All Creatures Great and Small

And so another issue is temporarily tabled and life as we know it continues.

I get home that night and engage in the normal routines. Dinner is in the oven courtesy of Hil following the directions in my note. Pat is almost done with a project he wants me to look over before he prints it. Trinket is flying around the house in her usually happy-to-see-me fashion. And then Lars calls.

He speaks with each child as I begin to check phone records for prior calls. I doubt that he has learned much. And then, he asks to speak to me. Oh, joy of joys. What now?

I greet him like it's a business situation. (That is not actually far from the truth.) He begins to act all weird and secretive. Asks if the children are nearby and can hear me. (Yes, moron, Hil just handed me the phone. How far away can she be?)

I walk away and tell him I am at the top of the basement stairs with the door closed behind me. He has no idea this is where I used to sit with coffee and boo-hoo about my unraveling life with him to my mother, sister, girlfriends, telemarketers, etc without being heard by him.

I tell him I am in The Cone of Silence. He has no idea that I am making a joke at his expense.

I am wondering what all the secrecy is about. Cat's out of the bag that he's engaged. Maybe Liza is pregnant. Dear God please let's not let it be that. One more spawn of Hell itself and surely the world will stop spinning on its axis. OMG, maybe his mother is dead. Immediately "Ding! Dong! The witch is dead!" begins to run through my head. But really, he's much too composed for THAT to be it. When his mother finally bites the dust, that is when the shit will hit the fan in all the colors of the rainbow. All the unfinished business and unresolved issues and various emotional landmines will all fly into the atmosphere creating a mushroom cloud for all of us to choke on.

No, maybe it is her recovering alcoholic, don't-hate-me-because-I-was-physically-and-emotionally-abusive-to-you-as-a-child-and-forcibly-wrenched-your-mother-from-your-life-while-you-still-needed-her second husband. Perhaps he went down for the dirt nap? Now that would be loads of fun to experience. What would his mother do with her double-wide and no Driver's License in the Highway Capitol of the Nation, California?

Maybe Liza and Lars have call it quits? The children have practically wagered bets on the shelf life of their marriage.

No. Sadly it is none of those juicy, front page of the Star stories. Instead, it is Mr. Whiskers. Hil and Pat's pet guinea pig. He evidently passed away over the weekend. The kids will be heartbroken.

I ask what happened. I have met Mr. Whiskers. As guinea pigs go, he was darling. Very personable and very engaging. A fat little squeaker who joyfully welcomed you to the room, even if you weren't bearing gifts of timothy hay or green pepper.

Lars says he'd not been feeling well and died the day before. I am instead imagining that he left the cage open in a stupor and his dog or Liza's dog sized him up as a snack. I supposed I'll never know the truth. And he's already buried the evidence.

Lars wants to know if he can pick up the kids and tell them. He's willing to abide by our agreement and let it wait until they return to him on Friday. I can only imagine Hil returning from school to find Mr. Whiskers' cage empty. Of course I acquiesce. Of course, they have no idea why Lars would be picking them up, and have absolutely no interest in going. I tap dance around the change of heart.

They go and have a lovely graveside service for Mr. Whiskers. Hil paints a seashell blue and paints his name and a cross on it. He is buried in the backyard where they can visit him often. Lars bought some flowers and the kids said a prayer. All the hallmarks of closure are achieved.

But this is just the beginning for Hil. Her grief for Mr. Whiskers seems to spill into a larger more profound grief, and we begin a week filled with tears, the origins of which I will spend weeks trying to understand.

The Fine Print

A few hours later, as I sit in a meeting, my phone rings. It is the familiar school district main number. I let it go to voicemail. If I am going to have a conversation on this topic, it will not be in hushed tones as I step politely into a corridor to speak and have to mind my Ps and Qs. It will be a closed door verbal brawl that in which I want the freedom to be able to really come out swinging for the fences. The speed with which the email has been answered suggests that I have either gotten someone's attention or they are passing this issue off as a casual, one phone call problem.

I will be sure to enlighten them.

I can see that a message has been left. And then I start to panic. What if it is not a School Board member or one of the Supers? What if it is the school nurse or counselor trying to reach me about an issue with Pat or Hil?

And here I am stepping politely into a corridor to pick up a message that I might have to return in hushed tones while minding my Ps and Qs anyway.

It is not the nurse or counselor. It is the Assistant Superintendent who must have drawn the short straw and has to return my phone call.

It is Mr. Rotelli and he thinks that long, verbose message is about resolving a bullying situation with Pat.

No, moron. After three visits to school and a dozen emails, I took care of that myself, no thanks to Team McDuff. And now it has become abundantly clear that you did not read my letter beyond the first paragraph. Glad it got your attention, sorry you missed the entire point of the letter I took the time to carefully and sucinctly articulate. What a boob.

After my meeting as I drive home, I decide to return Rotelli's call. It is nearly 6 pm when I do and I am surprised that he answers his phone.

I introduce myself, politely but not warmly. We are no way near through and I don't want him to think he can lean back in his chair with his Hush Puppies up on the blotter.

I tell him that my letter was not about a current bullying situation involving my son. And that I took care of that myself, thank you very much. And then I launch into the topic at hand.

While resolving the situation with Pat and Kevin, I smelled smoke and went looking for fire, and was shocked and appalled to find how poorly prepared the school was to handle such a routine Middle School situation and what little policies and procedures had been developed and implemented in a day and age where Bullying was making headline news on a weekly if not dail basis.

Rotelli assured me that there was a policy in place and in fact, as Bullying has changed and evolved over the years, the policy had been updated and tweaked regularly so as to keep pace with the problems du jour.

I listened patiently and then responded the moment he stopped prattling on and on about what a great system he had in place.

"Mr. Rotelli, I would LOVE to be proven wrong. But if you have such a great system in place - one that is tweaked and updated and is so highly evolved, my question is, "Why is Dr. McDuff unaware of it, or more importantly, is he aware of it and chosen to reject it at the expense of the Middle Schoolers in his jurisdiction?"

He could not answer that question but he'd love to talk to me about it.

I suggest that we are talking now and can continue for as long as he'd like.

He'd like to meet with me in person.

Of course he does. Pulling the working parent away from the office is the school's best avoidance tactic. They know that most of the time, the parent isn't invested enough to take time off for such nonsense.

I make a deal.

"Mr. Rotelli, I work in another state. I have already wasted countless work hours resolving a situation the school was not competent to handle. We can either continue to discuss this by phone and email as I'd prefer, or I can meet with you. But if it is the latter, we are going to do so at my convenience enitirely. I have a conference for my daughter that will be scheduled in two weeks. When I know the date and time of my appointment, I will ask that you accommodate a meeting with me that same day."

Deal.

Up the Food Chain We Go

In the mean time, I realize that I have not heard a peep from the school, or McDuff specifically since my last email. I am getting more and more pissed as time goes by. I re-read my email to him and want to go call him out. How dare he ignore me?

I take to my AOL account and look up the school board members, the Superintendent and the two Assistant Superintendents. I begin to forward the initial message and write this:


Ladies and Gentlemen -

I am appealing to you as a means to resolving a serious issue within the schools in our township, particularly in the Middle School. I sent this e-mail more than a week ago and have gotten nothing in reply. My patience is waning.

My assessment after meeting with Dr. McDuff and the 8th grade principal, Mrs. Hilman (Building Principal Mrs. Carroll chose to handle lunch duty instead of attending a meeting planned a week in advance) regarding a badly mishandled bullying situation involving my son, is that the school and the district are wholly unprepared and ill-equipped to handle bullying situations or conduct that could lead to bullying. The definition in the handbook is weak and poorly written, and the poster that hangs in each classroom, which is assumed to comply with Pennsylvania Law and may not, is ineffective, misleading, and serves only as lip service.

