Spidercamp

My brother used to work

My brother used to work as a vet's assistant. He liked the work itself but the job environment was increasingly negative. Long stupid story that amounts to one of his co-workers being a psycho and blaming my brother for her own romantic disappointments. She was dating Noah's roommate at the time and when the inevitable "you're a crazy bitch" breakup occurred, she chose Noah as the "cause" of the breakup. You poisoned his mind against me! That sort of thing.

She'd worked the job three years longer than my brother so it was pretty easy for her to turn everyone in the office against him. Noah's not easily intimidated but it was making his workday crappier and crappier. Vets' assistants have a lot of unpleasant stuff to do, and he was silently chosen to be the guy to stick with the bloodiest and shittiest tasks.

This mass disapproval was based entirely on hearsay, which seems ridiculous unless you know these were high school kids. It reached a pitch back in February, when he overheard a couple of staff members discussing how much they'd enjoy it if Noah fell off the roof the next time he was up there (cleaning out the gutters, something he did every month, without being asked to, or paid for).

This of course only made him more determined to stay at the clinic, work himself silly and outlast all these idiot children. But then a dog's mom offered him a fun job with twice the pay and, being a smart person, be quit the vet job immediately with a big FUCK YOU salute.

Months later, he's happy learning to train Tibetan mastiffs, the calmest, wisest attack dogs in the world. And he has a kitten, a stray, who he's training to walk on a leash and ride in the truck and fetch.

Cats need vets, and Noah decided to take Mr. Tiller to the same clinic where he used to work. That vet is a kind man, and a couple of dipshits with scathing glances wasn't nearly enough to keep him from taking his cat to the best vet around. (He does this wisely, keeping in mind the still-active hatred of the staff. He doesn't leave the cat there overnight, and stays with him throughout each examination.)

On Noah's first trip there as a client, while filling out the new patient form, he realized that here was a lovely opportunity to send a little message to the staff, specifically that bitch who ruined what would have been a fun job for him. Knowing that she's the staff member who primarily deals with animals' charts, he filled in his kitty's name as 99 Problems, and handed it across the counter with a smile. My brother is the calmest, wisest attack dog in the world.

Kyle, first grade, verbatim

Kyle, first grade, verbatim from the school literary magazine:

George Washington lost all his teeth when he was only 20 years old. He never brused his teeth because he did not care. He did not care because he knew about the Tooth Fairy. That's why he lives in the White House. That's when the trouble happened. He did not tell his men because his men would laugh at him. He knew he had to get some new teeth. He said that if he don't get any new teeth soon he would never eat again. Then he went to the dentist and asked the dentist "do you have any fake teeth I can use?" But the dentist didn't have any teeth. But the dentist owned a pair of hippo tusk. The End.

I imagine Pete will be the biggest fan

I imagine Pete will be the biggest fan of

href="http://www.flyingpuppet.com/shock/legato.htm">this. With a little patience, you can convince them to hug.

Yesterday the fire alarm went off

Yesterday the fire alarm went off at work and everyone spent a half hour in the parking lot. I was sitting on a dirty curb roasting in full sunlight, sweating myself faint, surrounded by crying children who would not believe it was a drill or malfunction. The fire alarm goes off every few weeks and by this point it might as well be a recording which announces "No fire, everything's fine." We were gradually getting the kids calmed down when the fire truck swooped into the parking lot and set everybody off again. I didn't fucking care anymore so I walked away and wished I had a cigarette and wished I smoked. I let them all sob until the firemen gave us the ok to go back in the building, AGAIN, back to my regular schedule of being abused, yelled at, overworked, and taken for granted.

A few weeks ago we had a lockdown. Some guy had been calling the school all day, looking for information on two kids who are not legally his. I think he was a crazed ex-husband looking to kidnap. Nobody was sure on the details but it was spooky enough to lock the doors and play it very cool all day. Code word established, staff members with cellphones ready to dial the cops.

I spent that afternoon daydreaming about which kids I'd most like to save from a hostage situation, and which ones I'd encourage the bad guy to abduct. By the end of the day I'd been able to think of enough non-hateful children to carry away to safety in my car, but just barely. I didn't need to use the trunk.

So work has been sucking progressively more and more. Which is why it was extra different today when Gabby, drawing a rainbow and sharing a bench with me, started to sing My Darling Clementine very softly, just loud enough for the two of us.

Beautiful Gabrielle. Just seven years old and so smart and funny. When she grins her eyes squint up into cashews and then disappear. She's small for her age, and round, like a plump little goddamn love angel. Dreadful sorry. Clementine.

When I can stop being an asshole for five minutes I can remember that not all children are monsters, and that there are some who have a sweetness no monster can overshadow.

She shows me her pencil box, whose lid is stickered with an overenthusiastic, bug-eyed panda bear exclaiming "Dear kid. Think with I do the friend. I will take you are happiness." I read it out loud and she nods, as if that sounds just about right for a pencil box.

