How Much Do I Love Kid Nation?

When I first heard about this show, I was intrigued. The more I heard, the more I wanted to hear, and I had it on my Season Pass list as soon as Tivo let me. I watched the first episode, and let me tell you, I am HOOKED.

I’m amused by all the people in my life who denounce the show as horrific, abusive, terrible, awful, whatever – who haven’t seen it. Who are basing this opinion solely on what someone else wrote on the Internet. So I figured I’d write an opinion that people could read and mindlessly quote, or maybe actually it would inspire someone to WATCH THE SHOW, which you should do anyway, because it totally rocks.

How much do I love Kid Nation?

If you haven’t heard, Kid Nation is a reality show where 40 kids are taken to an abandoned ghost town and charged with the task of bringing it back to life. Actually, that’s not quite true. Forty kids were taken about a mile away from this abandoned ghost town, given giant wagons full of supplies for the town, and had to get themselves and the wagons there before they could even officially start trying to bring the town back to life.

I think the idea behind the opening was to drive home the point that This is Hard Work, and to kind of force them headfirst into the whole “Live Together, Die Alone” mentality.

To the critics of this show, I must start by stating the obvious: If you truly believe for one moment that these kids were really ever in any danger of being seriously injured or (God forbid) killed, you are stupid. Sorry, but you are. What the heck network, let alone parents, would agree to such a thing? No one ENJOYS watching children DIE on prime time TV.

OK, so that said, why do I love Kid Nation so much? Because it is freaking real, dude. These kids are having an INCREDIBLE experience. At the very least, by the time they finish the show, they will know how to cook, and they will have KICK ASS college application essay material.

How much do I love Kid Nation?

Unlike the typical “voted off” reality show mentality, so far, the show is different. The kids are supposed to work together – one person could never run the town alone. They have regular town meetings, and at each one, they ask, “Does anyone want to go home?” If anyone wants to go, they let them go home. No hard feelings, no humiliation – it’s OK.

I keep trying to figure out how my kids would fare there. I tend to think not so well, and I think that reflects pretty poorly on my parenting. Often, I choose to do things for my kids because it’s easier that way. But that’s not really teaching them anything useful or meaningful – and in a real sense, it’s disrespectful to them. No, I don’t think I’ll make my kids haul water anytime soon, but they could easily learn how to do the laundry. Or make their own school lunches.

Dude. If you haven’t seen the show, check it out. And think about it for a bit. Watch it WITH your kids – that’s my plan. Ask them how they’d respond to things in the show if they were there. Their answers just might surprise you.

Time, Time, Time

My first post in the New Year seems as good a time as any to speak a little bit about time and how we juggle it here in the WG household. This is part of Inspiration Bit’s group writing project on time management, so enjoy!

There are four children in this house, five if you count Mr. WG. We have a somewhat crazy schedule, with school from 7:45 to 4 p.m. (noon for the little ones), Brownies every other Tuesday, piano every Wednesday, speech therapy weekly, and behavioral/social therapy set to start up again soon.

I have found that in order to get things done, done right, and done on time, I need to do it all myself we need routines and schedules and lists, and we also need outside help. We have tried and rejected many systems ‘round these parts, and there’s no guarantee that what works for us right now will continue working for us as time marches on. But in the meantime, this is our way of cramming all the crap we have to do into the puny little excuse for a day that we get.

So. Let’s start with the outside help part.

We hire someone to clean the house on Mondays and Fridays. I would rather go without my TiVo than forgo the cleaning lady. (Thank God, that is not a choice I will ever have to make, since my TiVo has a lifetime subscription.) I have no desire whatsoever to scrub toilets. Yes, if money got really tight, I’d make do, but this is one of the things we have decided we need to be able to afford. It saves us time (which translates directly into money for me, since I’m freelance), plus the massive therapy or even more massive divorce costs.

So the cleaning lady takes care of scrubbing stuff and folding a lot of the laundry, which leaves us to take care of the kids and other exciting things. Here’s what we try to do.