Other school districts with far less money and far inferior reputations have put our district to shame with their efforts and successes in eradicating bullying. They have placed the matter at the forefront and state their positions with conviction at the tops of their web pages.They have invested in eliminating bullying from their school communities and establishing cultures of respect. Dr. McDuff may assert that he is the expert on this matter, but he is completely disorganized, ineffective, consumed with the terminology and definitions and administrative tools, and has miserably and publicly failed to make any convincing demonstration to the pupils that we will not tolerate disrespectful conduct from our students. The students are running amok while he tweaks an investigation form. He has set no standard of conduct and has not communicated the expectations to the students. He has failed to follow through on issues and has no credibility with the students who rely on him to be the disciplinarian. The only concrete thing I've seen is a repeat of the same old cyber bullying lecture for parents. It is simply not enough effort toward an issue that is drawing national attention. My daughter can tell me exactly what will happen if someone wears shorts that do not extend to the length of her fingertips with her arms at her sides, but has no idea what to do if she observes or experiences bullying.

I am appealing to you before going to the the PTO, the Informed Citizens Network, the Civic Association, the traditional media and social media. I renew my offer to actively participate in resolving this situation and have offered resources to that end. The disturbing lack of follow through leads me to believe that the school district is complacent and unwilling to take ownership of this problem. I find it appalling.

I think you would agree, and most district parents would, too, that:

- The district needs a firm, thorough and effective policy on Harassment, Intimidation and Bullying. I suggest borrowing and implementing one at once.

- The district needs a communication plan (one that is actually executed, not just described as an intention on a poster) that lets parents, students, staff and community members know what is expected of our students, what procedures are in place to handle situations when those expectations are not met, and what resources are available to them.

- The district needs to reinforce the message to its students that pride in themselves and pride in their community are demonstrated by taking responsibility for our own conduct and not sitting idly by when others' conduct is unacceptable.

I would appreciate the courtesy of a reply. I have not been "kept posted" as Dr. McDuff stated in an earlier e-mail below.

Send. Let the fireworks begin.

Hey, Joe

Beloved boxing champ Joe Frazier died and was laid to rest last week. Smokin’ Joe Frazier. Gone.

And memories of my Dad come roaring back, just as the season of his passing arrives as well.

Smokin’ Joe was such a big character when I was young. His ongoing rivalry with Muhammed Ali. His colorful persona. His need to be recognized when Ali claimed to be The Greatest every time you turned around. He was a champion fighter. He deserved to be recognized. My dad loved him. Maybe because he was always fighting. Not just in the ring. But in life. Always the underdog. He was witty, too. Quick with a comeback. That would have meant something to my Dad.

And now Joe is gone. And Ali lives on, though he doesn’t seem to have the life you’d hope a world renown champion athlete would have. Age and illness are taking exacting their revenge. And again, Ali wins the fight.

When I was young my Dad worked for a major city newspaper. He was in ad sales and loved loved loved what he did for a living, and who he worked for. He was there for over 30 years before newspapers lost their foothold on news delivery and his company closed. I remember the announcement vividly. Watched it on the news. Watched my Dad break down and cry. My dad kept a transcript of the meeting to tell the employees. I found it in his “Important Papers” when he died. Along with his Will, his Divorce Decree, and his discharge papers from the Navy.

The paper had been a very family oriented company. Hell, my Mom and Dad met there. I most vividly remember Christmases at the paper. A group of people would make a giant paper mache holiday display of some kind, maybe a Nativity scene (before anything of a religious orientation was banned from the work place) out of, what else? Newspaper. And it would be gloriously spray painted and standing in the 3 story lobby of the building near the escalators that ran along the wall that displayed a Thomas Jefferson quote scrawled along the top: “Were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers, or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter.”

We’d ride up past the quote and families would be gathered everywhere. There would be caroling and food and sweets and I remember it being such a joyful time and place.

At my Dad’s office no less. (My office prohibits fun, thank you.)

But what I loved most was the quarterly magazine produced for the employees. It was beautifully assembled with pictures and a witty style. It covered everything. Who was getting promoted. Who had gotten engaged. Wedding news. Interesting stories about what people were doing in their communities. Highlights about the softball team and the golf outing and all manner of fun. People could even submit pictures themselves. I remember Charlotte and Jack and I were in there once. In our family portrait. Charlotte had loved the way her bouffant had turned out.

And on one cover, most notably, there was Joe Frazier. At the height of his career he had visited the paper. For what reason, who is to say? But he had gone around and met a lot of the staff and mixed it up in the newsroom and the press room and the ad department. And there had been lots of photos taken. Joe was a ham. He was bobbing and weaving and fake boxing with the guys all day.

And on the cover of the next mag, there he was. And just who was at the center of the crowd that had formed? Boxing with Smokin’ Joe?

My Dad. And now they are both gone. I wonder if Dad is waiting for him in Heaven. He probably is. With some snappy comment and a left jab at the ready, for sure.

Table Talk

The way the Scout breakfast works is like this:

The Scouts plan the breakfast and go door to door selling tickets, and sell to their friends and family. The money they raise personally gets applied to their camping trip accounts.
The day of the breakfast, any “walk ins” go into the common account to offset all of their mutual expenses.
Walk ins can sit anywhere and get served by a Scout. People who have purchased tickets in advance sit at the table being served by their Scout. And he takes orders and fetches coffee and clears tables, looking very responsible all the while.
His tips go into his account that day. If they don’t go into his shirt pocket first.

Scott and I walk in and Pat is thrilled to see us. Shows us all the pictures he’s in from all the outings. Seats us at his table. Runs for the coffee. (He knows his mother all too well.)

We order pancakes and sausage and Pat keeps us company, making small talk about Eagle Scout candidates, and plans for the next camping trip. We are having so much fun and he is enjoying the attention so much, we stay for another cup of coffee.

And then as I turn to talk to Scott, I see some familiar silhouettes at the door. Lars, Liza and Hil.
Hil looks adorable all in pink. She also looks uncomfortable. Like she does not know what to do.

They walk over to the table. It only seats 8. And Scott and I have taken two next to each other. Yikes. Some elbows may touch.

I am on the end. Scott next to me. Liza takes a seat next to Scott. Lars on the end furthest from me and not facing me (just as well!) Hil is across from Lars on the end. She has not come over to greet me. I am sure I know why.

Lars waves Pat over. Pat leans in to hear him speak. I can’t hear what Lars says, but Pat says, a little annoyed, “Sorry Dad, there aren’t any other tables. Other Scouts are serving them.”

Understood.

Liza, in spite of having aged 10 years since I last saw her, (probably due to all the engagement bliss she’s enjoying?) is cordial to Scott and me. We pass the butter and syrup and cream and sugar.

I notice the ring. Cheesy.

She turns to offer Lars sugar for his coffee. He says, “I don’t take sugar in my coffee.”

Not for anything, but would you know the coffee preferences of someone you have been dating for 3 years? Are they both that self absorbed? Glad there aren’t any Green Cards on the line. They would not pass the Marriage Validity interview.

I notice Hil straining to understand something Lars is saying. Then she appears to understand and acts uncomfortable. And then she gets up and gives Lars a tentative hug.

Scott looks at me as if to say, “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?” I catch Hil’s eye and she looks at her plate. It is all too weird. Clearly Lars staged a show of affection to prove a point only he understands. Crack pot.

Scott and I make small talk with Pat and tip him nicely. I get up to leave and give Hil a squeeze while she remains in her seat. I do my best not to make the kids any more uncomfortable than necessary. Lars doesn’t even acknowledge me or Scott.

I say “Have a great day, everybody!” and take Scott’s hand to walk out. There is obviously a war waging - but evidently it is only waged by Lars. And truly, it is a war with himself. Unwinnable, and with many casualties.

A Cowboy Hat for Her, A Dunce Cap for Him

I am so thrilled to have found the goofy looking hat that it doesn’t compute at first that she is not breathing into a paper bag with excitement.

