Me-Me Monday -- #24
I'm blogging during Wilma just to let you know that your comments regarding our safety are so appreciated! We're doing fine so far -- she's barely roaring, and as you can tell, we still have power. Rock on a/c. Rock on bloggin!
Welcome to another installment of, "Come ON -- tell me the WHOLE story!" otherwise known as "I love to talk about myself", and in a pinch can be called Me-Me Monday. The object of the game is to refer to your 101 Things About Me list, pick one of your "things" and tell the whole sordid tale.
I've had some requests for the image, and to make life easy for you, I've put it on my flickr page. Here's your sign ;)
Make sure you replace the parenthesis with < > .
(a href="http://funkybug.blogspot.com/")
(img src="http://static.flickr.com/29/43386062_d480de8e1d_o.jpg" border="0")(/a)
Remember... no "()", but "<>"
I'm actually skipping around on my list this week. In honor of my son's 13th birthday, which just happens to coincide with Me-Me Monday (Mother, were art thy priorities?)...
#24 -- My son is 13 and wants to be a writer
This is the most recent photo of my Cuddlebug, taken on the dawning of his 13th birthday. Look at those eyeballs...he's a heartbreaker, and he's always been so.
This baby went through a great deal in his first two years. He was constantly getting sick, the kind of sick where you rush him to the emergency room with a 103+ temperature. Within a few months, his pediatrician realized something wasn't right. He underwent test after test, being poked and oogled, until it was determined that he had asthma.
I can remember placing my baby in his car seat to give him his breathing treatments. His little face would wiggle back and forth, trying to shake the mask that delivered precious medication. We discovered that singing "Ga-GO went the little green frog one day..." appeased him quickly. He would smile beneath the plastic, inhale, and relax. He was a pleasant baby, full of giggles and gurgles and hugs. Oxygen may have been in short supply, but congeniality was not, and it would remain that way long after he outgrew his asthma.
When CuddleB was in first grade, we got the shock of our lives. Someone actually DIDN'T like him. That someone was his first grade teacher. This relationship between teacher and student destroyed his self-esteem. He began to feel as if he could do nothing right. I spoke to the teacher at great length, but little could be done. CuddleB's grades fell, and his spirit fell with it. At one point his teacher sighed and said, "I give up on your son. It pains me to say this, but he'll never amount to anything."
At the end of the school year, this "teacher" (those of you who really ARE teachers will know why I put that in quotation marks) was forced to say something nice about my son on his year-end report. Beneath all the "less than satisfactory" and "below expectations" remarks was this phrase: "Writes interesting stories." My boy held that piece of paper like an acceptance letter from a major publishing company. "Mom, she thinks I'm a good writer?" The sparkle in his eyes was unmistakable and I quickly said, "Yes, baby. She KNOWS you're a good writer." He was stunned, and excited. We stopped at Walmart on the way home from school and purchased several journals, notebooks, pens and pencils.
From that day on, CuddleB has done exactly two things with passion and ferver; He skates, and he writes. If there's a room to be cleaned, homework to be done, or chores to complete, you will find him either out in the street, or curled up in his room, writing and writing and writing. He says he wants to be a writer when he grows up. I've read his stories; he already is. What this "teacher" didn't realize when she threw him a bone, was that she had accidently gotten exactly one thing right; the boy can write.
Happy Birthday, CuddleBug. I pray the next year brings you as much joy as you've brought my life. I pray you never break a bone grinding a rail, and I hope you always know that you ARE a writer.
Love,
Mommy
Welcome to another installment of, "Come ON -- tell me the WHOLE story!" otherwise known as "I love to talk about myself", and in a pinch can be called Me-Me Monday. The object of the game is to refer to your 101 Things About Me list, pick one of your "things" and tell the whole sordid tale.
I've had some requests for the image, and to make life easy for you, I've put it on my flickr page. Here's your sign ;)
Make sure you replace the parenthesis with < > .
(a href="http://funkybug.blogspot.com/")
(img src="http://static.flickr.com/29/43386062_d480de8e1d_o.jpg" border="0")(/a)
Remember... no "()", but "<>"
I'm actually skipping around on my list this week. In honor of my son's 13th birthday, which just happens to coincide with Me-Me Monday (Mother, were art thy priorities?)...
#24 -- My son is 13 and wants to be a writer
This is the most recent photo of my Cuddlebug, taken on the dawning of his 13th birthday. Look at those eyeballs...he's a heartbreaker, and he's always been so.
This baby went through a great deal in his first two years. He was constantly getting sick, the kind of sick where you rush him to the emergency room with a 103+ temperature. Within a few months, his pediatrician realized something wasn't right. He underwent test after test, being poked and oogled, until it was determined that he had asthma.
I can remember placing my baby in his car seat to give him his breathing treatments. His little face would wiggle back and forth, trying to shake the mask that delivered precious medication. We discovered that singing "Ga-GO went the little green frog one day..." appeased him quickly. He would smile beneath the plastic, inhale, and relax. He was a pleasant baby, full of giggles and gurgles and hugs. Oxygen may have been in short supply, but congeniality was not, and it would remain that way long after he outgrew his asthma.
When CuddleB was in first grade, we got the shock of our lives. Someone actually DIDN'T like him. That someone was his first grade teacher. This relationship between teacher and student destroyed his self-esteem. He began to feel as if he could do nothing right. I spoke to the teacher at great length, but little could be done. CuddleB's grades fell, and his spirit fell with it. At one point his teacher sighed and said, "I give up on your son. It pains me to say this, but he'll never amount to anything."
At the end of the school year, this "teacher" (those of you who really ARE teachers will know why I put that in quotation marks) was forced to say something nice about my son on his year-end report. Beneath all the "less than satisfactory" and "below expectations" remarks was this phrase: "Writes interesting stories." My boy held that piece of paper like an acceptance letter from a major publishing company. "Mom, she thinks I'm a good writer?" The sparkle in his eyes was unmistakable and I quickly said, "Yes, baby. She KNOWS you're a good writer." He was stunned, and excited. We stopped at Walmart on the way home from school and purchased several journals, notebooks, pens and pencils.
From that day on, CuddleB has done exactly two things with passion and ferver; He skates, and he writes. If there's a room to be cleaned, homework to be done, or chores to complete, you will find him either out in the street, or curled up in his room, writing and writing and writing. He says he wants to be a writer when he grows up. I've read his stories; he already is. What this "teacher" didn't realize when she threw him a bone, was that she had accidently gotten exactly one thing right; the boy can write.
Happy Birthday, CuddleBug. I pray the next year brings you as much joy as you've brought my life. I pray you never break a bone grinding a rail, and I hope you always know that you ARE a writer.
Love,
Mommy
posted by Robin at 12:00 PM
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