We set clear expectations. I made lists for my daughters – their morning and afternoon routines. I keep them in sheet protectors in the binder labeled WG FAMILY OPERATIONS MANUAL, a name I blithely stole from the very cool Char. They know how to find the right page and check off their chores with the dry-erase marker.

We plan ahead when possible. On Sundays, I make up a menu my kids can choose their lunches from. It’s just a simple table, where they can choose 1-2 itesm from the “entrée” column, 2-3 from the “side dish column” and one from the “dessert” column. I find it makes them take ownership for their lunches. I print out a copy for each of the girls, and I make the boys’ choices for them, and then I collate it all into a single table that I print out. That also goes in a sheet protector in the binder, and Mr. WG consults it each morning when he makes lunches.

(An interesting note: were I in charge of making lunches, I would do it the night before. But I’m not. So I don’t. I think it makes the morning way more hectic, but the morning is not my job. So what I think doesn’t matter.)

We recognize that WG is only human and cannot do everything. Also, Mr. WG contributed 50% of the DNA to these children, so everyone does not have to act so damn surprised that he helps to care for them. We have a fairly clear division of labor. Breakfast and morning kid stuff – Mr. WG. Trips to the doctor, unexpected day home from school, anything that would interfere with normal work hours – WG. After school, homework – WG. Dinner, cooking and cleaning – WG. Ninety percent of D’s therapy appointments – WG. Bathtime and bed – Mr. WG. Doing laundry – WG. Folding laundry not folded by cleaning lady – Mr. WG. Car maintenance – Mr. WG. Paying bills – WG. It works for us. But the key is, if I tried to do everything, nothing would get done, and no one would be happy.

Grown-ups need routines, too. I have my own morning, afternoon, and evening routines, in sheet protectors in the binder. It’s an easy way to put myself on autopilot and make sure the dishwasher still gets unloaded, the wash gets into the dryer, the homework supplies bin is ready and waiting.

We say no. Used to be, when people called to ask me things, the conversation went like this:

Caller: WG? How are you? That’s great! Listen, I was wondering if you could cook twenty-six meals for this lady who broke a toenail and is stuck on bedrest while it heals? And also, she prefers that each meal be themed, and that you make appropriate decorations so that she can really experience it fully. So, we need all twenty-six for, like, tomorrow. You can do that, right? You’re home anyway….

WG: Sure! Yeah! That sounds great!

Not so much anymore. Now they call and I just say, “I would really love to, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” I don’t even explain half the time. I have my own commitments, I have the things I choose to give my time to, and I am learning to let go of the guilt that comes from not being the world’s bitch.

We enforce time. We currently have a universal bedtime of 7:30 p.m. in our house. Barring truly unusual circumstances, at 7:31, you will see nary a little kidlet in sight. Or I won’t, at any rate, since I leave to walk four miles at 7:30 every evening.

We respect time. Think that shopping trip is gonna take an hour? Let’s make it 90 minutes. If we get back early, we win! Everything takes longer than you think it will, particularly when there are children involved. Particularly when one of the children is not even four years old but stands taller than his older sister and weighs SEVENTY FREAKING POUNDS.


We take time for ourselves. I walk four miles at night, or I do strength training. Mornings, I run or bike intervals for 20 minutes. Mr. WG respects this time. He plays basketball on Saturday nights. And is encouraged to go out with friends more often, but he generally prefers the company of his computer. But we chill. On our own or with each other or whatever.

I think the key to any successful system is flexibility. When it's not working for us, we change it. And we move on. So, you're all up. You can share your tips here, or join in the yourself!

This is WG.

I never set out to do this.

I never set out to be the parent of a child with special needs.

When D. was in the NICU, when I was first learning that language of despair, I remember thinking it was like I had suddenly gained access to an exclusive club I never wanted to join in the first place. But back then, after the initial horrors had faded, after each breath was not so jagged it threatened to tear my lungs apart, I thought that one day, I would leave the club behind.

Isn’t that a terrible thing to say?

