A post I hoped I'd never have to write

More than ten years of parent-teacher conferences.

Application after application for special services.

School after school...pursued with the evanescent hope that somewhere, somehow, she would learn to care about scholarly achievement.

Yesterday something in me died. I had reached the end of what I can accomplish, at least for the present.

Tuesday was the day that I gave up hope of making a constructive contribution to my daughter's education.

My ex and I went to a meeting yesterday with her IEP team. With her ADD diagnosis, such meetings happen often. This one was to plan goals for the next year.

Our daughter straight up refused to attend the meeting. She seems to look at most of the counselors and learning support team as adversaries.

In recent years, that has come to include me.

The women gathered at the table, with one exception, recommended that given our daughter's resentment, we back off.

Because she's so bright, she does well on tests. But she has an awful record of handing in homework. So the school will be satisfied with "C" grades.

I don't fault the counselors. The school has done all they can.

It's a stunning indictment, instead, of us as parents.

We could never agree on boundaries, or standards, or discipline.

I was always pushing for order, for consistency, for consequences.

Again and again, I found myself pitted against both my daughter and her dad -- I became the enemy. I had so little space to be a mother.

Yesterday I surrendered.

No more monitoring. No more calls to teachers. No more taking the lead. No more trying to keep it all together as it fell apart again and again.

She and her dad are in charge.

I have done nothing to help my daughter become a productive citizen. And I failed at the one of the most basic tasks of parenting - helping to raise a disciplined and hopeful child.

Yesterday was a grim one, indeed. And the reverberations have only just begun.

I'm not the woman you dream about

I'm not that woman.

I'm not the one who has made her life's work loving you, who would wrap you in the silken cocoon of a life with you as a center, and everything else as accessories.

You see me in the parking lot having a heated, quiet debate with my daughter, followed by a reluctant grin.

Or walking through the countryside with my son, pondering the grimy world of politics or the battles of the Civil War.

You and I pass each other on the running trail, sweaty and flushed, wrapped in our own mysteries.

I respect mysteries.

Distance is sometimes a friend.

With the man of my dreams, I could bring home experiences and conversations, like tapestries to be unraveled and viewed at our leisure.

The woman who visits your dreams wraps you in her fierce embrace. Every day she would remind you in ways overt and half-heard of how much you mean to her, and how devastated she would be were you to ever leave.

There you could never question. In her arms you could brook no doubt.

It is where you want to be, dreaming -- most of the time.

In my face you would see friendly skepticism pass like clouds over the green earth, even as I signal affection that sometimes does not dare to speak its name.

I am a fan of questions.

You long for certainty -- and you wonder, with the taste of poppy in your mouth, if you will find it with the woman who haunts your dreams.

I prefer to be awake, as fully as possible -- and to catch the eye of one who looks back at me, surprised, and pleased.

If we both trip on the sidewalk, it will be because we have truly seen one another -- and want to keep on seeing.

You pass me on the trail, feet thudding against the gravel --and, for a moment, you open your eyes.

Strike up the band!

Friday night, when y'all were out on hot dates or snuggling with your honey (or that's my fantasy), I was driving the kids to evening activities.

Remember Friday? It was a cool evening, with the moon rising in a clear November sky.

The DQ was part of the stage management team for a Stage West production. Mr. C and his pals in the band were going to hang with the big boys and girls on the field at the West football team.

No surprise that I was going to the play.

Football is Greek to me ( except when the Giants are playing and reprise the winter of '08). And as the sun went down it was getting cold, shadows lengthening against the back of the middle school.

Dinner? Not enough time.

The book that has to be read by Wednesday? Why are there deadlines?

Instead I walked over the fields to the track that the middle school and high school teams share. Except for a woman bundled up against the cold, and a hardy middle-aged guy running in shorts, it was empty.

As I walked over, I began to hear the sound of instruments near the high school.

The wind section, chasing a harmony in the twilight. The drums, beginning a persistent growling thump.

The music of the night.

White pants and blue jackets with crossed stripes. Cockaded hats whose feathers moved in the breeze. Cheerleaders already waving their flags and throwing their batons on the field as the stands began to fill.

Remove the mid-Soviet era style buildings and this could have been anytown, anywhere in America, seventy-five years ago.

What can I say? It was a lovely moment of uninvited nostalgia and patriotism -- the best kind.

After pacing the track for a while, lost in thought, I saw the band on the move. Hoping to catch a glimpse of my eighth-grade lad, I chased them down the road that leads to the rear of the stadium, where they were to play.

Using my cellphone, I snapped a few photos for posterity -- and came up with this blurred muddle.

Of course it was impossible to capture the mood, the music, the moment.

I shouldn't have tried -- the fact that it happened at all was a minor miracle, one I'll treasure for a long time.

A woman who needs kissing

"You need a lot of kissing."

That's what you said to me. And other things that will remain between us.

Boy, are you right.

Just in case you are wondering, I don't kiss and tell. Even if we could right now, I wouldn't. Odd as it may seem, given what I do disclose, I'm careful to protect the identities and hopefully the self-esteem of friends and family.

But I just wanted you to know how much it meant to me that you recognized that.

Because my first responsibility is to my family, and my children as they grow, I can't afford to be impulsive. My close relationship with my kids has a natural cost -- a lack of time for adult companionship.

Perhaps I've been too wary -- although, sadly, I look around and have little reason to question my choices.

As the parent of kids from a split family, I want them, paradoxically, to believe in love that lasts.

Even if mine didn't -- or if it morphed into something closer to friendship and respect.