I ask if she’d still like it.
I get a tentative “yes.”
I ask her if I should drop it off to her at Dad’s house.
She does not immediately answer.
I ask that if she is going to the pancake breakfast before the cheer station, I could bring it there and give it to her.
She begins to ask how long we’ll be at the breakfast and it becomes apparent that Lars is hovering nearby. She hesitates to speak.
And then she is speaking to him.
And then she says to me, “We’re not going to the breakfast for a while.”
I say, “But sweetie, you need to be at the cheer station in an hour and you’ll miss the breakfast if you go after…”
And then she says, “Dad would like to speak to you.”
I decide not to let him talk first, “Hey, I’m headed to the breakfast and have Hil’s hat. Do you want me to take her to breakfast and drop her off at the cheer station?” – which would make the most sense.
Lars acts like he can not believe the suggestion. How dare I?
“You know…(stammering, evidently in disbelief)…I mean….(more unintelligible noises meant to be interpreted as disbelief)…I mean, come ON!”
I say, “What Lars? Hil needs her hat. I can drop it off, but I can also take her to breakfast and to the cheer thing if you are not ready to go, as it would seem.”
“No! You just went through this big thing about your time and my time and now you think it’s okay for you to do this?

He says “this” like I have just suggested selling our child on the black market.

Now Scott is looking concerned. And I am about to misbehave.

“The difference, Lars,” and I say his name like I would punctuate the end of a sentence with “dickhead” or “asswipe” which may actually still happen. “Is that I am trying to help Hil, not control anything or berate anyone or abuse anyone. I am trying to do something for her. You just cross boundaries and make everyone miserable with your intrusions.”

He hangs up.

I text. “You are a total asshole and your behavior is completely childish.”

He writes back, as if from the Seminary, “Please stop sending curse words to my phone.”

I reply. “Drop Dead.”

I am fuming. Scott asserts that Lars kind of has a point.

I agree that he thinks he has a point, but the black and white thinker never does get the subtleties in these situations. I guess Hil will have to live without the hat because Lars can’t see the value in my getting it to her. And his delaying going to the breakfast was to avoid any chance that she’d see me. Or maybe that he’d see me. Geez. Someone might actually turn to stone.

I calm myself sufficiently to get in the car and head to the breakfast. I do not want Pat to see that I am fuming. I take deep cleansing breaths the entire journey and am genuinely overjoyed to walk into the church auditorium to be greeted by a beaming, smiling Pat.

Holding the Line

I police the phone calls like a jealous spouse for the next few days. I ask the kids to be honest with me. They tell me what calls have come in and show me their phones. I can look at texts. I can check the house phone on my own. Lunacy.

But the difference it makes is remarkable.

The peace and the calm are uncanny. I regret that I did not do this ages ago. And again am figuratively flogging myself.

But the end of the week comes and I have to send them back to Lars. I am sure he’ll blame them for playing along with my crazy ideas and letting it happen.

I am also sure they’ll be praying to vanish.

But there are two things on the weekend that provide opportunities for me to look into their faces and see how they are fairing.

One is Pat’s Scout Pancake Breakfast and the other is Hil’s Girl Scout cheer section in a neighboring town on the path of the Susan G. Komen 3 day walk. I plan to make a stop at both.

Hil is gathering all manner of pink gear to wear. Pink pants. Pink sock. Pink boots. Pink shirt. Pink hair extensions. Pink bandanna. Pink cowboy hat (Don’t ask.)

But we can’t find the pink cowboy hat anywhere and she is quite miffed. Believes that I must have given it to charity. (Because what the poor really need is a bedazzled pink cowboy hat.) I promise I will look for it and get it to her if I find it.

Scott joins me at my house on Friday and we go out for a drink. I rehash all that has happened and describe how relieved I am that Lars seems to be at an arm’s length.

Scott warns me that I should expect Lars to be a hard ass over calls to and from me this week. Don’t be upset if I can’t reach the kids or have to go through him to speak to them and am reminded of my own obligation to adhere to the One Call rule.

Don’t worry, I am prepared. And I will behave. I prepare him that Lars, should we happen to cross paths at the Pancake Breakfast, will be a full-blown horse’s ass to him. His track record for doing so is impeccable.

The next morning I head to the attic room to find something to wear to the breakfast. It has gotten chilly and I will need a coat for the High School football game we’ll be attending later. And there it is. Hil’s dazzling pink cowboy hat.

I pick it up and race downstairs to call her. She’ll be so excited. I get her on the phone.

She’s not so excited.

Exhibit L, for Lunatic

The kids are pretty rattled from the night before. I decide to talk over the situation with a counselor they talk with. She knows all the dynamics. I need not explain much. She can visualize the whole scene. She's met The Beast.

She tells me two things.

1 - The next time he does anything remotely similar (e.g. takes the kids, carries on like a nut case on my property, gets aggressive) call 911. Go on record with the police. He is not my spouse and has no more right to terrorize me or the kids in my home than the man in the moon. The custody thing will not play out in his favor either.

and 2 - Send him an email detailing the ground rules. Let him take it to his lawyer if he wants. Let him sit and explain his circus act and the liberties he feels he has the right to take. His lawyer is a whack job too, but she's at least educated about these things. Even she would have to advise him not to poke Mama Bear and expect not to survive without a devastating claw across his ugly face.

It is nice to have the counselor's support. I am only too happy to write the e-mail:

Lars –

In light of what transpired the other day, I need to let you know that I am establishing ground rules for the children while they are in my care.

Phone calls to and from you will be limited to 1 per day. I show you and the children this courtesy when they are with you as a way to let them fully live their life with you, and I expect the same courtesy. The constant intrusion is disruptive in many ways to all of us. I am holding the children responsible for setting those limits with you and will follow up daily. If you insist that they call you when they have arrived home from school, that will be the only call. Any additional calls will be with my permission only.

Visits and trips on my custody week. – There will be no further intrusions on their time with me. You violated everyone’s trust the other afternoon, and the results were horrific. You have no idea the upsetment you caused the children with your deceit, and your berating Patrick, and your bullying technique with me. The children have been told and understand that unless they have heard specifically from me that they are to go with you or with Liza, they are not to answer the door for you or go with you anywhere.

Scouts – I will allow the trip that is already planned, and attendance with you at this Thursday's meeting, but will reconsider future commitments based on your cooperation with the calls etc. Effective with the meeting in two weeks, I will take Pat to Scout meetings on my weeks. Please make sure his uniform comes home with him next week so that he is not embarrassed. Let me know if you are unwilling to take Pat this week and I will see that he gets there.

As always, homework, attendance at school and other similar daily decisions while they are with me are my jurisdiction entirely. Your input is unwelcome and should not be shared with the children or with me. Your attempts to rule my home from afar have to stop. You do nothing but cause fear in the kids with your constant interference. If the children ask you your opinion about such matters, your response should convey that it is my decision. This is what I do with them when they ask me to weigh in on matters that pertain to you.

You consistently violate boundaries, Lars, and I need to set limits on what the children and I will accept.

You will notice that I've copied the children's counselor as a matter of record. I've kept her apprised of the situation so you are welcome to discuss it with her should you so desire.

Right. Like that will ever happen. Lars avoids the counselor like a vampire avoids the sun. He knows any information she has could lead to his undoing.

As it should be. Loon that he is.

Fighting Fire with Fire

I am so fuming I can barely sit still. I am trying hard not to lose my cool entirely in front of the kids. I will not let them see that Lars has rattled me. I need to be in control. That is the only way they can relax and know that Lars can not reach into my house and harm them.


I send Lars a text telling him he behaved horribly and should be ashamed of himself. Tell him he is as abusive and self-centered as his mother. Tell him that if he ever sends Liza to my door to retrieve the kids I'll have her arrested, too. She has no parental rights and crossed a boundary. Told him I'd take him to court over the abuse and disruption. Told him to stop calling and interrupting what little studying either upset child can accomplish. If he wants trouble he's found it.

And then I go and spent some time with the kids. One to one. Making sure they knew they were safe. The wolf was not at the door. The guardian was at the gate.

Both kids are pooped and I pile them into their beds early. Pat with his much ballyhooed new meds and Hil with a back rub.

And then I go downstairs to call Scott. Momma needs her own emotional elixir.

As I stride across the livingroom dialing I notice that my daughter, Slobovia, has left her books and papers and projects and rewrites and snipets of paper all across the floor in no particular order. And in the middle of it all, her phone.

I pick it up to see what messages and calls had come in today. Four from Lars.