It’s like I somehow felt (as I’m sure most parents of kids with special needs do, at least late at night, in the dark) that my child wasn’t really supposed to be grouped with… them. That someone, somewhere had made a terrible mistake. That we would get things sorted out, get a little therapy (for him, for me, what’s the difference?), and he would be Normal.

I’ll admit that the first time my sister-in-law told me that D’s “social motivation takes him right off the spectrum,” I liked the phrase, but I didn’t really understand it. But a week or so ago when I said it for the eleventy-billionth time (hey, I like to SOUND smart even if I’m not ACTUALLY smart), I realized that I knew exactly what it meant. And it describes D. to a T.

I have learned an enormous amount about disabilities, delays, the language of it all, the theory of it all, the reality of it all. Needs, special and normal, neurotypical, typically-developing peers. Floor time, ABA, hypotonia, perseveration – these terms are as familiar as D. is to me.

I checked out a book from the library two weeks ago. The Child With Special Needs. I set it next to my bed and didn’t open it until the night before it was due. It was so good that I went out and bought a copy the next day, and I’ve been working my way through it. It’s amazing.

And somehow, somehow, this is what I am doing. This is who I am now. I think a lot of the time that I am not very good at it, but there are times when I stop and think, Holy shit, this is who I am. I am D’s mom. For nearly four years, I have parented this child, with all his needs and normalcy. I have fought battles and wept and smiled bravely and laughed with unadulterated joy and felt horribly alone and pitied myself and ridiculed myself and thanked God for every moment and raged at cruel Fate for her inequity.

This is not what I imagined.

This is not what I wanted… and sometimes it isn’t what I want. But most of the time, it is what I want, even when I want it to be better.

Is there any doubt they think I'm totally annoying?

Dear Mr. Principal:

I'm a little confused about what's going on in Mr. CreepyDude's class.

On the second day of school, Z. came home and announced that she needed a dictionary and index cards. She was extremely unhappy when I told her that these items would have to wait until the weekend. I was even more unhappy when, after purchasing what I thought was an appropriate dictionary, Z. returned home the following week and told me that she needed a different dictionary.

If the dictionary is an important item -- and I am a freelance writer, so I certainly understand the need for a good dictionary -- then why was it not included on the supply list sent home over the summer? And if a teacher wants the students to have a specific dictionary, why not let us know that in advance? For that matter, why not also include the index cards on the supply list, rather than force busy parents to run around buying more supplies after the start of the school year?

When Z. began writing in her assigned home journal, she told us that Mr. CreepyDude had told the class that they did not have to show their parents what was written. Again, I'm a writer. I understand the need for journaling, but to tell my eight-year-old daughter that she can hide information from me is completely inappropriate.

Last week, Z. mentioned a book report. She had no idea when it was due, and I never saw any written information about it. We insisted that she complete it over the weekend, and she insisted equally strongly that it had to be completed in ink, much to our chagrin. When I tell you that Z. recopied that report fifteen times, I am not exaggerating.

This brings us to last evening.

I have seen several emails from Mr. CreepyDude indicating reading homework in a practice book, but I have never seen this book come home. I also do not see any indication of these assignments in Z's planner. Yesterday Z. and the students we called said the reading was completed in class. Some students spoke of a social studies assignment, but that was not mentioned via Edline or in the planner.

(I am also confused as to why Mr. CreepyDude sends email rather than posting via Edline. I think the students benefit GREATLY from copying the assignment information in their planners, which is not happening in Mr. CreepyDude's class from what I can tell. I don't need additional email from teachers each day -- I much prefer to see all the assignments for all my children listed in a single place, as intended by the Edline system.)

Z. did have her vocabulary sheet, and she told us that her work needed to be done in blue or black ink. Z's supply list did not include pens (other than a red pen), so our homework supply box is stocked with a selection of pencils and erasers. Z's father and I agreed that she would do her assignment in pencil, enabling her to erase her mistakes rather than rewrite everything a dozen times. If there is a pen only rule, that should be communicated clearly to parents.

Yesterday's assignment also included choosing "your narrative topic," but again, I don't know anything about the assignment in question.

