A would-be stay at home mom working full-time as a teacher. I teach at my old Highschool, working side-by-side with my own teachers. I blog to keep the Texan grandparents updated and chronicle our life for future reference. (In other words, I don't have a real baby-book or diary.)
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kimlepper at gmail.com
Kisses are quite the commodity in our household. Samantha has discovered the medicinal properties and thinks kissing fixes any boo boo. Recently, however, she's decided that kisses are not only useful, but necessary. After a while I had to start rationing the kisses, "No, you don't need a kiss, you're fine." Then I just got lazy, kissing my hand and placing it on the injured area if it was in an odd/stinky place (blister on the foot).
Today while taking a bath, Sam ever so slightly bumped the back of her head on the tub while playing. After denying her a kiss, Sam decided to fix it herself; She promptly kissed her hand and patted the kiss onto her head.
So a few weeks ago I spoke to the principal at the gradeschool where Jeremy works. She wanted me to work for them VERY part-time (1 period a day). The problem is, in order for me to get my provisional certificate, I have to be working at least half-time (3 periods a day).
Now, literally minutes before I had this wonderful offer (that I had to turn down) with the grade school, the Catholic High School called me for an interview for a full-time teaching position.
So I had that interview on Friday. Talk about deja vu. Same people and questions from last year when interviewed! I didn't think it went any better than last year, and since I didn't get the position last time, I didn't get my hopes up. I was told they'd call me by the following Friday.
On Tuesday I got a phone call from the High School and just missed it. The superintendent left a message. I immediately called back, but he was on the line. 30 minutes later he was still on the line! I left a message and an hour later still had not gotten a phone call. Just when I was about to freak out that I'd have to wait until the following day to know why he called he returned my call. Apparently they offered the position to another teacher, but she only wanted part-time. They offered me 2 periods a day. GROAN!
Suddenly my wicked math skills kicked in...1 + 2 =....Hey, I might have an idea!
So the good news is I will be DONE waitressing in August. AND back in the classroom with a foot in the door at my #1 choice of employment (the High School).
The bad news is that I'll STILL only be working part-time. Which is horribly frustrating financially. And this time I won't be home with my baby during the day. And will probably have to go back to waitressing next summer.
But I'm trying not to think about that right now...
Someday someone is going to call the authorities and then I'm going to have to try and explain that my child is screaming like someone is beating her, not because I'm beating her, but because she can't open a box. Or she can't get the block in the organizer. Or she can't get her sock off. Or she can't get her coat on by herself.
"Ma'dam, there has been reports of constant screaming, crying and banging coming from your residence." "Sorry, sir, but my daughter can't get her shoes on by herself as quickly as she'd like." "I'm sorry?" "She won't let me help her and gets frustrated." "So she screams bloody murder...right. And the bruises on her face? I suppose that's because she 'fell'?" "No, actually she bangs her head on the floor when she's frustrated too." "Riiiight..."
We had tried everything- taking the toy away after a warning not to scream (cue tantrum), helping her anyway (cue tantrum), letting her try again and again (cue tantrum), giving her verbal clues (cue tantrum). It's as if there is a little tantrum gremlin poised in position behind her. You can literally count down to the moment of the scream. It's been quite the headache.
Today I noticed that when she's building up to the big "blow up" her breathing becomes intense, and she holds her breath. As she struggles more and more she lets out puffs of air when she can't hold it in any more an then sucks in a new one. I walked up to her before the tension got too high and held her hands, asking her to look at me.
"No help!" she insisted.
"I'm not going to help you, Samantha. Remember, we don't scream at our shoes. When you get frustrated I want to you take a deep breath (cue demonstration) and then try again. Can you breathe with mommy?"
She practiced with me. Then she went back to putting her shoes on. Any time I could hear her frustration building I would remind her, "Take a deep breath Samantha!" I could hear a huge vocalized breath and then a calm sigh. Finally she proudly marched into the kitchen wearing her shoes, "I did it!"