Transitions on Raven Street

I’ve almost forgotten how to write a blog entry.  My head is spinning and saturated with phrases like foreclosure, bank-owned, buyer, purchase agreement, not yet, still waiting, radon test, inspector, closing date, very soon, need more boxes, packing tape, financing, waiting, realtor, signatures, and, from the big girls: “stupid, ugly house.”

Middle and Oldest call the house we (think we) are moving to a “stupid, ugly house.”  And in kiddie terms, they are probably right about that.  It’s got some stains on the carpet, scratches on the wall. Some holes in doors. It lacks refrigeration. A window is cracked.  If that’s all you saw it would indeed be a stupid, ugly house.  But it’s not.  I promise. Underneath all that, it is a super, lovely house, which will afford each girl her own bedroom and one to spare. It is light, and airy and newer-than-our-old-house, which means fewer problems, fewer things to repair.   But the girls are sad.  They are so very sad.  When you are 9 and 6, it’s hard to move away from the only place you’ve ever called home.

Meanwhile life is full of other hardships. One girl cried and threw herself on my lap after school yesterday.  She doesn’t think she Fits In.  Have you ever felt this way?  See, the other girls at school have pink folders with flower designs on them. I bought this girl a Super Mario folder because she LOVES Super Mario.   But at school, Super Mario stuff is what boys have—not girls.  And this girl of mine, she wants anything pink or purple just so she won’t have to bear the discomfort of Not Fitting In. 

In class yesterday they interviewed each student on the particulars of their likes, dislikes, loves, and hates. This activity served only to accentuate her Not Fitting In.

Most kids said that lemonade or pop were their favorite drinks. 

What’d you say?

Water.

And they asked what my favorite fast food restaurant was.  I said I didn’t have one.

I’m beginning to see that at least two thirds of the blame for her Not Fitting In falls on me and my granola/homeschool-y/whole foods sensibilities.  This poor child.  But how could I know there weren’t other parents out there giving their children water?  Or abstaining from fast food when their kids could be eating broccoli and whole grain pasta?  I’ve made a terrible miscalculation, it seems. A terrible mistake.  I have, apparently, not prepared these deprived formerly homeschooled children for living out in the real world.

The good news is that we are moving soon.  Maybe she will find children in North Liberty who like to drink water?