Z. is 8 years old. Although we are working with her on being more responsible, I rely on Edline to check up on whether she is communicating (and completing) her assignments accurately. If teachers do not take advantage of this system, how can I stay involved in my children's studies?

I thank you for your time and attention in advance.

Sincerely,

WG


In his reply, the principal misspelled my name (even though my email address IS my name) and suggested that we all sit down and talk about the problem. I think he may hate me, which is a shame, because I actually really like him a lot. The principal, not Mr. CreepyDude. He's just weird. And SERIOUSLY creepy. I mean, what kind of person tells THIRD GRADERS, "Hey, this journal is a secret for you and me."????

A Post About Poop

Internet, I think I forgot to tell you that I no longer have to buy size 7 (SEVEN!!!) diapers by the freaking CASE, because D. is toilet trained. Well, mostly. Which is to say, he has been going to school in underwear since the first day, and he has come home each day in the same clothes we sent him in. And we have gone all sorts of places and he has been just fine using the potty wherever we go. So, we don't really have issues with accidents.

Instead, we have issues with "on purposes." That is, you'll notice D. grunting on the sofa, and you'll say (really loudly, in the hopes that Mr. WG will hear and feel the need to step in), "D., do you have to go potty? Don't go poopy in your underwear." When you see that no help is forthcoming, you will swear under your breath, abandon the pot of organic free-range chicken soup you are lovingly preparing for your family put down the sudoku, and lead him to the bathroom. There you will stay, breathing through your mouth and saying things like, "Where is the kaki? Kaki coming out?" for upwards of twenty minutes.

And then something will happen. One of the other 17 three (So there are only FOUR? Is that IT? It totally feels like more.) children living in the house will demand your attention -- perhaps by tossing glasses at the tile floor, or by screaming that her sister is "looking at me" or some equally critical outburst, and you will go to investigate.

In that moment, D. seizes his opportunity, pulls on his underwear, and heads upstairs. You are easily distracted (Hey! Sudoku!), and you forget about the whole thing until D. reappears in the kitchen and casually says, "Are you make kaki in the underwear? Why did you DO that? NOT GOOD."

And it's right about then that you notice that you have two fives in that third row anyway.

What exactly is a Mickey Mouse garbage truck anyway?

On Friday, D's teacher approached me at carpool. "I want to speak with you," she said. I nodded, as I struggled to keep Baby J. from arching his back as I buckled him into his carseat.

"I'm listening," I said.

"We did an activity today in class, big, bigger, biggest. Sorting by size. It's something all the other kids can do, but D. had no idea how to do it. So I want you to work on it over the weekend."

"OK," I said.

She smiled, waved to us, and we drove home. And over the weekend, I worked big and little into a lot of our activities, and she's right: D. hasn't a clue.

I know he'll get it with practice and repetition. I know that it's just a matter of working on it. But HOLY GOD I AM SO TIRED OF WORKING SO HARD.

I know, I know, a little hard work never killed anyone. And for as hard as I'm working, D. is working eleventy-billion times harder, I get that. But I was so thrilled with how well he adjusted to the classroom and how his social skills are improving that it never occurred to me to worry about how much he was actually learning.

Colors are another big one. Right now, D. will point to, say, a fire truck, and say, "It's adom fire truck." (Adom, of course, being Hebrew for red. Do you mean to tell me that not all my readers have become fluent in Hebrew?) And I say, "Yes, adom." And he says, "It's a blue fire truck. Green." WHAT??? He'll point to my (green) shirt and tell me, "It's a pink shirt. Kachol. (Kachol is Hebrew for BLUE.)" And I tell him, "No, it's a green shirt." And he says, "It's a Mickey Mouse garbage truck." And I say something clever like, "Hey! Let's watch Blue's Clues!"

Anyway. I just want to be a lazy mom and know that Dora the Explorer will pick up the slack on what I fail to teach my kids. Unfortunately, it appears that this job requires actual work. Who knew?

(Hey, how many people do you think will read this and totally miss the sarcasm?)