When to Just Let it Go

Sometimes, I think I'm too much of a hard ass; I've had an ongoing issue with my daughter's teacher this year over the fact that she is very religious and very conservative, and I'm...well...NOT.  This teacher insists on injecting her political views into day to day classroom conversation; I suspect she has not been challenged on this for the simple fact that most parents in our extremely conservative area either agree with her, so see no reason to question this practice; or they simply are too wrapped up in their own lives to care.

However, I fit into neither category.

I have been letting a lot of what is said slide, because, for the most part, she is an excellent teacher, and my daughter has done quite well with her.  However, yesterday, my oldest decided to argue with me regarding a point made, and one that I knew was neither accurate nor remotely correct.  Normally, I would have just simply told her it wasn't right, and given her the reference; but she sat there and debated me on it...even bet me $10 on it...just because Mrs. So and So "said".  Well, Mrs. So and So was wrong, and my daughter quickly lost $10.

The argument was over the English translation of the Bible, and how it came to be.  I have told my oldest quite some time ago about King Henry VIII and his battle with the Roman Catholic Church, and how he had authorized and funded the first English translation of the Bible meant for public use (it was, however, far from the first English translation - that had been accomplished in the 1380's by John Wycliffe).  So now comes a chapter in her Social Studies book, which states that the King James Version was the first widely distributed English version of the Bible...which is not exactly true.  In fact, it isn't true at all.  Of course, this led my oldest to pop off with: "But my mom said..."  And it was all downhill from there.

So here comes the oldest last night, and she tells me, "I thought you said King Henry VIII had the first English translation, and I told Mrs. So and So that, and she said, 'I don't think so,' and then showed me in our Social Studies book..." and on and on and on.  When she was done, I told her that was not true, which brought on the above bet, which she promptly lost; not only did I prove her book wrong, but I wrote down the entire time line of how the English translation of the Bible we know as the King James Version came to be. 

While I was in the middle of my crusade, one of my friends sent me a text, and when I explained what I was doing and why, I promptly got a text back that was the equivalent of: "why do you let that stupid shit bother you?"  And that's a good question...why did it bother me?  Why did I let something in an outdated 6th grade text book get me to the point of spending an hour and a half writing a detailed accounting of how the Bible got translated into English for a child who would probably not remember half of it by the next day?  Is it because I knew the book, and the teacher, were wrong, or was it because I was pissed that my child chose to challenge me because Mrs. So and So said so?  Was I really doing this to educate my child, or was I doing it to satisfy my own ego?

Simple answer...both.

On the one hand, I want my daughters to know the truth about certain things so they are able to make educated decisions about important issues, including religion, as they gain age and knowledge.  On the other, I also am not about to have someone telling my kids I don't know what I'm talking about, especially when I most certainly do.  This isn't the first time this teacher and I have been at odds over our ideologies, and I'm not saying she is any more biased in her beliefs than I am; however, I have always been of the mind that my children need to see and understand different, and even opposing, viewpoints, because that is how we learn to be more well rounded, and respectful, individuals.

This time, though, was different; not because of the topic, but because of the direct affront to my knowledge, and how I chose to impart that knowledge to my child.  I fully understand that I was getting the almost 12 year old's version of the story, and that version may be quite different than what actually took place, but the underlying indication was most definitely there: a point was made, my daughter challenged it based on something I had told her, my daughter was told point blank that I was wrong, and that challenge was brought home to me, which I not only met, but trumped, in no time flat.

Yet by the time I finished putting this time line, and all the subsequent references, footnotes, and miscellaneous, and utterly useless, information down on paper, I had calmed down significantly.  I called my daughter into my office and handed her the paper, at which time I told her that this was the actual history, but I did not expect her to use it to prove her teacher wrong; this was for her, and nothing else.  I explained that just as I did not like having my authority and knowledge questioned, her teacher would not, and that out of respect for her as a teacher, I didn't think it would be a good idea.  I then said that if it continued to be an issue, I would deal with it as an adult; it was my place to do so...not hers.