And two from Liza. From her cell.

I snap it shut, pissed at the nerve. And tell Scott I should call Liza and read her the riot act. She probably has no clue what happened here today. And then I tell him I'll call him back.

I pick up Hil's phone, reopen it and jot down the number.

I go to my phone and write the following text just to Liza:

Liza- I realize that you were probably asked to pick up Pat today and may have had a very one-sided understanding of the situation. Please understand that I had not been consulted and had not given permission for Lars or anyone else to remove either child from my home except to attend a 5:45 appt. In the future, please speak with me directly before approaching the children about leaving with you and/or Lars while they are in my custody. Now that you have my number, there should be no barrier to that request. I appreciate your concern for Pat, and the position in which you were placed. Please respect my position on this issue. Thank you. Good night.

Send.

So there. She gets a polite, respectful but assertive e-mail from me while Lars is undoubtedly running around his house like the lunatic he is. Let her be the judge of who is the sane parent now.

Highway to Hell

I salvage dinner and set the table. I call Pat down from his retreat.

As he comes around the corner to join Hil and me at the table I can see that he has been crying. Crying quite a lot.

"Pat, what just happened here?"

He bursts into tears.

What I can gather between the sobs and nose blows, and choking is that Lars met Liza and Pat at home and spent the next 3 hours berating him about the project he was working on, and his grades. He had taken a look at PowerSchool and went through every test and quiz and assignment and carried on like a mad man. And poor Pat had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He was trapped in the lair and had no one to help him. (Hil is usually good for a little interference.) His retreat upon arriving home had been because Lars had warned him that he'd better not cry. And he better not find out that he'd cried later.

What a collosal asshole.

Pat was clearly heartbroken. There was no consoling him.

I called Lars. No answer, natch.

I begin to text like a loon. I am sure I misspelled more than a few common swear words but made a few points.

He had no right to do what he'd done today.
He had caused turmoil and upsetment and chaos in his children.
He'd violated my trust and Pat's and Hil's. He'd never get it back.
He had had no business lying to the children about permission from me to go to his house. If he did so again, I'd call the police and report that they'd been stolen.
The children have been informed that unless they hear from me directly, from my lips to their ears, that they are to leave my home with Lars or Liza, they are not to go, and not to answer the door.
I will never risk letting what happened today ever happen again.

Dinner is a disaster, and not just because the potatoes burned. I suggest that Pat try to recover sufficiently to study with me for his Health quiz. I tell him to take a long, hot shower and try to relax. Take comfort that his ordeal with Dad was over.

He takes a shower. He's clearly not recovering. Still crying. And still doesn't feel great. I tell him that we'll see about school tomorrow morning but he should read over his material just in case.

He tells me that Lars said he has to go to school the next day.

An idiot says what?

I said, "Pat, you and Hil are with me. Dad doesn't have any authority to say what happens with anything while you are in my care. He can't make you go to school. He can't make you eat your veggies. He can't make you clean your room. That is my department. And he can only hassle you about your school work if you let him. So let's not let him. OK? I will tell him to back off."

Pat's phone rings. It's Lars. I can see that he is upset to see that. I tell him he does not have to answer. He is afraid that Lars will be able to tell that he's been crying. (and invite further wrath because the cat is out of the bag that he's a monstrous parent. Duh.)

I can not believe the horror of it all. Really, I can't. Pat's phone keeps ringing, and then the house phone, and so on. Hil eventually answers. Lars never spends much time on the phone with her but he does ask for Pat. He's panicked when Hil brings him the phone.

I tell him that he has no need to talk to him, but also tell him that if he does talk to him to say he's been in the shower, not blowing off his calls. Pat sometimes needs to be told it's okay to be defiant.

Pat bucks up and talks to him. Lars is still on a tear. Wants to make sure he's studying for Health.

I ask Pat quietly if he wants me to tell Lars to stop calling. He waves me off and finishes the call.

Evidently, Lars is going to drop off the filled prescription. Hil has been instructed to meet him at the door. I take the opportunity to hug my son warmly before I leave the room to send a text.

As I leave, Pat says, "I love you, Mom. I wish Dad could be more like you."

Me too, sweetheart. Me too.

The Harbinger of Doom

Over the next few hours, I found out this:

Lars arranged a doctor's appointment for Pat and then decided to ask him about his progress with a homework assignment.

Lars decided Pat should be working on the assignment and wanted to make absolutely sure that he was.

Lars lied to Pat and told him that he had spoken with me and I granted him permission to pick him up immediately so he could spend the hours between then and the doctor's appointment working on the project at his house.

He told fiancee Liza to go to my house and retrieve Pat, and why not grab Hil while she was at it? The more the merrier!

Hil was convinced that the only reason Pat was going to Lars' house was to play XBox and she was not going to be a party to that. Took a stand and would not get in the car. Hence her little hissy fit.

I was fuming at the gall of it all. The liberties Lars would take. The assumption that he had the right to just show up and take the kids. The nerve of Liza to just pull up to the curb in front of my house and woo my kids to car like some weirdo with candy.

I was making dinner when Lars arrived at the house. He came to the door with a bunch of papers.

Knocks on the door like an ass.

I open the door and Pat walks in and goes immediately upstairs without breaking stride and without a word. Never a good sign.

Lars hands me a bunch of papers. Tells me in his asshole tone that he dropped off a prescription at the CVS but they couldn't promise it would be filled on the spot so I would have to go get it.

"How much is it?" I ask. I have something like 8 cents in my wallet and really don't need the aggravation.

He is oozing snideness. "I don't know. I guess they'll tell you. Howmysupposetaknow?"

I mimic his snideness. And know I look so much better with my hand-on-the-hip attitude. "Well, Lars, since the kids are on YOUR insurance, I would assume that YOUwould have at least a familiarity with the benefits and out-of-pocket expenses."

"Well, I don't remember. And the doctor says he can see a Dermatologist if we want so here is a list of names for you to call."

Really? A Dermatologist because our 13 year old has one pimple and a patch of dry skin? Spare me.

I hand back the note. "No, you can make that ridiculous appointment. Since you can't even bother to ever get his hair cut, I think you can extend yourself with this."

He hands back the papers. "No, I did this one, you can do that one." The snideness ratcheting up a notch. How familiar.

"No," I argue, escalating the pissiness one more notch. "I don't think it's necessary, so if you do, have at it. And by the way, since I pay you more child support because you cover the bennies for the kids, you need to cover the first $250 in out-of-pocket expenses for each of them. So you need to give me the money for the script now or pick it up yourself. Unless you have a bunch of reciepts in your wallet that proves you've already met the expense."

He is about to blow a proverbial gasket but turns to walk away. I wad up the list of names and throw it at the back of his big square head. "I am not getting the script, and I am not making this appointment. Period. Go get the meds yourself and drop them between the doors. No one needs to see you again tonight."

That momentarily gets his limited attention. He throws the wad of paper back at me (he was clearly not taught to throw by MY Dad.) and says he's not getting the script. I shut the door in his face and lock it. I summarily turn out the porch light and hope that he falls down the cement steps and breaks his neck.

True to form, the mad mad flies back up the steps to the door and bangs on it like a loon. Screaming at the top of his lungs that he needs to see Hilary and will not leave until he says goodbye to Hilary. Followed by 3 or 4 more sentences of unintelligible ramblings.

Hil's looking at me quizzically. I tell her she can say goodbye if she wants, but has no obligation. She says she'll shut him up and steps outside for an uncomfortable hug.

I am totally annoyed that the dinner I'd left in the skillet has begun to scorch.

Another Day, Another Crisis

A day and another dose or two later, Trinket is her old self again. Racing around like a kitten. Eating like a horse. And showing her sweet appreciation for being cared for. She really is such a dear little thing. She’d wear her heart on her sleeve if she had a sleeve.

I am not feeling the love from everyone though. While in my office one day, I am looking through my email for one from Kate when I realize that I have not heard from McDuff et al since he’d sent an uninformative reply to my follow up email (the one with all of the policies I suggest they plagiarize and all the websites for stocking their toolbox. Ninnies that they are.)

