Lenkaland

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“I want a horse,” Anika says from the back seat.  “Maybe we can buy one at the horse show.”

“Well . . .”  Is it time for real-mommy-reality-check, or fantasy-mommy-anything-is-possible reaction?  “I don’t think River would like a horse in the yard.”  River is our dog.  He is perfect for the sly third-door answer.  She can’t argue with River.

“Maybe a little horse.”

“Hmmm.”  Evasive-mommy answer.

We’re driving to the Mother Lode Horse Show (more on that later).  We pass a home with a springy horse toy on the lawn. Oh, I want one for Anika.  Only the ones that I see these days are for such little kids and/or expensive like this one at Amazon for $146.

Not going to happen.  So maybe I’ll check the classifieds, I think.  Maybe Craig’s List.  How do I find a used springy-horse for a 6 year old?  I need to find out.  Anika would love it.

And we pull up to the fairgrounds for the Motherlode Horse Show and across the street I see Kid’s Swap Meet.  About ten sun-umbrellas cover blankets of stuffies, boardgames, and eclectic fun outgrown-goodies.  We park and walk over and . . . a springy horse!  Old, yes, a little dirty, a little funky, but a horse all the same.  And big!  Anika climbs right on.  It will be way too much, I think, before I see the $5 sticker. “We’ll buy it.”.

We bring the car over and the horse won’t fit but a friend from school has her truck and, sure, she’ll drop it by our house later, and this generous dad will carry it over to the truck.

So Anika came home with a horse after all.  Even River likes the horse just fine

Thank you universe!

In the ugliest valley, an old woman climbs one thousand stairs.  She places her feet with care on each black step carved into the towering spire of rock.  The steps are wet.  Storm clouds roil overhead.  Lightening sears the sky and slams into wet black stone to sizzle blue sparks. The wind whips her tattered robes and tangled gray hair.  Where does she go so late at night in such awful weather?

She blinks murky blue eyes at the bleak place.  She leans on her staff.  She knocks on a door.

At the peak of this leaning spire is a castle, a horrible castle, a castle of midnight dreams and lost loves.  Carved monstrosities around the door slip and scrabble over one another when she isn’t looking.  They blink stone eyes and bare stone teeth and drive their stone claws into one another so they can get a better look at this unlikely visitor.  She leans on her staff and stares over the festering bogs leading to gnarled forests.  Not a light to be seen in any direction.

The door opens.  He holds a candelabra that drips black wax.  He wears silk and his black hair is loose around his shoulders.  She comes at a bad time.

“Shelter,” she rasps.

He rolls his eyes.  “What’s the message?’

She blinks those murky eyes.  “Shelter.”

“The message, fool, from your lady.”

“Shelter.”

“Message.”

Her eyes narrow.  The murk clears like mist until her eyes are brilliant summer-sky blue.  Her skin smooths and clears.  Her poor bent limbs straighten and the black robes fall away from a white tulle-skirted dress shimmering with silvery dewdrops.  Her matted gray hair grows lustrous-long and blond.  A pretty little tiara twinkles in the dark.  She smiles at the man now with full, lovely, kissable lips.  “So this is who you are, now.”  Her voice is honey and bees.

The man throws the candelabra at her.  The candle flame whirls circles and she steps aside so that it tumbles over the edge into the abyss.  He grabs a hunk of mud and toadstools growing beside the door and he hurls that at her.  It lands on her dress, spattering the snowy-white skirts with crud.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” she says.  A resplendent crystal now glows softly at the top of her staff, pulsing pale shades of blue.

He sneers.  “Go to-”

The blue light pours from the staff and the stone carvings cover their stone eyes against the radiance.  As shadows return, the man is gone.  Instead, a mottled toad squats on the threshold.

“Enough,” she says.  “To the swamp with you, Lorenzo.  Now, where are my darlings?”  She whistles like a master whistles for a dog.  She nudges the toad into the messed-up toadstools beside the door so he won’t be trampled by the clattering chaos racing down the hall.

They burst outside and mill about her with the eagerness of puppies, their wide eyes alight, their smiles big over sharp teeth.  The smallest of them stands quite still, for a goblin, and bows low before her.  “My lady,” he says.

“Oh, my sweetlings, how I miss you.”  She brushes her fingers along the curve of his tapered ear.  Do goblins blush?

