I've heard plenty of people talking about how unsettling it is to drive through certain areas of a city and see all the sofas on the porch, and depressing it is to see all the people hanging out on the corner doing absolutely nothing with their lives. At first glance, yeah, maybe this is disturbing.

But privacy is subjective. Different groups have their own conceptions of privacy. I'm not sure if this phenomenon is an ethnic thing or a socioeconomic thing, but just because it's easier to make my point I'm going to go for the socioeconomic reasons. Let's say you're part of a lower-income family living in an urban area. You spend a big chunk of your paycheck every month on your rent for an apartment that gets you one floor of a circa-1910 row home. There's barely enough room for you, your wife, and your two kids. There are too many people in too small a space, so there's really no privacy in your apartment. There's no privacy in a public area, either. But heck, who needs privacy, anyway? You and your buddies still get along wherever you hang out, which is usually not your tiny apartment. The least you can do is make you and your family and friends all comfy on a sofa on your front porch. It's a place where you can talk, eat, drink, or whatever in relative comfort. You could also go hang out in front of the corner store, so you can still talk, eat, drink, or whatever, but there's the extra bonus of never being more than a few steps away from a very large bottle of Mountain Dew and a couple of bags of chips. You've got all you need.

Perhaps some groups hang out in public spaces because they don't have much access to private spaces. Or perhaps they don't feel the need for a private space. For the Chinese chef, it was probably a little bit of both; he didn't have much access to a private space but he probably could have found something a little more private if he really wanted it, maybe a step somewhere or a stool in the back room of the restaurant.

I think a lot of middle-class and upper-class Americans look at the sofas on the porch and inwardly cringe at how the neighborhood they grew up in is starting to look like a real dump. Why the heck can't the current residents stick the couch inside? Don't they know that sofas are for your home? Are they just that uncivilized?

Nope, just a different way of doing things, just a different conception of privacy.

So that's my theory. And about a year ago I read a book about the sociology of suburbanization (shut up, I hear you laughing from over here) which theorized my theory, just with fancier words and more data. Also, the author had a doctorate, but we don't talk about that.

Getting to like you, getting to hope you like me

I started this week in the new classroom. So far, I like it a lot. It's not perfect, but frankly, I can deal with that. My first order of business is to get the kids to listen to me. Just like any other kids in any other classrooms, if I say sit in the chair, they should sit in the chair, if I say stop sitting on the kid next to you, they should stop sitting on the kid next to them, if I say stop wrecking the room and tearing your clothes off, by cracky they should clean up the mess and pull those pants up.

However, they are autistic. They don't want to listen to you and stop removing their pants, because life is so much better without pants. They usually do not respond to your threats of eternal retribution if they don't keep the pants on, and they do not usually respond to your pleas of endless recess if they keep their pants on. They also don't find work fun, just like any other kid, but they may respond to a work demand by removing pants. And pants need to stay on at school.

There are two main ways to get kids who are non-verbal, very autistic, and cognitively impaired to listen to you.

The first option is to give them no option. You told them the pants need to stay on, and you're going to hold those pants up until the kid realizes that the pants cannot be physically pulled down because you are too strong. You told them to find the number one, and you're going to take the kid's hand and make them touch that number one if you have to. This option has its pros and cons. The upside is that the kid does what you want. The downsides are that the kid doesn't want to do what you want, the kid might be too physically strong for you to make him do what you want, and the kid learns that you're not his friend. Also, it's pretty mean, if you ask me. There's a time and a place to do this, but not all the time.

The second option is to make them see that your way is the most awesome way. Your way is soooo much better than running around the room with nothing but the pure, clean air between you and your rear end. And this is where the Skittles come in to play. This is also where the awesome value of pretzels and the iPad and the TV and the marshmallows are maximized.

It works like this. Think back to when you were in school. If you did your work, behaved fairly well, and were not a jerk to the teacher, you went out with your class to recess. If you ripped up your worksheets and ran around the room like a maniac, you weren't allowed to go to recess. If you were good, you got nice things. If you were bad, you didn't get nice things.

Kids with autism may not be motivated by recess at the end of the day if they keep their pants on. They might not find recess to be all that great, or they might not (like all of the kids in my classroom) have the cognitive ability to realize that if they keep their pants on all day, they can earn good things. They need something much more immediate so that their brains connect keeping pants on with awesome.

So when it comes down to it, the second option for getting kids with autism to do what you want is to give them access to reinforcing food (yes, like Skittles) and activities (yes, like the iPad) only when they are doing what you want. Thus, they can connect keeping pants on with pretzels and chips, and in the long run, that's actually a good thing.

But, and this is the really really big but (heheheheh... butts... heheheheh), you're not going to be giving these kids Skittles every time they do something you want forever. This is something that I try to keep in mind, because it really bothers me to see very capable kids (especially middle school kids) doing things they they can and should be doing by themselves in exchange for a goldfish. You have to fade out the iPad and the Skittles. You don't want the kid to be dependent on sugar to keep their pants on, because then they'll just get fat. The goal of feeding the kid Skittles now is so you don't have to feed them Skittles later.

Which is why I'm currently feeding all the kids in my new classroom lots of Skittles.

And which is also why they're not running around the room with no pants, because they're busy receptively identifying common household items with Yours Truly.

My case in point is Small Girl.