So, instead of stewing in my own juices like I might normally, I forward the e-mail to everyone again, including McDuff’s overly happy reply, and introduce it with this:

Good afternoon -

I received an acknowledgment for this e-mail more than a week ago and still await a substantive reply. Please advise at your earliest convenience. I'd like to understand what if anything has been accomplished.

As usual, I include my name and mobile number. Not that anyone wants to get into a pissing contest with me about this again. At this point, I am just, as they say, “papering the file.” There is nothing that proves complacency and inaction like follow through. I intend to see this ball to the end zone.

I get a call from Pat. He’s not feeling well. He had been coughing a little here and there, but I hadn’t noticed anything to go running off to the ER over. But to be truthful, he did sound worse.

Next I got a text from Lars. He spoke to Pat. He’d like to take him to the doctor. There is something “going around” and he can get an appointment at 5:45. He knows I can leave on short notice, he’d be happy to take him and bring him back afterwards.

Great. I have meetings all afternoon. It would be tough to leave. I text back. “Great. Thanks.”

A half hour later, at 3:15, I get a call from Hil. She wants to know where Pat is. I tell her he’s not feeling well, maybe he’s asleep in his bunk. It’s way too early for him to have left for the doctor. It’s a 5 minute drive. She’ll check and call me back.

She calls me back a few minutes later. Pat was not in his bunk but she does know where he is. He is with Lars. He came back into the house to get his Social Studies project and left again. Managed to tell her where he was going as he raced out the door again.

She is mad as a hornet and so am I. For very different reasons.

Kitty Carryall

Contrary to past experience, Kitty goes willingly and without a fight right into the kitty carrier. She meows at me and looks pathetically up at me as I make my way to the veterinarian’s. Of course it’s raining. What else would it be doing?

We sit and we wait. Not unlike any other doctor’s office. Only this one has a doggy entrance and a kitty entrance. I am not sure where the fish and birds and ferrets and snakes come in, but we have kept the natural rivals segregated.

I am growing wearier and wearier as I sit with my listless little friend in the waiting area and am unable to take her out to hold her. I desperately want to hold her. Instead I keep telling her in as soothing a tone as possible, “It’s okay, my little girl. It’s okay.” She’s not even meowing now.

We at last are led to an examining room where a lovely technician weighs Trinket. My scrawny little stray has gained a pound and a half! I could not be more proud of my ability to restore one to livelihood with a consistently good diet. Things are looking up!

When the vet comes in I am surprised at how much I want to tell her. I feel like I did when I used to take Pat and Hil to the pediatrician when they were babies. I wanted to show them off. Tell the doctor about all their accomplishments and all the things we were doing at home to keep them growing in a million different ways.

Trinket responds well to the vet. She is very sweet and soft spoken and owns a cat herself. She looks her over from nose to tail and has a lot of information to offer me. She is pleased with Trinket’s condition. I was surprised at how much that meant to me to hear her say that.

She gets down to business with a diagnosis. I tell her about the mouse, and that Trinket did not eat it. At least not this last one. Could there have been another? Sure. And a cricket and waterbug and moth and a slug too. My basement is a haven for such things.

She is not alarmed and does not look at me like I should be spending more time with a mop and a dust rag. She takes Trinket’s temperature. Trinket is not at all pleased with that.

And then with a series of gentle but firm squeezes, narrows down the possibilities. It’s not her tummy, though I might have guessed at that. It is centered on her lower back and her tail. Maybe both. Trinket may have injured her tail and back.

“Is she an active cat?”

Active? Let’s see. She has flown high enough to yank down window valances. Has gone from attic to basement in a blurr leaving a trail of fur floating in her wake. She takes corners at speeds that send vases and urns on end. I would say she’s active.

The vet surmises that in one of her flying escapades she got a little banged around. Perhaps even in taking down the mouse. She should be fine – but we can X-ray if you like…(Cha-ching.) Or we can do blood work...(Double cha-ching!) Or we can give you some syringes of pain medication to see how she does for the next few days… (Jackpot!)

I opt for the pain meds. 10 little syringes with a drop of pain medication in each, to be squirted into the check pad of said Kitty every 8 hours.

I can barely remember to take my birth control pill and now I have to do this?

I wait for and pay for the meds and drive kitty slowly home in the pouring rain, updating Charlotte and Scott and my office on the diagnosis and condition of my little friend.

I dose her when we get home, which she is not at all fond of. She gets a little wild-eyed and panicked at first, but then serenely curls up on a pillow and begins a 3 hour snooze, looking up at me very sweetly as she nods off.

Boo Boo Kitty

I had already texted Scott to tell him something was wrong. He was prepared to help me brace for the worst.

“Sweetie, you have to remember, you got her from the pound. They only had her for a while. You don’t know what kind of illness she may have had before then.”

I know that but I don’t even want to think about it.

I am surprised to find myself on the verge of tears. “I know. I’d be so happy to come home to find a pile of cat throw up and Trinket feeling like a kitten again bounding all over the house. I’d take two throw ups for that.”

“I know,” he says. “But you should prepare yourself for more than that.”

This is a man with 4 dogs and a cat and until recently, a bunny, too. He has rescued countless animals and has had dogs all his life. Buried many. I can’t even begin to imagine.

Once at work I tell a few folks what is on my mind. I feel silly. I actually want to call the cat on the phone to see how she’s feeling. Why do I feel so guilty leaving her alone? My mother used to leave me all bundled up on the sofa for hours while she ran hither and yon during one of my illnesses. (Inclusive of the one when Joe put his toe nail clippings in my cup of Tang, which was not the reason for my illness, but a follow up injury instead.)

I am practically inside out with worry. I toy with the idea of calling Charlotte to have her take a look in on Trinket. Or asking my neighbor to keep her company for a bit. Or asking the kids to go to my house after school instead of to Lars’ just to check on her before I get home. (But I scrap that idea…what if they walk in to find her dead as a door nail and stiff as a board? I’d have to forfeit the Mother of the Year crown, for sure.)

After a few morning meetings, I go on line to find the veterinary clinic near my house. I dial and get a sweet woman on the phone and find myself nearly in tears talking to her about what Trinket is normally like, and why today’s little demonstration of pathetic behavior stands out to me. “Aww. Poor baby girl. Sounds like she should be seen by someone.”

Yes. Yes it does. I make the appointment and begin to pack up some work to do from Sick Bay after the appointment, which I am cautiously hopeful about.

I am surprised to find that as I tell my colleagues about my plans for the afternoon, I am nearly unable to speak. Without crying that is. I can not believe how attached I am to this tiny little fur ball. When did this happen to me????

I talk to Scott on the way home and he is helpful. Cautious about what I might find but telling me I am doing the right thing. Prepares me for the financial part of pet ownership. A sick pet can get very expensive. Don’t make rash decisions. All I can think is “please let her not have died while I was at work filing some idiotic online government report.” I’d hate myself for ages.

I scream into the neighborhood and run inside to see Trinket. She does not greet me at the door. Not a good sign.

I call her name. I air kiss a few times to get her to come to me as I walk through the first floor. Nothing.

Food remains untouched. Water bowl is full. Uh-oh.

I tiptoe upstairs (Why the need for quiet? I don’t know.) and look around expectantly. No kitty.

I turn to go into my bedroom and there she is.

In the little pink plush kitty bed she was in when I left 5 hours ago. Same position.

But she opens her eyes to look at me sadly. She is alive.

Pity Party for Putty

One morning, I again awaken to find Trinket has not warmed my bed all night. I am usually aware of her comings and goings during the night and I recall that in the wee hours, she had gotten up from where she was nestled in the crook of my knee and had jumped off the bed, squeezed through the door (being held open and therefore not squashing her tail by a dark green gardening clog) and pranced out into the night to do whatever it is house cats do all night while we sleep.

I assumed a mouse was at hand. Or at paw.

It is her custom to come running as soon as my feet hit the floor. She meows for breakfast (in the form of thinly carved deli turkey) or water, or tries to join me in the shower or waits impatiently outside the bathroom for me occasionally reaching a long arm and paw under the door to see if she can catch a nail on me while I brush my teeth. But in any case, she is attentive and meowy.

