It all comes down to this.

Today we had our parent interview at the school we hope to send the kids to next year.

I wore my pearls and my dress pants, Sami put on a (gasp) button down shirt, and we made our way over to the school, trying not to seem too overwraught. Okay, desperate. We were trying not to seem desperate.

Hah.

We sat outside in the wind, waiting to be let in. Their was another set of parent shaving their interview ahead of us. The mother kept going outside to talk on the phone - so the interview was running long. I was annoyed.  I thought it was rude to make us wait without acknowledging us sitting there alone outside, locked out of the building "because the secretary wasn't there."  I thought it was incredibly rude of the other parent to not SHUT HER FUCKING PHONE OFF for her parent interview with the principal of the school she wanted to send her kids to. So I was already in a bit of a snit by the time the principal opened the door and let us actually come INDOORS. It was like some weird test, to see if we had the strength of character to sit and be uncomfortable and Wait Our Turn, and then graciously accept her half-hearted apology which was something along the lines of "Thanks for waiting, at least it wasn't raining."

Wow.

We sat down and talked about the kids, about what we were looking for in a school, and were basically told that Lucy was going to be offered a spot, but that they hadn't decided about Max. His test scores were low, he wasn't very motivated during the testing, etc. etc . etc.

I am not going to make excuses for Max. He has his challenges, but is a sweet-natured, bright kid. He responds well to structure, and to authority. He is pretty compliant and well-behaved. He is also, well, maybe kind of, um....how to explain. The public school here does not expect much from their students, and so he learned to do the bare minimum to get by. Which is, ironically, WHY we are trying to get him into this private school. We want him to do better, and we want his teachers to expect him to do his best.

I have concerns about the fact that they tested him before he had ever visited the campus, or met the teacher, or interacted with any of the students. It seems like the entire admissions process is based not on my kid - but on his test scores, and how he behaves when he is being tested. Lucy tested like a champ, she was in a good mood that day, and loved the teacher, and was excited about the classroom. For her test she got to draw pictures and answer questions. She had - from start to finish - a totally different experience then Max did.

I am left to wonder if I am being defensive because he's my kid, or if this admissions procedure is just proof that this is not the right school for him. Either way, I didn't feel good about the interview. I feel like maybe they were just feeling us out, to see if we would send Lucy if they didn't offer Max a spot as well. Which of course, we won't.

But maybe I am being cynical. Maybe they were giving us the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they were trying to learn more about Max, to see if the issue was his response to testing, or his grasp of basic math concepts and ability to write an essay. Because he definitely CAN. He just doesn't WANT to.

This is one of those times when I hate being the grownup.

Taking to my bed

I have, more then once in the past week thankyouverymuch, taken to my bed. First, it was because I was exhausted from a long and tense night at work. That was followed by a draining series of emails and conversations with my son's teachers and various friends and family. Then, of course, there was the great tsunami of 2010 which came hot on the heels of a late night at work. And now, it's 59 degrees outside, and 61 degrees INSIDE my home on a blustery, rainy day here in Hawaii. Yes Hawaii. Yes 59 degrees.

Yes.

So I am taking to my bed yet again - not just to keep my feet from burning with cold, but to try to catch a quick nap, something I always feel like I need when I am cold and tired.

As an added bonus, today I had an appointment with the nurse practitioner at my Gynocologist's office. My Obstetrician/Gynocologist. What that means is I just had to spend an hour surrounded by women in various stages of pregnancy, and recovery from their pregnancy, and their cute little babies.

Awful.

Terrible Stuff.

You know how pediatrician's offices schedule well-child visits first thing in the morning, before all the sick kids start showing up? They should do that with the OB/GYN office too. If you are there for strictly gynecological reasons - especially due to some sort of traumatic or untimely event - you should have a special time set aside, where you can go to these visits without the attendant emotional angst that leaves you wanting to wrap yourself up in exam table paper, and rock back and forth in the stirrups - which was how the Nurse Practitioner found me today.

I guess I'm STILL not quite over the hysterectomy, folks.

Sorry about that. I'm getting there. I mean, I CANCELLED my appointment altogether last year, so this is progress ! And the visit itself went fine, only one person asked me when my last period was (gosh, the answer "2005" just never fails to get a shocked look !), I got poked and prodded and felt up like a teenager in the backseat of a Subaru (not that I would know anything about THAT.) Everything checked out just fine, and after a brief conversation about extra calcium and bone scans, I was on my way. Back through the dreaded waiting room (avoid all eye contact. AVOID IT.) Down the stairs, out the door, hightail it to the safety of Henny the MiniCooper - a car I would never be able to own if I was even possibly fertile, because there is just no way to get an infant seat in there and still fit behind the steering wheel.

I drove off unemcumbered by diaper bags or bottles or screeching sobs from the backseat. I listened to NPR. I ran a few quick errands, and I headed home. To bed. To count my blessings, warm my tootsies, and take a nap I wouldn't have been able to take if I had a new baby in the house.

And I am almost able to accept my menopausal, post-hysterectomy, crone-y self. Almost.