Small Girl is in kindergarten. She's non-verbal, very autistic, climbs furniture, and is my inspiration for the above examples about pants removal. She doesn't want to sit down and learn because emptying the soap dispenser is much more fun.

On Tuesday, our first day back, I walked over to Small Girl, who was spinning around in circles by the backpacks. I asked if she wanted to do some work. She screamed and smacked me in the kneecap. It hurt.

On Wednesday, I walked over to Small Girl, armed with Skittles, pretzels, M&Ms, goldfish crackers, and her favorite toy, empty film canisters. I asked her if she wanted to come over to the table and play with the film canisters. She screamed and jumped off the file cabinet onto the floor. I plopped on the ground beside her and gave her the canisters. She sat on the floor next to me and put rolls of film in and out of the canisters (this is actually a good fine motor activity, just so ya know). Every, like, thirty seconds I gave her a pretzel and praised her for sitting so nicely and playing with the film canisters. She didn't scream and she didn't hit me, so that was a plus.

On Thursday, armed with the above combo of Small Girl's favorites, I asked her to come over to the table and play with the film canisters. This time she jumped up and came over to the table. She played with the canisters and ate M&Ms. This time, however, I was sneaky. Before I gave her an M&M, she had to do something for me first. Sure, she could have an M&M, but first her bottom needed to touch the chair. Sure, she could have a Skittle, but first she needed to put her feet on the floor. She did scream once or twice, but once she realized that she still got what she wanted a few seconds later, she was fine.

On Friday, I asked her to come work with me, and this time, there were no film canisters. She ran right over to the table. I gave her an activity where she had to match identical pictures. Every few pieces that she put in I gave her a small piece of pretzel. Every time I asked her to sit nicely, she did so right away. When I asked her to clean up, she did. And she ate about half the amount of candy that she ate the day before. Later in the day, she cleaned up her snack when I asked, sat with her bottom on the chair when I asked, and put on her shoes when I asked. When we walked out to the bus, she took my hand, I didn't take hers.

To recap, beginning of week, screaming and no work. Middle of week, Skittles, less screaming, and more work. End of week, less Skittles, less screaming, and lots of work. It'll take a while because she's very young and very delayed, but eventually she's going to have to work pretty hard for a pretzel stick or an M&M.

So this is what I did all week with the kids. Not all of them really care about working for candy. One little boy just likes to work, actually. But they're all working pretty well for me, and they all like me, because I smile at them and give them good things.

And yesterday I saw something that hearkened to successful days ahead.

It was playtime. Some of the kids were running around (thankfully, all of them still had pants) and some of the kids were getting into trouble (we don't sit in the sink, that's where we wash dishes). But three of the kids walked on over to my table and sat with their bottoms on the chair and their feet on the floor and were waiting quietly. One kid who is a little higher-functioning pulled out an activity and started matching upper and lower case letters.

No Skittles were in sight.

Live and learn

Lesson learned.

I am (was) way too emotionally attached to my job.

I am transferring out of my current position due to some classroom issues. If you caught my probably ill-advised posting on said situation, since deleted, you have a good idea for the reasons that I am transferring. Overall, I'm happy to be leaving my current placement, but there's just one thing that's really tearing me up inside.

I have to leave my little guy.

This, I have learned, is the possible double-edged sword to working in special education. You have to do so much for these kids who are delayed in so many areas. You can't help but grow very attached. Heck, I basically taught my kid to communicate. I was in charge of most of his education. I was very, very invested.

And then, something happens, good or not so good, and you have to move on.

Don't get me wrong, I'm very glad that I worked in that classroom for several months. I'm glad that I was the catalyst for the little guy's communication breakthrough and subsequent decrease in maladaptive behaviors (and trust me, by the time I go to him at the end of third grade, he had very minimal communication skills from his four or five years in the special education system, so I'm not trying to make myself out to be the Autism Whisperer or anything). I'm glad that I learned quite a bit. But I'm not so glad that this job morphed from a duty for a job to a duty to a particular child.

Being the structure-loving workaholic that I am, I've historically had issues detaching myself from my job, but now I'm supposed to detach myself from a child. I'm supposed to detach myself from a 35-hour-a-week segment of my life that held a lot of meaning for me. Not only do I need to detach, but I also need to trust that whoever is hired to take over this position will be an advocate for him. I'm sure whoever it will be is very competent and will bring lots of ideas and experience to the job, but this is my student we're talking about. That's tough. That sucks.

I've always known that I put a little too much emotion into my job (and honestly, that's one of the reasons that I think I'm good at my job), but this experience has really put it into perspective. And the flip side of too much emotional attachment to a job is too little emotional attachment to the life I have outside of a job. Jobs will come and go. The children in the job will come and go (and my position, since I was hired to work with a particular student, will end if the student exits the program, so it's much more precarious than some other jobs). As I tell Dan all the frickin' time, just because I intellectually understand that yes, too much personal investment in a job is bad, I can't necessarily grasp the concept emotionally until it hits me upside the head and stabs me in the back. This time it did.

And now, beaten down and thoroughly subdued, I resolve to try my best to leave the job at the job. This resolve will be sorely tested on Tuesday, when I begin my new position in a new classroom with new kids. Let's see how I do.

But the damage's already been done this time around.

Goodbye my little guy, my student, the most awesome fourth grader I know. I will miss you very much.