Jen's watching "Say Anything" again. It's giving me a severe case of deja vu.
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Things have been pretty good — which is to say normal, which some might call boring. But since, as it turns out, I'm going to JournalCon next month (blame Greg), I figure I should be, you know, journaling. Thus, another desparate attempt to catch up via a rambling update of fragmented domesticity.
For what it's worth, August is like a big hole in the time-space continuum as far as I'm concerned. I have only my online gallery to remind me there was the bon dance, and an air show, and not one, but two picnics. And Jen's birthday, her... er, 29th. But as I told Ian (who's back in town) when I managed to get out to meet him recently, most of the month basically washed away in a sea of v...
There's that deja vu!
Yes, we all got sick. Yes, again. Germs were passed around in that grotesque carousel of madness that is any home with small children. Zac, as both he and Katie did the month before, succumbed to dehydration and ended up at the emergency room. Jen and I both grimaced through the other's melodramatic moaning. I know for a fact that in one week, we did at least ten loads of laundry, and emptied two cans of disinfectant spray.
And this time, as an added bonus, my mom joined in the fun. We both missed work on the same day, which sent some of our coworkers into a tizzy.
There were also a few automotive misadventures, perhaps inevitable with any addition of a car (or, yes, a Ford) to a family. Leaky this, sticky that, the sound of grinding metal. Let's just say that Dubya's ill-considered but nonetheless appreciated tax refund check was spent before we ever got it. And we haven't gotten it yet — turns out they lost it.
Anyway, that was then, this is now. (Let me prove my love girl...)
Perhaps most significant among the developments in recent weeks would be Katie's official entry into the academic arena, in which, it boggles my mind to think, she'll be trapped for the next twelve years of her life.
Since the long-imagined Kamehameha Schools scenario didn't work out, and since the inviting Noelani Elementary campus up the hill turned out to be horribly overcrowded, our daughter is now the ward of President Abraham Lincoln School, just around the corner from Nate's alma mater, Roosevelt.
Technically, Lincoln is located in a district known as Papakōlea, which — as the Honolulu Advertiser unhelpfully noted this summer — "was a place to be avoided" ten years ago. In short, the neighborhoods it serves are generally lower income, and since Papakōlea is a designated Hawaiian Homesteads area, a high percentage (34 percent) of its students have Native Hawaiian ancestry.
It is a community of growing pride and strength, however, and at Lincoln the classes are comparably small. I'd like to think Katie would do better in a close-knit group, getting in touch with her Hawaiian side, rather than losing herself in a mob obsessed with designer clothes. Besides — I didn't exactly go to an upper-class elementary school either, and I turned out okay. Our public school system here is nothing to cheer about, but a school should only be a small part of a child's overall education.
I say all that, of course, defensively. Jen and I both want to give this school — as we would any school — the benefit of the doubt, perhaps doubly so after learning one of our neighbors moved her son into another school without even giving Lincoln a good look. But Jen's the one going over to the campus twice a day, and I've learned long ago that she's got the better sense of what's best for our kids. And she's already fretting, biting her nails.
Part of what's bugging her is exactly what I went through in kindergarten: mind-numbing boredom. Katie can already read pretty well, like I did at her age, and loves borrowing books at the library and reading them to us in bed. So I feel for her when I get home and ask her what she learned that day, and she says, "D." The letter D.
But the other part carries more weight with me, and that's the issue of how involved the teacher and school are in general, and how involved they let the parents get. I, perhaps naively, think a school that lacks resources can make up for a lot with people who care. The Wai`anae model is the one I think should be replicated everywhere.
Jen's been frustrated because Katie's teacher isn't just uninterested in talking to her about Katie's progress, but seems to outright dislike parental contact of any kind. Parents are most definitely not welcome in the classroom (which, perhaps, makes sense), but outside of it, the teacher barely acknowledges a polite greeting.
What's worse, the seemingly institutionalized method of parent-teacher interaction that does exist — a "communications folder," through which we send verification of Katie's homework and receive noticies of a multitude of fundraisers, for example — seems almost blatantly neglected. Jen will dutifully note down every book she and Katie read together, and she and I will both sign on the right line every time they send out an announcement. But Jen swears that the folder, or even Katie's school bag, isn't even touched at school. I certainly can't find any sign that information is flowing from her teacher to us, or that she's seeing what we're sending her.
I've half a mind to put "The Catcher in the Rye" on her reading list one day and see if anyone notices.