“But I must send you away for a little while.  Fetch me my sister.”

“Your sister?  But she is-”

“Her time among mortals is over.  I need her.  We need her.  And call a gathering of the Dark and Mysterious.”

The goblins hiss and scramble down those perilous steps with their armor clanking.

“We crown a new lord tonight,” she says in the goblin’s wake.  “A new Lord of All Things Dark and Mysterious.”

Ladybug Skirt sewn by Lenka

At long last, we have pictures of the Ladybug Skirt.  I sewed this over a month ago.  It took two quarter yard pieces of fabric.  I cut both in half, then took a few inches from the top tier to lengthen the end tier.  For the trim, I cut one strip of the contrast fabric in half, then used each half to make the casing and trim along the hem (oh, and took some from the top strip to sew to the bottom strip so they were equal length with the fabric).  A fun funky skirt indeed!

I had electricity shot down my nerves today.  Watched my fingers and toes twitch as a machine registered the speed of each bolt.  Not too dramatic, really, a neurologist appointment.  One of the few ways to track progression of CMT is to measure nerve conductivity.  So he took measurements today.  Not all bad news.  Some nerves are stronger than he expected.  Others have lost speed.  I’ve been feeling my hands as doll-hands more often, a little distant and breakable.  And there is muscle loss in my hands.  My neuropathy makes the nerves fizzle and slow, in turn causing muscles to weaken and atrophy.  What can be done?

Nothing, really.  Mild exercise, continued activitiy, rest when necessary.  Appreciation for skills I have here and now.

So it sure felt good to drive over to As If Studios where Anika and I are taking a clay class.  We’re making a fairy tea set and other fun needed-things like fairy furniture.  Pushing my hands into the soft clay felt good and real.  Wonderful smoothing and folding and creating.  We have a blast.  Ian is off with his baby friends today so it’s mommy-daughter day.  And a few moments where I can write.

The lasting moment from my appointment today was my doctor checking in with me, how’s it going?

Fine, numbness, tingling, fatigue, pain, the usual.

And as he’s testing my nerve conduction he says, “You really don’t let on, do you, how tough this is?  You suck it in.  Not everyone has that attitude, you know.  A lot of people blame the world and complain a lot.”

And I could complain a lot.  But really, where would that get me?  I love my life.  Fizzily nerves and all

We carried home your art.  Cleaned out your cubby.  Gave big hugs to your teachers.  And now we’re home for the summer (except for going to school to clean Mama’s classroom but that doesn’t count, really).  Kindergarten is memories, now.  Memories of hobby horses at recess.  Your favorite was the black one with a white blaze.  You called it Black after the Black Stallion which you pronounce stayon.  Recess was kitty games and horse games and running away from boys.

Your year was fun and wild and sweet.  You were brave and strong and playful.  You made friends with everyone.  You started writing letters, letters strung into words and you said you would write stories like Mommy.  I am so lucky to share this year with you.  I’ll never forget the fierce hugs at recess as I brought my class outside and saw you there.  You came running and swept into me like a summer storm and I could barely let you go.  You were ponies and fairies and Star Wars princess this year.  You were a chocolate cupcake with pink frosting.  You were the blue sky.

Your brother was born on the first day of school.  You have carried him in your heart and in your arms this year.  He sees you and breaks into fearless happy grinning, trying to jump out of my arms to get to you.  And you introduce him to your friends.  You protect him when kids are eager to be close.  You want him to stay in class all day.  You have welcomed him into the world with a beautiful, graceful guidance.  He is so lucky to have you for his big sister.

You loved art and stories this year.  Though you would not let me help you with reading skills.  We practiced letters with Go Fish games and books, but you pull the book from my lap with quick determination.  “Let me read it my way,” you say.  And I must admit, your way is often more colorful and interesting than the words printed on the page.  You loved Little Fur Family and Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed (which you read for Royal Reader) and Go Dog Go.  You know your letters and sounds now, and soon you’ll be choosing whether to read those printed words or whether to keep on making up your own stories. Or both.

You brought a stuffed animal to school every single day of kindergarten (thank you Teacher Linda!).  Mostly cats and puppies, but hamsters too, and horses, and the robot-duck.  You brought them in baskets with blankets and told me all about their day alongside your own.