But not today.

I tiptoe down the steps to see what horrors await me. A cat and mouse chase in progress? A dead thing or two? Mice in shreds on the carpet? A skinny little tail hanging from Trinket’s mouth? It’s anyone’s guess.

But when I get to the foyer, Trinket is sitting squarely and neatly and rather rigidly on her little catnip filled scratchy pad designed to file her nails and deter her from scratching at other things, like draperies.

She does not move toward me at all. Follows me with her eyes.

“Hi, Puss!” I say brightly. “Want some turkey?”

Just the words usually send her into fits of affection but she stays put for a moment, and then only walks a few steps to settle into the same position on the carpet a few feet away.

I get out the turkey and make a production out of tearing into bite sized pieces for her. The sound of the paper can usually attract her all the way from the attic. She doesn’t move.

I take a little niblet of turkey over to her. She sniffs it but does not eat it.

I am a little baffled and wonder if she is full from a smorgasbord of tiny gray mice. Eeeew.

I make coffee and then turn to look at her. She has moved to a soft chair in the dining room in silence and assumed the same little rigid posture she’s had all morning. I pick her up to take her upstairs with me. I am worried for her and don’t want to let her out of my sight.(OK maybe for a moment while I am putting on mascara)

She moans a little.

Uh-oh.

I take her little plush pink bed from the window sill and place a heating pad under it. Turn it on low. Settle her in. I run my hand across her ears and down her little body. She moans a little again.

I do it again. She gently tries to bite me.

I am more worried than when my kids are sick. I am not sure why. Maybe because cats don’t fake it to avoid a geography quiz?

I fill her water glasses and bring one to her. I prepare for work worried that I should not be leaving her. I kiss her goodbye and tell her I love her. I start my car and call Scott.

Dear Sir

A week has gone by since my last word to the school on Bullying. I am hoping that McDuff has been sufficiently humiliated in front of his colleagues to have at least put on a good show at getting something started. But I have not heard anything since his e-mail the afternoon of the day we’d met thanking me for my input and my willingness to help. All probably just courtesies, but I would make sure it did not remain that way. He’d have other opportunities to thank me. I’d see to that.

I take to my AOL account and send this to McDuff and his merry band of bystanders:

Dr. McDuff -

It has been a week since our meeting and I wanted to reach out to you to see what progress has been made, and follow up on my suggestions.

I had come to the school to obtain copies of the complaints that Patrick and Mr. Royal had completed and submitted. Have you been able to locate them? I'd still like them. While you looked for them, I noticed that you had many, many complaints to look through. I asserted then, and renew the assertion, that you have experienced this type of overload because you have not made a firm, convincing presentation to your student body that indicates to the pupils that you expect them to interact with you and with each other with respect, and that you will immediately take issue with conduct, bullying or otherwise, that does not meet with your expectations. The students are running amok because you have not communicated your expectations to them in a meaningful way. Has any type of assembly or classroom discussion been planned to initiate this type of communication?

I renew my offer to be an active, engaged part of the solution and not just a complainant. To that end, I have continued my research and have several resources for you to use.

You spoke of several aspects of your anti-bullying initiative as being "in the works." I proposed adopting a neighboring school district's finished product in the interest of time and necessity. The link below is the handbook from a neighboring district which may help you refine your current handbook. Your current handbook's mention of bullying is brief, poorly written, and makes no mention of physical aggression. The policy from this district offers procedures and definitions that would go far in setting expectations.

Additionally, I have attached the Harassment, Intimidation and Bullying policy from another neighboring district. It folds all three topics into a comprehensive policy which defines the unacceptable conduct so that it includes offensive behavior that does not rise to the legal definitions, but is problematic, discouraged and would likely lead to bullying if not addressed.

I also attach a letter from a NJ district that mentions their additional efforts to "step up their game" in response to stricter state guidelines. I would anticipate that we’d be pressured to follow NJ's lead in the next few years and think it would be prudent to consider the value proposition in making strides toward that end now. They were wise to reach out to all district parents as they have to engage them meeting the school district's needs.

Though you argued that the Olweus program has a lengthy implementation process and is very costly, it remains a very well respected authority on bullying that is widely recognized. A school district with the budget our district enjoys should find a way to bring Olweus to our students and teachers. In the mean time, I encourage you to visit this site for information and links to help the district assess their preparedness and create an effective anti-bullying program. www.olweus.org/

www.freespirit.com is a web site that features products designed for use by teachers in promoting educational and social-emotional growth. There are dozens of very affordable resources and self-contained programs to help schools eradicate bullying and create a culture of respect. I am sure the PTO would be happy to help foot the bill so that all of our district schools could address this issue with credibility and effectiveness. Some of the products assist with teacher presentations in the classroom, posters for different age groups, tips on promoting the responsibility of bystanders, etc.

When we met we also discussed the poster that hangs in each classroom, I noted that it states that, "The Compliance Officer shall publish and disseminate this policy and the complaint procedure at least annually to students, parent, guardians, employees, independent contractors, vendors, and the pubic. The publication shall include the position, office address and telephone number of the Compliance Officer." Can you tell me when I can expect this to be done?

Thank you for your continued effort to develop a meaningful and effective program. I look forward to your response.

I know I’ll be waiting. I am hoping he’s just broken out in a flop sweat knowing he has to answer, and that his truthful answer would go something like, “Ooops! Forgot all about that. Hoped you had, too. LOL. My bad.”

He writes back immediately stating simply that he’ll keep me posted on the progress they make and insisting that we are on the same page.

I don’t think so. I’m a few chapters ahead, pal.

Cat and Mouse, Part Deux

I race to get ready for work now that I’ve spent precious primping time chasing an injured mouse with a broom. I am sweating, shaking and a nervous wreck. And I have no idea whether I’ve seen the last of the mice. It is THAT time of year and I have pretty much opened the doors to them. They all want to come in and enjoy the warmth of a cozy home. Thank God Trinket objects.

I eventually make it to work after scrapping the original proposed outfit idea and selecting something that needs less tweaking. No ironing and no trips to the other closet where the rest of the new season’s wardrobe remains hanging waiting for the real wool weather to arrive.

As I dress I notice that Trinket is very subdued. She appears to have been running all night. My Flying Kitty is taking the steps one at a time, front paws then back in “time to make the doughnuts” fatigued slowness. Poor kitty is pooped. She’ll snooze in her little bed in the warmth of the sun for hours.

At lunch time, I prepare go to prepare my salad and enjoy the company of a colleague who I’ve known for years. Long before I came to this job. I tell her about my mouse situation, which to most people, I would think, would be like telling them I have lice. It makes people wonder about what kind of housekeeper you are and conjures up scenes from movies like Willard. But she’s been to my home so she knows it isn’t piled floor to ceiling with Chinese Food containers and half-eaten corn dogs on sticks. She also lives on a farm with chickens and bees and other less-than-traditional wild life and knows an occasional mouse goes with the territory.

“You know that mouse is going to come right back in, don’t you?” she says with a smile.

Honestly, I hadn’t thought about that. I understand that the mouse has a brain the size of a corn kernel. I also thought that after this morning’s show down and a near death experience with Trinket, that the mouse would be thinking, in its tiny little synaptic junctures, “No way am I going in there again!” and heading to a neighbor’s house to look for a crevice to squeeze through. But apparently a return visit is more the norm.

I open the fridge in the common lunch room to retrieve my salad. One whiff and I am sure that something in there has died and is on its way to Hell.

Oh. My. God. What if the mouse comes back and just inside the walls, drops dead from the heart attack it was surely on its way to having this morning?

The smell. Oh my what a smell that would be! I can think of little else the rest of the day.

That night I return home to a normal calm household. No hint of the drama from the morning. Hil and Pat and I enjoy dinner, review homework, talk about Scouting trips that are on our horizon and begin to wind down for the evening. Which for me means laundry.

I step into the basement to find Trinket ready to pounce. Again, two feet in front of her is a little gray mouse. The same gray mouse. Only this time it appears to be dead. Or playing dead. They do that. How convenient.