The past few months, in spite of a fair amount of male attention (which can so easily disappear) I've felt as though I didn't have time to be feminine. Loss can do that, too -- cause women to feel as though they can no longer evoke desire. Sometimes it's hard to find the truth amidst the remorse.

And so it's liberating, in a way, to admit, as I did yesterday, that yes, I do need lots of kissing, holding, and (private) sweet talk.

As perhaps we all do, if we are willing to admit it.

It's wonderful to be seen, and appreciated. Really seen.

I hope that someone does that for you too, readers.

Now where the heck is my mascara?

Kindness: could it really be attractive?

Worn out with care-giving -- between my ex-husband and my children, and concerns over animals essential abandoned during the last month, the dilemmas never seem to end.

Night after night I tumble into bed, some problem stewing in my brain.

And a few things came together this week, and not in a good way, to raise some big questions in my mind.

Does it pay to be patient, and caring and a good listener? Sometimes it seems as if the people who find material and even "spiritual" happiness in love and in work are those who focus on the path before them, and not the needs around them.

Maybe blinders, or rose-colored glasses, aren't such a bad thing to own.

Sometimes "good" seems wimpy, inept, and weak.

Good, as my son might say, is for losers.

Recently, however, someone (you know who you are) planted a notion in my head.

Could kindness actually make you more attractive to someone?

Could a mature attitude towards love and relationships make you more appealing?

Could it actually be sexy?

Honestly, I usually think of my character traits (and trust me, there are many arenas in which I'm not mature) as a defect.

It hasn't helped me "win" at love so far. I'm not clever enough -- or possibly I'm far too analytical to plunge forward on the strength of overwhelming emotion.

Those who say that virtue is its own reward, I often think, must have been smoking something.

But for what is perhaps the first time, I'm wondering if perhaps some guy will come into my life and appreciate my stability -- may even, after much heartbreak, find it intoxicating.

Maybe I'm the one who is smoking something. But what's the alternative? Not like I can dig the miniskirts and weed out of the closet.

If nothing else, my friend this week helped me see something I think of as a deficit as a potential plus.

And for that, I thank him.

Meow! Hiss! Why catty is so high school

If he ever heard me say something mean, a friend once said, he'd fall over.

Maybe he's toppling right now -- but possibly for entirely the wrong reason.

Generally, I try to avoid snarkiness - except about politicians.

Members of Congress.

Doctrinaire conservatives -- actually, I'm really not nuts about doctrinaire anything, except maybe within the pages of a theology text.

I can get downright cutting when it comes to people like Jon Corzine. Whaling away at liberal hypocrisy is also a sport.

Hmmm....am I turning into Oscar?

Jon Corzine...what's he doing in post about women and cattiness?

Back to your cage.

For the past few days, I've been pondering the whole subject of female jealousy.

Fear and hurt can evoke female insecurity -- and thus, cutting comments about other women.

I don't think it's healthy.

But does it flatter a guy who is its supposed object -- or subject?

On this subject, my daughter is probably my most reliable source of observation. And from what little I can figure, possessiveness and cutting down other women doesn't seem to make boys, or guys, feel particularly valued, or special.

Or perhaps the drive for security, or to take down others to make yourself feel better may begin that way, and then start to get, well, messy.

Honestly, I don't know. All I can see is that it amps up the drama factor.

I'm capable of it -- but I can't recall having been in too many situations where I felt tempted. Oh yes, I've blurted out secrets (thankfully,these times are rare). And I've been critical, straight up directly critical, when I've felt someone is a DSM diagnosis waiting to wreak havoc.

But generally, I'll go out of my way to avoid saying nasty things about people who may matter to those who matter to me.

I believe that in some way mean actions, and words, come back to hurt you. They pop up in your path, and memory, when you least expect to see them, and cause more destruction.

Having thought about it over the past few days, I'm coming to the conclusion that it's all about the company you keep.

Compassionate, responsible, mature people with high standards for personal interactions challenge me to be my best self -- and to want to bring out the best in others.

Let's leave it at that.

Because, yanno, as much as I'd like the skin sans laugh lines and hair without a trace of grey, I don't want to play those teenage games. I'm not good at them -- and I never want to get an "A" in meow.

'

Trust: if you don't have it, can you ever get it?

Or can you get it back?

I've been thinking about this issue on and off.

It isn't a constant preoccupation - more like the finger you broke playing volleyball in college that nags at you when the weather is cold and damp.

Just like it's been the past few days.

I am not a person who trusts easily -- it takes a while for me to share my secrets with others, let down my guard, admit others to the nightmares and dreams that are in the background.

I''ll share a lot with you upfront -- but it's what I'm holding back that is perhaps more precious.

On the other hand, I am going to trust you -- to the extent that I believe you are genuine, sincere, well-meaning.

I'm not a jealous person -- living in dread has got to be such a drag. As many times as I've been burned, there are so many other times when my confidence in friends and family has been rewarded.

I try stay open -- feeling that the more confidence you have in someone (someone sane and healthy), the more she or he will live up to your expectations.

Perhaps it's my philosophy of life.

I see us, so often, as driven by interior forces we don't understand, the demons and angels of our nature.

Sometimes what seems to be an opposite reaction will, in fact, be the same old same old pattern of relationship.

It's easier, much easier to forgive the clueless than the malevolent.

But that doesn't mean that it's easier to trust them once that trust has been violated.

One can like someone, wish them well, even be their friend, without trusting them completely. I suppose that there are degrees of candor and of vulnerability.

I look around me, when I have leisure to contemplate, and ponder what will happen to friends and family in relationships where there has been a rift.

Can it be mended?

And what about in my life?

I don't know. But I remain, behind the wide gaze and the warm spirit, in general, exceedingly cautious.