So now that I have proven my point, I will once again let something slide; no reason to make life hard for my daughter because I don't agree with a teacher.  However, I have a sneaking suspicion that it won't be long before I once again hear: "But my mom said..."

Meet the Cats

Anyone who knows me knows I have a rather eclectic mix of animals; cows who love cookies, goats, chickens, a turkey, a duck and a donkey; and three very spoiled dogs.  Add to this mix four cats, each with a unique personality that only adds to the craziness.

The oldest of the cats is Callie, and she is by far the crankiest.  She kind of reminds me of the poor cat out of the old Pepe LePew cartoons right after she falls into the barrel - all mangy, drippy and wheezy.  She spends most of her days curled up in a ball sleeping, unless she wakes up long enough to eat or hiss at one of the others, all of whom have learned to steer clear of the old bitch.  If I had any sense, I'd do the humane thing and have her put down, but she came to me via an old friend who is no longer part of this world; so instead, I just leave her alone and let her sleep away whatever life she has left.

Tinker, on the other hand, is probably the most "normal" of the cats.  She was part of a pair given to me, but unfortunately, her sister didn't survive kittenhood.  She is the most loving of the kitties; always willing to cuddle and purr for anyone offering an ear-scratch, and she loves to perch on your lap, your belly, your chest, or your keyboard...especially when you are right in the middle of something.  She is often the first thing I see in the morning, because she likes to wake me up by sitting on my chest and putting her nose right on mine.  Tinker is also the girls' favorite go to kitty when they have had a bad day, or gotten in trouble, or had their little egos bruised; she is constantly packed around and hugged on...and she doesn't mind a bit.

Squeegee is, by far, the most neurotic of the cats, and after what she's been through, why shouldn't she be?  A couple summers ago, my irrigation pump decided to croak, which meant I had to hand irrigate my pasture while waiting for the replacement.  Since I hadn't had to do this for a while, it required cleaning the ditch between the pond and the pasture, and this was accomplished via a DR Trimmer.  We have a lot of feral cats at my other place, and feral cats always mean feral kittens; well, as my friend was running the trimmer while I dammed up the water to go down the ditch, I happened to look up and see some movement in the grass right where he was at.  Sure enough, it was one of these kittens.  I knew it was going to die, so I found a nice soft spot in some grass where it could go in peace and left it alone.

A few days later, I was up at the place with my girls.  I was out in the pasture changing my corrugates when I hear: "Mom!  Guess what we found!"  Now I'm thinking an egg, or a snake, or a really weird bug.  They come booking out to where I'm at holding something, and when they get to me, they proudly show me...a kitten.  The same kitten I thought was going to die.  Well, of course, I couldn't leave anything with that much spirit, so it came home.  I gave it a few drops of penicillin, nursed it with a syringe, and put it to bed in a shoebox.  I told the girls not to get too attached to it, because it had been hurt pretty bad...and I told them that every day for two weeks, while the kitten, in turn, did just fine.

Two years later, this bipolar cat is as much a part of the family as any, and has even been named a class mascot.  She is definitely in her own little world; one minute she wants you to love on her, and the next, she gone like a bat out of hell.  She never stays out very long, preferring instead to hide under my bed...and for some reason, she hates the sound of the lawnmower...

Now Tick...he's the shit, and the shithead.  Tick is another casualty of having a ranch.  Every year ditch banks have to be burned, and that's what we were doing.  I had seen the cat run, but didn't think anything of it, until I heard this sound, and I thought...Oh, shit.  I climbed up to the edge of the burn, and found this little singed ball of orange fur.  He looked horrible and smelled worse, and when I picked him up, I could see he was maybe two weeks old; his eyes were just barely opened and his ears were still closed.  The fire had toasted the tip of his tail (which eventually fell off), and the tips of his ears.  There was an offer to put the baby out of his misery, but Isella started bawling, and guess what...