I say to Trinket (as though she’ll answer) “Is that your mouse, Trinket. Is it dead?”

And as if on command she swipes at it and hangs a nail in the poor little thing and wings its carcass into the air. Then pounces on it and wrestles with it before flinging it toward the steps where it rolls awkwardly toward my feet. Which causes me to jump up and down on alternate feet with a similar lack of grace.

Hil hears my involuntary shriek and has come to the basement. Trinket in the meantime tries to hide her prize underneath the stairs with all the dust bunnies and other debris. Much to Hil’s horror, I sweep the little lifeless thing onto a piece of cardboard. I look at it closely (which grosses Hil out even more) to make sure it has its tail. Why one more lost in the house would matter, I don’t know.

Hil walks with me to the basement bathroom where I intend to flush it. She stops me to say a few words of prayer. She loses me at “Please bless Sir Squeaksalot…” I flush and watch it orbit the hole and eventually go down.

But in all honesty, I stand and linger a little longer to make sure it doesn’t magically swim back to the bowl to try to save itself. I am not sure I could stand the horror.

Building a Better Mouse Trap?

Hil has found the broom and brought it to me and returned to the steps to watch. I need to think about things.

I would like to be able to take one Wayne Gretzky broom swipe at the mouse and have it go sailing out the front door.

But Trinket is an indoor cat and a former stray. I keep her inside because I am afraid if she got out, she'd never come home. Or get hurt. Or get lost and not be able to come home. And all of those scenarios break my heart. She is such a dear sweet thing and so appreciative of the home we've given her. Yet her instincts tell her to run, and so she tries to. Every time the door opens. Every time I return with groceries or take out the trash, I am on high alert. While my hands are full, she can get to a full gallop and be out the door and up a tree in a matter of moments.

So my initial thought, that I'd open the big heavy door and prop the outside door so it gaped like an empty goalie net, is out the window. The challenge here is to have the mouse on the outside of the dwelling and the cat on the inside of the dwelling (not unlike the challenge Lars and I once faced when a bat had gotten trapped between our double hung windows and we could not figure out the mechanics of giving it an opportunity to get out, without also leaving it an opportunity to get in...again, a dropping dead at the scene situation for me.) And I know, once I start brooming, the cat will give chase and follow the mouse right out into the yard. I could ask Hil to hold Trinket but I am sure that would end with a lot of clawing and meowing and Band-Aids.

So I open the heavy door and leave the screen door closed for now. I will cross that bridge when I come to it.

I return to the dining room to find Trinket at the far end, near the windows. Mouse has attempted to make a move and Trinket has essentially told it, "Not on my watch." Trinket is beginning to look interested again.

Trinket takes a swipe at Mouse with claws fully extended. The poor little pathetic thing becomes momentarily airborne and I am leaping to avoid having it land on me. Hil is bent over laughing while I try not to lose sight of the mouse as it lands and skids across the wood floor.

Mouse is in luck. It has tumbled under the radiator cover.

Trinket is pissed. She is on her side with her arm extended to an astonishing length and she is wild eyed and swiping at the mouse (as I am sure it is cowering against the wall...)

I decide that if this eradication is going to happen I need to act, and begin poking under the radiator, double teaming the mouse. And praying all the while that I don't retract the broom to find that I've skewered Mouse because I would truly have a heart attack and die right on the scene.

Mouse knows enough to make a break for it. It is running from beneath the radiator toward the center hall. Well, maybe not running. Walking with purpose? It is completely winded. Yet squeaking. (And for me the squeaking is the worst part. Like the heart beat in the Tell Tale Heart.)

I am also obviously panicking that as the Mouse, blind as they all are, makes its break, it will run up my leg (and again, I will drop dead) so I am dramatically jumping around one leg at a time trying to prevent that from happening and giving Hil fits of laughter.)

I get my act together enough to sweep the little thing toward the door. It is so completely pooped that it rolls pathetically as I swoosh it across the floor. But with each swoosh I am shrieking just a little. (and Hil is wishing she'd thought to make a YouTube video before now) Trinket has scampered off somewhere in fear of the broom I suppose, and I am able to sweep Mouse to the little groove between the door and the threshold. It is too tired to climb out, so I have time to open the door just a bit and plop the little vermin out onto the porch. I watch it limp away to God Only Knows Where.

A Game of Cat and Mouse

I know how this has happened. It is exactly how it happened before. Last time, I was having some work done on the house and there was an exposure...and we all know how our little cheese-eating friends love to come indoors to play. Now, Scott is working on converting my fireplace to something efficient not just pretty and we have another exposure. This time when the weather is turning cold. I may as well have sent out invitations.

But what strikes me about this situation is Trinket's calm demeanor. She is not crouched and ready to pounce. She is not flat-eared and swishing her tail. She is not puffed up with her fur out to appear more menacing to her prey. She appears bored. Not even curious. I swear she just yawned.

The mouse, poor little thing, is anything but bored. He is the size of a ping pong ball but I can see his dramatic huffing and puffing from the next room. Even without my glasses.

I am torn. I want the mouse to be gone from my house but am not sure whether I prefer that it be dead or just outside. I just need it to be decisively gone.

I go upstairs and calmly tell the kids the situation. Pat could not care enough to climb from his bunk but Hil wants a front row seat. I grab my phone and call Scott. For what purpose I am not sure. Moral support.

I tell him what is happening without taking my eyes from the cat and mouse. I think I know what the back story is.

Trinket did not come to bed last night because she spent the the entire night chasing and batting around and "playing with" her fun new friend. I am sure she found it most entertaining, running blindly around the basement fearing for its life, playing hide-and-seek, scrambling away at the last moment while Trinket gives chase. Oooh what fun!

And now Mouse is exhausted and too pooped to "play" and Cat is bored with it. As this thought fires across my brain Trinket takes a swipe at the mouse to get it going again. It scurries a little and she bats it around briefly, but the mouse is moving too slowly to be any fun at all. The end of the fireworks display. Last call. The last verse of a great song. Bummer.

Scott is an animal lover. He is most sympathetic to the mouse. He suggests that I get a bag and maybe a box lid and flick the mouse into the bag and take it outside to let it go.

I still think I'd prefer that Trinket just put it out of its misery but I realize that could take all day. And I don't have all day and I am not leaving the house with the mouse in it.

I tell Scott that I was thinking I'd get my broom and sweep it out the door. With those words Hil leaves her perch on the lower steps and trots off to find the broom. Scott is skeptical; that could be a lot of brooming.

I tell him that with my luck, flicking the mouse into a bag will not go as simply as planned and I could see an errant flick landing the mouse on my arm or my hand or GOD FORBID in my hair, and Hil and Pat would have the horror of watching me drop dead on the scene to deal with for all eternity.

Scott tells me to do what I think is best and be careful. I hang up to have the use of both hands.

Let the games begin.

Oh Meeces to Peices!

Have I mentioned that my cat, Trinket is a mouser? And I know this because, well, she caught and killed a mouse a little while back. More accurately, she hunted down, cornered, chased, batted about, clawed, toyed with, carried around in her mouth and scared the bejeezus out of a mouse one day. And the next, while it recovered from all the fun, found it, pounced on it and killed it (removing the tail in the process and I still don't know where I'll find that) and then brought it to me as a prize while I slept in my bed. (I should keep a paper bag on the bedpost for breathing into in moments like this. The horse head scene from the Godfather is a very accurate representation of how that discovery plays out in real life.)

So, Trinket, more recently is inexplicably MIA all night. Normally, she sleeps on my bed. Mostly on my person, usually in a nook or cranny that naturally exists in the adult female human form, which is nice and toasty, but a little disconcerting. When I wake up and realize she hasn't warmed up a little spot on me or my bed all night, I am a little concerned.

I walk down the steps and as I get to the landing, I see her dart from the foyer to the dining room and possibly beyond.