Gabby sometimes asks me questions (What's it like to be a grownup? Are you sad sometimes? Are you married yet?) but never asks for stories. Can't sit still for them. I try to tell her one every so often, out of my own boredom mostly, but she always cuts me off and starts her own. Which is fine, I'm not offended. When every request is a demand and every face represents a potential jerkass, it's so, so nice to have this kid in my day.

When she wants to sell me a plastic ruler for a hundred dollars I offer her a shred of crayon paper. I tell her it's special money from Peru and that Crayo is the Peruvian word for "two hundred dollars" so actually she owes me change, and she tells me to hush up, so I do. I lay my head down on the cool table and just listen to her talk. She is the queen of her own illusions and she knows how to keep herself happy. She's delighted with herself, and who could blame her, and who could help but join in?

I spent my morning stuffing bunnies.

I spent my morning stuffing bunnies. They never had a chance.

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overheard in a bookstore parking lot: "after seven years of wandering..."

overheard in a walmart parking lot: a conversation about Philosophina and that jackass husband.

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A few days ago I spent a lot of time talking to Joe right before bed. I dreamed I was the only one who could see the ghost. She was beautiful and difficult. I blame Joe.

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Bart is one of my favorite people in the world. I'm not sure he knows it.

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I saw a woman wearing bright green scrubs almost get run over by an ambulance.

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The smell of the leaves on Miep's coat is the first memory I have of something in a book hurting me. Maybe because I knew it was true.

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I like a man who kisses a cat.

Will is five and a half

Will is five and a half and is one of the most fucked-up little kids I have ever met.  His parents are friendly and seem pretty normal. Dad's a lawyer and Mom has a prestigious government job. They're wealthy and live in a big house in a safe neighborhood. They don't hit the kids or yell - it's a fairly peaceful house. To all appearances, this kid is one of the privledged - upper-class, white, attends a private school.

Will has zero social skills and will often cry when forced to play with another kid. At home he drinks from a baby bottle. He has a speech problem which I think started as a response to the constant babytalk his parents use on him, and now is something he can't shake.  It's a pretty close thing to being raised by animals. It's as if his parents are doing a complex sociological experiment, but of course they are just idiots.

I didn't realize the worst part of this until yesterday. Will wanted to play Battleship with me. I told him to go ask the other kids his age. Surprisingly, he did, and more surprisingly, someone said yes. So they set up the game and started.

I glaced over and saw that the little girl he was playing with, who is also five and has serious comprehension issues of her own (saying she's just plain stupid would be mean, right? but some people are, and she is.), was clearly not understanding the game, because rather than putting her boats on the board, she was prancing them around the table like animal crackers.

Will was getting pissed that the game wasn't going right, and rather than see his rare social event end in frustration, I went over to explain Battleship. So I talked about where the ships go, and this is your board and this is your enemy's board, and here's what you do with the red pegs and here's what you do with the white ones. You don't have to tell him how big the boat is, but you DO have to be honest when he hits you. No moving boats around once they're in place. Etc. Mostly I was just trying to see how much these kids were understanding, to figure out some version of the game that would hold both kids' attention for a few minutes. To let Will exchange a few words with a child his own age. (It's that rare.)

So I told the little girl, Pick a letter and a number, and we'll see if you hit one of his ships. She chose J-10. And Will looked up at me and said, "What's a J?"

Um. What the fuck do you mean what's a J?

The closest I ever come to this sort of ignorance is when the four-year-olds ask me, "How do you make an R again?" You show them, and then they remember. Or they ask how to spell HAPPY BIRTHDAY. It's the in-between of knowing what the letters are, but not being completely fluent in the written language. That's normal for four. Will's almost six and he literally does not know even A B or C. I know this because he pointed at the B and asked, "Is that a J?"

His parents know about this. I mention this because they are so fucking oblivious to their child's needs that it's possible they could have missed it. But they know. And they never mentioned it to us. I don't think that's from shame, because shame would make them want to get him some extra help, to catch him up to the other kids. I think it just hasn't occurred to them to give a shit. It they'd said something to us, we would have helped. We're just an after-school program, not really staffed for one-on-one tutoring, but I've managed to make sure Vic understands negative numbers and Becca can work a comma. I may not be a licensed teacher but I know the goddamn alphabet and I would have made sure he knew it too. But now it's practically the end of the school year and we can't do much about it.

How do you miss the ALPHABET SONG????

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Will has been babied, but not in the normal sense. I don't mean just coddled, I mean treated like a literal baby. He still drinks from a bottle. His speech problem is truly disgusting and involves a lot of slobber. Nobody's ever encouraged him to speak normally.

Their house is disgusting. Every shelf, every cabinet and every drawer is overflowing with toys. This means the living room, kitchen and garage, as well as the boys' bedrooms, playrooms (two!), and furnished basement, which has become a little boys' bachelor apartment. Air hockey table, leather beanbag chairs, big screen tv and hundreds of Disney DVDs. The cabinets in the kitchen don't shut right because of all the stuff in there. Once, babysitting, I was looking for the peanut butter and opened a door and a hundred trucks and rubber dinosaurs and army men fell out on me in a shower. After a while it starts to feel like bugs.