We had tried several names for him - Fuego, Smoky, Singe - but none really fit.  While the name game was going on, this little baby still have to be fed...every two hours...and he was a little pig.  After I'd get done feeding him, I'd put him down on his stomach, and his little belly would be so full his feet would barely touch the ground; he looked like a little tick.

And the name just kind of stuck.

What was so funny about this baby, other than his penchant for climbing my pant leg when he was hungry, was his attachment to my weenie dog, Polly.  From the day we brought him home, she mothered the hell out of this kitten.  She bathed him, cuddled him and moved him around.  For weeks, if any of the other cats got near him, she'd get very protective, growling and biting at them; Tick was her baby.  Eventually, she even began to nurse him, which made quite an interesting sight, to say the least.  Even now, a year later, she is still his "Mommy"; at night when she's curled up by my feet, I will feel him sneaking down under the covers to cuddle up by her.  Unfortunately, he also still tries to nurse, and that is one sound I don't want to hear at 2 a.m., so with one swift motion of my foot, I kick them both out of the bed.  He will then sit there, one ear laid over, with this look of total indignation, before he goes thumping off to another part of the house, while Polly makes her way back down to her spot by my feet.

As I've said, he is not a quiet cat; in fact, it is a good thing I feed him, because there is no way in hell he could sneak up on anything not totally blind and/or deaf.  Because of the damage to his tail, he doesn't walk like a normal cat; instead he "thunks" everywhere...even on carpet.  You can hear him all over the house..."thunk thunk thunk"...and when he jumps up on anything, there is no sense of grace involved.  His tail is stuck in this permanently deformed question mark; no matter how hard he tries, he can't hold it up straight. 

Despite it all, though, he loves to go play outside (so does Tinker; Squeegee runs and hides the minute you open the door).  It is hilarious to watch him beg to go out; he stands up on his back legs as tall as he can pawing repeatedly at window, and it sounds like a little fan; bapbapbapbapbap; and he will not quit until you let him out.  Now when he wants back in, he does the same thing.  He will stand there, tail cocked off to one side, and just beat at the window until you let him in.  Then he thunks off, usually to go see if there's something in his food dish.  To say he is a character would be a gross understatement.

Each of my cats, just like every one of my animals, brings something special to my existence (and not just  fur).  Even on my worst days, I can count on one of my cats to do something to make things a little better, just as I can can always count on my cows to dig in my pocket for a cookie.  It is these little things done by my animals, and my kids, that make my life incredible.  So here's to my crazy cats and all they give me...even if I do have to clean up an occasional hairball.

The Younger Generation

I often tell some of my closest male friends how much I admire the fact that they work hard and sacrifice a lot of themselves to make sure their children learn the right lessons or that their kids have a good life.  More often than not when I share this sentiment, it is brushed off; they don't expect compliment or reinforcement simply because they are only doing what is rightly their responsibility.

However, part of the reason I do it is because of what I see on a day to day basis, and that is young men (and to a much lesser extent, young women) who feel no sense of obligation or responsibility to do anything, including support their children.  They have been raised with a sense of: "I breathe; therefore, I am entitled", and they exercise this sense of entitlement on a regular basis.  I have actually had some get nearly irate with me, because I will tell them they don't qualify for certain services or programs - they honestly believe it is my job to hand them whatever they want, that I (speaking for society in general) am somehow responsible for taking care of them, and they have no responsibility in taking care of themselves.  Of all the things I deal with, this one aspect is probably the most frustrating.

I have heard before how we have created this generation of: "Me, first!", and I believe it.  We have become so fearful of damaging a child's "delicate" self esteem that instead of building character in our children, we have turned them into, for lack of a better phrase, a bunch of spoiled brats.  I often use the example of the ribbons at the award ceremonies - when every child gets the same ribbon regardless of whether he (or she) showed up every day, practiced hard, and always played his (or her) best, or if he (or she) simply went at it half assed, knowing a reward was waiting, whether earn or not.  Not only does this diminish the achievement of the one who did everything right, teaching him that all his hard work was pointless, so why bother; but it is a disservice to the one who did nothing at all, because he learns that he doesn't have to work for what he wants, because it is going to be there anyway.  Not only that, but it doesn't force the latter to learn how to deal with disappointment, nor to explore whatever ability he might possess which will provide him with that sense of self satisfaction.  Face it...we cannot all be great athletes, scholars, musicians, or writers, be we all have something which sets us apart from everyone else.