I know we're probably just being ridiculous, oversensitive, in what is only Katie's first month of school. There's a lot more we could and should do if we're concerned, including becoming (gasp!) PTA members.
Yet, I confess, I also feel better knowing that both my mom and I are both checking under the proverbial sofa cushions, and that Jen is already requesting information from a handful of HAIS members. It seems their special "Guide to Private Schools" in the latest Honolulu Magazine came out just in time.
Zac, meanwhile, seems on the verge of exploding with cuteness.
Honestly, it's surprising even me, how much I love this kid. My fear of being unable to raise a boy is well documented. And yet, it turns out, I love playing with him. I love just watching him, looking at him. Part of it is — in a way completely different but no less wondrous than it was with Katie — that I see so much of myself in him already. And it inspires and terrifies me.
The kid is stubborn. He has an almost frightening ability to focus on just one thing. He's not afraid to express himself, loudly, or to show you (or take from you) what he wants. And, in his own way, he's tough. I like to say, "He's got a hard head. No really, it's surgically enhanced!"
He's been walking now for three months (whereas Katie, at 15 months, was still almost two months away from taking her first steps). And he's truly unstoppable. When Katie's in the tub, or when Jen's in the kitchen, I'll regularly build a barricade out of furniture, boxes, even toys. Yet he always finds a way over, around, or through. He also has no sense of scale. Whether it's a jumbo box of cereal that's twice as big as he is, or our Volvo-esque stroller, he's going to move it, push it, drag it, or very nearly kill himself trying.
And while not yet malicious in any way, he already takes absolutely no guff from his sister. Even at this early age, he can hold his own, and wonder of wonders, even Katie has learned that there are just some fights not worth getting into with him. Because sometimes, he wins.
One way in which he's not like me, I guess, is his strength. When stymied or confused, he opts for brute force much sooner than I'd expect. Physically, he's the polar opposite of Katie, big and thick and lumbering. We're already having trouble keeping him in his car seat. Those little straps on high chairs and shopping carts? They're meeting their match in his fists and thighs.
Our favorite game as of late is this: he'll climb onto my stomach, and try to grab my glasses. Since he'll happily smash my nose or pull my hair if I squirm too much, he'll inevitably get them. Then, he pummels me with them. I've gotten a couple of good scratches on my face from this particular sport.
Fortunately, he's also bright, and, if I haven't mentioned it, very cute.
He waves and claps right on cue, and throws up his arms whenever someone says "Yay!" He talks back to toys that talk to him, notably a whale-speaking Dory (from "Finding Nemo"). Whenever he gets his hands on a set of keys, he'll take it straight to a door and try to reach the doorknob. He tries to blow kisses, but instead of "Mmmmmmwah!" he goes "Mmmmmm. Bah." He says "Katie" and "dada" and "up" and something that sounds like "thank you." (Though to Jen's great dismay, no "mama" yet.)
And today, just being silly, I called to him as he toddled into our bedroom, "Say, Zac, could you close the door, please?" And he spun tight on his heel, grabbed the door and slammed it shut, and turned back to smirk at us as if it was no big deal.
Work is work, which is as it should be, otherwise it'd be called "fun."
While my last job afforded me many opportunities to spin tales of exotic travels and international intrigue, it also brought 18-hour days and lots of bounced checks. My current career mostly offers more stability and better pay, which are very good things, but not really interesting to write about. Financial institutions aren't, and probably shouldn't be, terribly exciting places. But if working at one means getting home at a reasonable hour and paying off our debt faster, I'll take it.
(It was kind of hard to give up WIC benefits, though. To think how conflicted we felt when we first signed up.)
With the bus strike, I've been ridesharing with a coworker who also happens to live in Makiki. She, like an impressive number of our colleagues, has been with the company for more than 30 years. You don't see that kind of loyalty much anymore. Our kind of small, family-owned, tight-knit business is sadly a rare breed today, which makes me even more glad to be an employee.
I sincerely doubt they would keep me around that long, of course. Or if I'd have what it takes if they did.
Last week I went to a day-long conference, not in Hong Kong but in Waikīkī, to explore the exhiliarating world of federal regulations. If there's such a thing as Death By PowerPoint, we were definitely living on the edge. FDIC, FFIEC, OCC, FTC, GLBA, and a few dozen other acronyms were dancing through my head. There was also a session on the PATRIOT Act, though, which was — honestly! — interesting. Especially seeing it presented from the law enforcement side.
I also learned quite a bit about money laundering. Criminals are clever little buggers.
Next up? Audits. Yes, audits!
I'm going to bed.
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