During that same visit to their house, Will dropped a napkin on the floor and kept walking. I called him back to throw it away. This started an hour-long drama which had its roots in the fact that he doesn't normally have to pick up after himself, didn't think I was going to make him do so (ha), and did not know how to work the flip-top garbage can. Because, at the age of nearly five (then), he had never thrown anything away.

Will is pampered, to the extent that he asks to be pampered. He gets everything he wants, but if he doesn't ask for it, it doesn't exist. But he doesn't know he should want speech therapy, or alphabet lessons. So he doesn't get them. He doesn't get shoes, either. His big brother wears two-hundred-dollar sneakers, because they're cool and he wanted them. Will is little and doesn't yet recognize shoes as a symbol of cool, so his are ratty and you can see his toes through the rips.

This story comes directly from the mother: A month ago, Will was throwing up and his parents couldn't figure out why. They rushed him to the emergency room. While waiting, his stomach seemed to settle, but they saw a doctor anyway. During the examination he started barfing all over the place again. His mother was frantic, WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY BABY!!? The doctor said, Well, what's he been eating? Right before he got ill the first time, he had three pieces of cake and a bowl of ice cream and some pie and two cokes and a burger and a bag of chips. MM-hm, I see. And what did he eat in the waiting room? Well he was feeling better so I let him have a little snack. What KIND of little snack? Cheetos and a mountain dew and a twix and some cookies and some popcorn and some chex mix and some chips and a sandwich and a snickers.

This story was told to me in an air of "my my ha ha aren't I hapless," rather than "I have no idea what I'm doing. I couldn't keep a gerbil alive with pellets. Can you recommend a good book on parenting?" Given the chance, I would not recommend a book, I would recommend she leave the kid in a basket on the church steps. Please take care of my baby. He'd be better off. He could take his bottle and everything.

I haven't left my house since Thursday. I guess I should be bored

I haven't left my house since Thursday. I guess I should be bored but I'm not yet. My life is changing in all kinds of unexpected ways. For instance I can swallow pills now, sometimes even in front of other people. However I have only mastered very tiny pills, on account of how I am a big baby.

Also I have developed a visualization technique for falling asleep, similar to those used by cancer patients to imagine the good cells defeating the bad cells. It's a purple laser which moves very slowly up my body, fixing everything that's wrong with it. I was very sick this week. The idea was that the laser would heal my lungs, sinuses, and nostrils, then cool my eyes and calm my brain, and then I'd fall asleep. But I never made it past curing my bum knee - dead asleep, every time, usually for about thirteen hours.

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The thing where you learn a new word and suddenly it's in everything you read? I'm having that with the Uncle Sam stilt-walking guys. I saw one on the grisly (fascinating) PBS special about hotdogs, and got to wondering how you stand up when wearing stilts (do you use a ladder?) and now they're fucking everywhere.

Yesterday (today?) I asked Logan

Yesterday (today?) I asked Logan to bring me the thingy. I gave no context. Distracted by a videogame, I was still trying to think of the right word, when he brought it to me, exactly the right thingy.

Because we are BUNNYRABBITS

I've been playing (um, quite a lot of)

I've been playing (um, quite a lot of) the ESP Game. Today in traffic I realized my immediate perception of all objects had been reduced to the babble of a three-year-old who has just discovered nouns: Tree! Car! Lady! Kroger! I tried talking to the kids like that for a while, but they didn't get it and left me alone, which was awesome.

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A long time ago, Tyler told me about his list of all-time favorite things. The only one I remember was the smell of water. I started my own list in a tiny black notebook, and it's around here somewhere. It will be odd to re-read it; I wrote it before Logan. The only thing I remember from my list is Tyler's face when he's looking through a camera.

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The thing at the gas station the other day was something that would happen to Wende.

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No food trash. No tires.

Yesterday it was an hour-long ordeal

Yesterday it was an hour-long ordeal to make four-year-old Caroline pick up a deck of cards. Here's why:

• My arm hurts.
• I'm tired.
• What if I forget?
• This rubber band is broken!
• I hurt my ankle.
• My sock is inside out and I can't fix it.
• My shoe's untied.
• This thing fell off my shoe.
• Patrick hit me.
• I don't know how.
• My hands aren't big enough.
• I don't have enough time.
• I'd rather play with my horsie.
• I don't have to pick them up because I don't ever have to do anything I don't want to do, even if a grownup tells me to, and I always get my own way and if I want to I can make messes all day long without ever cleaning up.

That last one was posed to her in question form and she simply said "Yes," in the sweetest, most sincere way. Yes, I DO get to do whatever I want. I have no doubt that it's true, hence the hour-long ordeal. In the end, we tossed two decks of cards into the air and said, "There. Pick THOSE up." And she did.