A lot of these kids also have never been held accountable for their actions; many who are my age or older remember getting a swat on the ass when we misbehaved, and no one thought twice about it.  Now, a spanking is considered child abuse.   If we acted up at school, not only were we subject to the corrective actions of the administration, but also the corrective actions of our parents (or in my case, grandparents and uncle).  However, if a child acts up now, then the parents often lay the blame on everyone else; the school system, the teachers, the friends, or the phase of the moon, rather than look at their child as being the source of their child's problem.  (I have become rather notorious for telling misbehaving children to sit down and knock "it" off; more so than not, I get a look from an often very young parent saying, how...dare...I...chastise....her...kids!  Anyone who knows me also knows just how far this look goes with me.)

To a lesser extent, I blame our every burgeoning mental health industry; I cannot tell you how many times I have heard the phrase: "I can't work because I have (insert favorite three letters of the alphabet here)."  I hear about their OCD, ADHD, BP, PAD, ODD, and whatever other infirmity they can come up with (other than L-A-Z-Y).  I'm not saying these disorders aren't real, or that they don't have an immense effect on people's lives, because I know for a fact they do.  I have friends who fight depression on a daily basis, but the difference is that even though the depression is very real, they also know it has to be dealt with because their lives require it, and they do just that; whether through medication, yoga, herbs or simple determination (in fact, some I know will put off even getting help because they are ashamed of having anything wrong at all). Yet for these kids, this isn't the case.  For them, it is not just an excuse, but a badge of honor.  It is so easy for them to find a doctor who will tell them what they want to hear, throw some pills at them, and let them be on their way; again, this trivializes the disorders for those who truly have them and need help, and teaches others that if they don't want to do anything, just go get diagnosed with something and they are set.

I read somewhere that for the first time in our history, we are raising a generation less educated than the one before it, and I can believe that.  Every generation has had its share of those who do nothing with their lives but coast through, looking for the next handout (my own mother is case in point); but this generation is different, and it is a monster of our own creation.  In the effort of pop psychology to keep our kids from being "damaged" by failure or disappointment, or by "expecting too much" from them, the incentive to achieve and do well has disappeared.  In turn, not only do they have no respect for others, but in reality, none for themselves.  I, personally, would not want to live with the idea of someone else taking care of me (in fact, my ego has gotten me in trouble once or twice, like pulling out my sutures by loading hay on a trailer two days after surgery...oops).  I also have friends who, despite being sicker than hell, will ingest large amounts of cold medicine and force their way through the day, rather than burden someone else with their responsibilities.  But this generation has grown up thinking it is "special", and expecting to be taken care of.

I don't think the entire generation is that way, either; I see a lot of really, really good kids, raised by really good parents, including those I express admiration to (and who basically thing I am off my rocker for pointing it out).  I just hope there is enough of the good to balance out the not so good; for every one who comes in telling me how tough he (or she) has it, there is another who is working his (or her) ass off to make it through college or trade school so he (or she) can be self sufficient.  I am also not saying that we don't all need a little help from time to time, but that we show our children to seek this out only as a necessity, not as a way of life.  They are lessons I hope to impart on my own children; disappointment is part of life, but learning how deal with it is what makes us better people, and what you want in life means a whole lot more if you work for it and earn it, than if someone just hands it to you.  And when I tell them "no", it isn't because I don't love them, but because I do, and I have my reasons (which they don't always need to know), and that's the end of the conversation.  (From the reactions I often get when I tell these young adults "no", I seriously don't think they've heard it enough.)

So when I say to my friends, male and female alike, that I admire them for working hard and setting examples for their kids, I'm not just blowing smoke.  Again, I have my reasons, even if I don't always explain them.