You were so excited to see Buttercup’s baby chicks that hatched in class.  Buttercup the fluffy white chicken was such a good mom with all of you five year olds so curious about her.  I remember those little chicks nestling under her at one day old.  A chick peeking out from under one protective white wing.

Animals visited for real.  A kitten and a puppy and a hamster that escaped and it ran over your leg and scratched you a little, but that was okay because you still want a hamster.  Sorry, not going to get you a hamster.

Forever I’ll remember your beauty and your creativity and your delight in everyday kindergarten.  Growing seeds.  Paintings on the wall.  Books to read.  Ladybug of the Week.  Calendar.  Weather graph.  “I think I’ll pick windy today because there is a lot of wind, right Mom?”  I’ll remember your serious noticing of the world around you.  The way you started writing cards for me and Daddy.  The way you said, “Pick me up at 2 o’clock.  No, 3 o’clock.  Why are you here so early, Mom?”  And how you fell asleep in the car driving home almost every day.

Even you, in these last days, have said, “Why?  It goes so fast, Mom.”  And yes, it goes way too fast.  You are a first grader now.  And as I tuck you in you smile up at me and say, “Can you believe it?  I’m in first grade!”

And no I can’t.

And also of course I can, look how ready you are . . .

Be glad if your child does not attend a California public school.  Be glad if you do not work for a California public school.  Or a county in California, or the State of California.  Be glad if you pay your own health coverage or your childrens’ health coverage.  Be glad if you do not have an emergency in California, say a fire or earthquake in your neighborhood.  In fact, be glad if you are not in California right now.

Things are bad.  Really bad. Billions of dollars bad.

And the money must come from somewhere.  So the theory is that government trims the unnecessary spending.  Just as families change their lifestyles to fit a budget, so must the state.  All right.  Except the cuts come after years of cuts, and any family cut down far enough will find themselves living in a cardboard box beside a ditch.  Any school kids want a nice color-the-walls classroom?

The cuts are so massive, millions of dollars for the county, millions for school districts, and the only real spending on that scale is salaries.  People.  There is no 2.5 million dollar paper-and-pencil budget in the schools.  So class sizes go up as teachers are laid off.  Two classes of 30 children saves a lot of money over three classes of 20 children.

For the state workers, they get mandatory furloughs and/or reduced hours.  Yet the workload remains the same.  The population that is being served has not changed.  So those workers must accomplish more in less time or let tasks slide.

Then, as positions are cut, that work doesn’t disappear.  Just because a position is eliminated doesn’t mean that their work disappears.  So those with jobs, the lucky ones, must pick up that workload and somehow fold it into the already reduced hours.  A friend has a difficult choice right now.  Her department has been slashed so much that her forty hour job now takes about fifty hours because the support staff is gone.  She is supposed to work 30 hours a week.  She can either do mediocre work or quit.

Oh, and she hires lifeguards.  Not something you really want someone to skim through.

Another money-saving strategy is to slash a high-paying position.  Then go to that person and say, “You can leave, or you can take the position lower on the payscale.”  That person takes the lower pay, bumping that worker down and down until the one at the bottom ultimately loses their job.  So the department keeps the high ranking skills, yet pays everyone less.

Needless-to-say, morale is threaded with barbed-wire anxiety.  We don’t know what will happen next.  We cannot plan for the next school year because we do not know what will happen with the budget.

Solutions?  If they were easy, we wouldn’t be in this mess.  But I hope we can start thinking beyond cuts.  Or cutting money and services alone.  For example, let’s cut State Testing.  Those booklets, procedures, and reporting sheets cost millions.  Let’s hold fundraisers, a bakesale for the State of California.  Because really, the schools that depend on State Funding will hurt the most.  Schools where families do have funds to supplement the cuts will get through this with less impact for kids. Your creative ideas?  Post them here and I’ll compose a letter to send to State Officials.

Time to think outside the box.  Cause that cardboard box by the ditch doesn’t seem so third-world anymore.  Seems like it might be closer than we thought.

Oh, and what are your front-line stories working for state, county, education, etc.?  How is your life, or your childrens’ life, changing?

Hope hoping for brighter times.

Does traveling fill you with apprehension because you have special needs?  Never fear!  I’ll go and give you insider tips so your trip is fun and accessible.  My experiences focus on challenges with standing and walking.  If you have questions about other modifications, email me and I’ll answer if I can.