I begin turning on lights. I can't see her in the dining room or kitchen. I walk down the basement steps whispering her name. I am not at all sure why I'm whispering. I don't see her anywhere, but she can be pretty elusive. I recall that the day before Hil came home to find that the breakaway collar she wears (with the little jingle bell that announces her arrival) had come off. The last time that had happened was just before the last Mouse Episode. I assumed then and assume now, that the breakaway collar broke away in a tussle with a mouse who was under attack. I realize that I am sweating in anticipation.

I continue to whisper Trinket's name and look all around the nooks and crannies of the basement for where she might be hiding, (and giggling that I can't find her). I don't see her, but I do hear something.

Squeaking.

Oh. My. God.

I look around for a mouse. I don't see anything. As I walk back up the stairs I am praying that the squeaking is just Trinket mimicking a mouse, like she sometimes mimics birds she is hoping to fool into coming close enough for her to pounce on.

As I ascend the stairs, I am eye level with the dining room rug. I see Trinket sitting casually beneath a dining chair.

And two feet in front of her is tiny gray mouse, huddled against that woodwork. Huffing and puffing and squeaking in distress.

And I am suddenly pitting out.

Set and Match

I've expertly painted McDuff into a corner, but I have to give him credit for his tenacity. I suppose everyone is tenacious in a fight for his life. Or the preservation of his professional credibility. Which was unraveling like a cheap sweater before his eyes.

He doesn't answer my question and instead poses one of his own. He hands me the "work in progress" investigation tool he is laboring to create. Michelangelo spent less time on the Sistine Chapel, but it is his handiwork and he's proud of it. So proud that evidently it will not even be put into use until it is perfected. Jesus.

Before he lets me take it from him, he warns me that he can't let me keep it. (Oh darn. I'd hoped for another souvenir.) Because God only knows what I'd do with a precious little work of art like that. He points to the second page where the questionnaire asks the person lodging the complaint to check a box indicating which legal definition of Bullying best describes what they are reporting.

What? I can see my kids looking at this. "Ummm, Dr. McDuff, there isn't a box that says 'just got my ass handed to me on the playground."

I look at it and ask "You want me to pick which one of these legal definitions best matches what Pat just went through? Which aspect, specifically? The hitting or the ostracizing or the intimidation or the threats? You want to know which one of these neat little definitions most closely matches all of that?" I laugh. "Can I check more than one? Is there a place to answer with a free form statement?"

I am sure he's joking but he's not. He's dead serious. He wants to prove that I am making a Federal case out of a situation that doesn't meet the legal definition of bullying.

What a colossal idiot.

I hand back his form. "Put your form away. This thing needs more than "tweaking." First of all, what happened with Pat and these other three little SOBs covers all of the bases..."

He has the audacity to cut me off. "Well no, the legal definition says it has to be pervasive, repetitive, and serve to interfere..."

I cut him off.

"First of all, it does meet the legal definition, in every interpretation. Secondly, I don't actually think it matters, AT ALL, whether it does or it doesn't. (I'm getting a little louder than conversation tone, now.) If you are suggesting that you were correct to do nothing of import in this situation because you aren't completely convinced that it is actually Bullying according to Websters, then you are worse off than I'd imagined. My child was struck repeatedly by another child. He was ostracized and harassed and intimidated. Of course it had the "effect of interfering with his ability to learn." (I'm making little sarcastic air quotes now and rolling my eyes) But even if it hadn't, isn't what happened to him just plain wrong? Isn't that enough to get your attention? Are you seriously going to sit here and say to some student, 'I'm sorry that isn't really Bullying under the law until you've been spat on at least twice and have visited the counselor's office in tears. Come see me when you have more to report.' Can't it just be that it's wrong? And if it rises to the level that meets the definition of Bullying, then that's really, really wrong? Are you trying to tell me that you are not obligated to respond to things that don't meet the legal definition? Please. Tell me you are joking."

Silence. For about 15 very tense seconds.

Notetaker responds first. Once she wipes the egg from her face. "Of course that's not what we are saying."

"I thought not."

I continue, recalling that we've all sat in horror watching news stories where people stand idly by while someone gets mugged and we think, as we clutch our pearls, what horrible people they must be. Who raised these people? And that until this school sends a message to our kids that we are responsible for creating the sense of pride and respectfulness that defines our community and take a stance against all disrespectful acts, whether they are covered by the law or not, then we have failed to teach them anything about citizenship at its most basic form and run the risk of our children becoming those bystanders. Another "Not My Problem" generation.

I offer that I am prepared to be part of the solution. I have copies of beautifully written policies from other more prepared school districts. I have comprehensive programs to suggest to them. I have tools that I have seen other teachers use that they can borrow. I will help them get to where they need to be with their program and their presentation, but I've also just become their biggest nightmare. Because now that I know what I know, I will not take my foot off the gas until I am sure that they are engaging their students in discussions about Bullying and proactively taking effective, demonstrative steps to eliminate it from campus.

They thank me profusely and the thank yous sound more like "Wow, thanks for noticing that our panties are down around our ankles. Please leave now." We close the meeting by McDuff rifling through several dozen more files in search of Pat's complaints. He still can't find them. The volume of reports is astonishing. I tell him I am sure he'll make it a priority to lay his hands on them in time to follow through and close the file appropriately. He looks at me like I'm his mother and just caught him in a lie. I want him to know this is not my final word on the issue.

I gather my things, shake his hand and stride out the door, wishing Sweaty Beatrice a nice weekend on the way out.

As I step out into the sunshine, I am a little surprised to find that my hands are shaking.

On the Run But Can Not Hide

I start deposing my witness. I am on a roll, for sure.

"So this poster, what is it's purpose?"

"It hangs in every classroom for the students."

"I get that. For what purpose?"

Nothing. I think he knows that a truthful answer will invite a pant-load of criticism, and/or laughter.

I spare him. I never have the stomach to actually let anyone hang themselves with their own rope. It is enough for me that they have felt the noose tighten.

So I answer for him. "If you are about to tell me that this is what suffices as distributing your "policy" to your student body, you need to understand what a fiasco that seems like to me. And probably every other reasonable adult. I dare you to go out into the hall and grab the first kid you see and ask them about this poster. I would bet that they would answer that they've never read it. Or that once they started reading it, they stopped because it made no sense to them."

No argument. I continue. "All this legalese? This is meaningless to a student. This poster is nothing more than lip service. This thing (and again I am waving it for emphasis) tells me that you are really only interested in being able to say you distributed the policy to your kids and don't care at all whether they understand it or follow it."

McDuff is trying to rally. Tries to tell me that there is a legal definition of Bullying (No shit, Sherlock.) and that is what the poster is for.

I cut him off. "The poster is a joke. When you get sued by some parent who won't make the time to come see you like I have, you are going to get laughed out of court. I suggest you tear it up and start over. But before you do, you need to have a conversation with the kids. One day next week, maybe next Wednesday, every first period class in this school skips the regular curricula and instead the teachers remove the poster from the bulletin boards and have an hour long, interactive, healthy, informative discussion about what the poster is there for and what a terribly awful thing Bullying is, and what they should do if they experience it in any way."

"Our classes are 50 minutes."

He really did not just say that.

I look at him in a way that suggests that he just confirmed that I've been correct all along in thinking he's a ninny.

"Fifty minutes would be a big improvement over anything you've done so far."

They are both nodding. "Great idea," says the Notetaker. I am still in shock that I had to come up with it.

I have one more question. I point to the poster and read aloud from a section where it states that "The Compliance Officer shall publish and disseminate this policy and the complaint procedure at least annually to students, parents, guardians, employees, independent contractors, vendors and the public. The publication shall include the position, office address, and telephone number of the Compliance Officer."

I take a moment to allow him to read the statement and for his pit stains to begin forming. "Can you tell me the last time this was done? Or when I can expect it to be done? Because I've been a parent with kids in this school district for 9 years and I couldn't pick the Compliance Officer out of a lineup."

"I didn't realize that it said that." (Umm, it is not a talking poster.)

"So moments ago, you insisted that this poster met the letter of the law and yet you are not even remotely familiar with it? Is that a truthful statement?"

He looks at me like he'd like to will me to die on the spot.

Check and mate.