This weekend we visited Six Flags Discovery Kingdom.  The biggest mobility challenge?  Getting into the park.

The idea is that there is a Blue Lot (my label for Disability Parking) where you catch a shuttle to the main gate.  All well and good if the process worked. Which it didn’t.

We arrived at 11:30am, about an hour after opening.  The shuttle line is for everyone.  There isn’t a space dedicated to riders with disabilities.  I could have gone to the front, I suppose.  No one was around to answer questions and I didn’t want resentful glares and accusations of cutting since my disability is not obvious.  As for benches to use while waiting, forget it.  Not one in sight.  The shuttle took awhile to arrive, then filled quickly so we didn’t even get on that one.  We gave up and decided to walk the quarter-mile or so to the entrance.  By the time we were crossing the road, they were unloading the shuttle saying there “difficulty with traffic.”  We reached the front gate to see a shuttle finally depart to pick up the people back at the parking lot.  If we waited, it would have taken at least forty minutes to get from the parking lot to the park.

The same story played out as we left around 7:30pm.  The line was so long, at least three shuttles full of people, yet only one shuttle passed us as we walked back to the car.  It would take more standing-time to use the shuttle than to walk.

The park itself is spread out and requires a lot of walking from place to place.  Each path winds through nature and the hills are not particularly steep so it didn’t bother me.

On the positive side, the park has lots of benches.  Yay!  My daughter is six, so we didn’t ride any of the big coasters.  Her rides all had lines that only lasted a turn or two.  Within sight of each ride, I easily found a bench to sit and watch her.  As the park filled up, of course, the benches could be full.  But whenever I needed to sit, I easily found somewhere to chill. Trees provide ample shade.

We also took breaks watching the shows- the tiger show and the dolphin show this time.  Arriving about twenty minutes before showtime gave us plenty of choices for seating.

The Six Flags official website is here.  I did not find a page dedicated to guests with disabilities.  They do rent wheelchairs, though someone strong better be along to push .    There is an assistance pass available to help with long lines.  I believe that they write down return times for riding.  Ask at the gate where to get that pass.  We never needed it because we were on the kid rides which didn’t have long lines, anyway.

We do have the season pass so I’ll update further as we visit again and I learn new tips and tricks for making active days and places fun for everyone!

Calm waters

A distant sunrise

A thousand reasons to smile

Getting late and, ack! just remembered about the dishwasher emptying and loading and washing to have bottles tomorrow for Ian who will be playing with cousin and auntie while I am at inservice . . . gah!  It’s that sort of week, the sort that leaves me breathless and befuddled.  We interviewed for my coteacher next year as my class is growing into a four day program.  A wonderfully creative teacher is going to join me next year.  I am so excited!  And why can’t I teach four days?

Ah, I remember now.  Fatigue, irritability, and a gazillion other signs that my health is so not happy with me right now.  It’s easy for me to be lulled into a false sense of confidence.  I want to believe.  I want to believe I am normal .  Normalish.  And seeing these symptoms resurface so quickly just holds up my fragile world right in front of my face.  The good news is that I see clearly how well the modifications over the years have helped.  Going part time.  Allowing, no, imposing downtime.  Admitting that I have limits.  All of these things have given me a much higher quality of life.  I am so grateful that the universe has lifted up to support me in these massive changes.

I must be respectful of my limits.  Because the ones who pay the consequences are not me, really.  They’re my family and students, friends who get the razor edge of my irritation because I am so spent, I could crawl into bed and sleep for a week or a year.  I’m fighting off a cold/allergy yuck too, but those usually settle in when I’m stressed.  And I’m not stressed, really, it’s the physical stress of keeping up with this schedule this week.  Oh, how breakable I feel . . .

But I’m all right.  I know these things.  And this is so temporary.  Because in my off time I am getting contracts all tidy.  And kids are only with me for two more weeks.  Two weeks!  I can scarcely wrap my head around that.  I’ll miss them.  This class is a gift.  Each and every kid has a special corner in my heart.

The pool is fixed and the baby is learning not to crawl headfirst over shallow stairs and it will all be okay.  More than okay.

Dishwasher is calling my name . . . and ten minutes, ding!