Permission Slips

Ah, the power of permission slips, of creating a form that allows someone to do something . . . it's just too much power for me. I don't like permission slips, even though I understand their necessity. I certainly want some people to ask permission now before they do certain things like offer the boys ice cream or sweetened tea--always a concern at big family gatherings. We walk in the door, someone says, "The twins are here," and then we don't see them again except when someone comes to complain that another family member won't share. Seriously, that happened Thanksgiving and Christmas. We became referees.

Okay, back to permission . . . I have to ask permission, well, not really ask permission as much as negotiate now with Wes. We have to plan things I used to take for granted, such as going to dinner with job candidates. So far, I've attended every dinner I wanted, but it means Wes has to leave work early, and sometimes that's a struggle. We have to negotiate weekend plans. I've already worked out babysitting for the May PreInstitute and leadership meeting. Yeah, I'm a little bit of a planner and worrier--maybe just nerd is the better description. Still, I like to know things are taken care of. I will not be the person who shows up to a professional meeting with two babies in tow--one would be okay, but not two. No one would get anything done. And I wouldn't blame them because let's face it, my boys are adorable. Who can concentrate with such cuteness around?

Hmm, I just can't stay on topic, but still I'm glad I'm writing, even if it is the day after Write Week was supposed to end. Sitting at my computer, typing away, makes me feel re-connected to you, to my teacher friends whom I don't see that often. I just catch glimpses of you on Facebook, maybe in a picture, but more likely in a status update or when you like a musician or news article. It's like catching a ghostly image, but it's better than nothing.

See you soon--here or on Facebook or via email or maybe through reading your updates in the newsletter.

Please and Thank you

After my best friend and I moved out of the house we decided to drive to Tallahasse for the day. Just for fun because we were adults and could do that. Jessica, who talks to her parents every day, told her parents our plans for the day. I called Daddy a few days later to catch up for the week explaining I had spent Saturday in another state. He was none too pleased. The conversation went something like this:

Dad: You did what?
Me: We went to Tallahassee.
What for?
Just because. We looked around at the mall and ate at Olive Garden.
You couldn't do that in Valdsota?
No sir, we don't have an Olive Garden.
Did anyone go with y'all?
No, just me and Jess.
Do you know how dangerous that is?
(Big fat sigh from me.)

Another similar conversation occured with my mother. Mama lived five hours away from me at the time. I hated driving in the daylight because the roads were always so busy. I discovered it was easier to leave after class around seven and arrive in Dalton around midnight. The conversation went something like this:

Mama: What time are you leaving?
Me: After class.
What time is that?
Around seven if she doesn't keep talking. Sometimes she forgets to let us out on time.
Do you mean to tell me you are planning to drive up here, through Atlanta, in the middle of the night?
Well, yes.
Nikki! It will be dark. (You should really hear my mother say my name when she is exasperated with me. Her Scarlett O'Hara personality comes out.)
Mama, my jeep has headlights.
(Big fat sigh from my mother.)

I'm not sure why everyone is concerned with where I'm at all the time. It seems as though it is easier to discuss plans with my parents in advance as though in a simple "here's what's going on in my life right now" kinda of way. It works better for all parties involved even though I have a husband with a black belt.

At school I feel like I am always asking permission for lesson plans. I'm a talk-thinker. Therefore I have to ask my colleagues, "So, could I do A and then B and then change directions again so they are really confused and then take their product and hot glue them on the wall outside my door?" My AP now tells me, "Nikki, sometimes it's better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission." (Seems to be a popular theme for the blog this month.)I only follow this adage if we are in cahoots together on something. One day I will be the one in charge and won't need to ask anyone for permission. One day. You just wait.

Permission and Poodles

Being an adult is weird. As a kid, I did, indeed, have to ask my mom's permission to do the big stuff--go out of town with a friend and her family, go to Tallahassee on a date, but more often, I didn't have to ask permission to, well, anything else. I didn't have to tell my mom if I was going over to my friend Liz's after work, if I was going to eat dinner at the neighbors, or if I wanted to cut off all my hair and wear red lipstick at the age of 14. As long as I eventually came home at least once a day, my mom was satisfied.

Now, before everyone thinks my mom is an uninvolved crazy lady, I have to say that I grew up on plantation land, with several other families, as my friends and I would run around the woods and dirt roads until we have to, inevitably and expectedly, go to our respective homes. And, yes, occasionally our shenanigans spread beyond the Georgia clay roads, and when I stared taking an interest in the neighborhood boys, so came the red lips. (Note: red lips do not, indeed, make a chubby girls with glasses and a headgear more appealing.)

But now that I am an adult--well, now that I am financially independent--it feels icky. Being "an adult" is not something you grant to yourself. Being an adult has more to do with others giving you the authority that is given to other adults. I find myself sitting, intently trying to conjure up some gleam of a lost memory from when I was a kid. I find myself standing in the shower, forgetting about the shampoo afro I've been sudsing up, as I make failed attempts to piece together sequences of times and spaces from when I was little.

I never wanted to grow up. I was never one of those kids that always wished of being an adult. I liked my mom doing my laundry, cleaning my room, and making my meals. When I came to college, my mom and I had our worst fight ever--a fight about why I, as I explained to her, was not moving out. I remember being so mad at her when I had to live by myself. I didn't call her for three days.

I suppose the icky-ness of adulthood, for me, is that I do not know what being an adult means. It doesn't mean "permission" to do whatever, since for me permission is, often, something asked for out of politeness--in which case, permission is superseded by action, meaning we know what is right and wrong in most cases.

My mom always talked to me like I was an adult--she knew I knew better when I screwed up, so there was no lesson to learn, just me experiencing the repercussions for whatever I did. (Example: I shaved the neighbors poodle because I wanted to see if I could be a dog groomer. When the stylistically mutilated dog returned home, the neighbors called my mom. Since I did not dispose of the evidence--the large cotton-ball puffs of hair--in the bathroom's trash can, my mom knew I was to blame. So, I have to walk to the neighbors and handed over a couple months of yard work allowance. I didn't learn a lesson, really, because I knew, before shaving the dog, that I shouldn't do it; I should ask for permission. But I was positive I could make the dog look better than it did. Somehow I've managed to mangle permission, disillusion, and arrogance. Ha!)

May I Please?

Don't "they" always say that it's much easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission?

And who is "they," really?

Regardless, asking permission is important to me. Maybe it's the "whopper" in me (WOPT: What Other People Think), but I need approval. Quite often it seems. I guess I equate permission with approval. If I ask permission to do XYZ, then I receive approval for the choices I make. It happens when I request leave at work. I ask permission to be away from work (using, of course, time I've earned and accrued, but I still need permission to take it). When my boss responds, I am getting approval for my choices. Do I feel guilty about asking permission to take Friday off so I can spend the day with my daughter, engaging in activities at school all day to celebrate Georgia Day? Absolutely. But when it's approved, I feel validated. As a mom. As an employee. Or maybe that's just Working Mom Guilt.

Over the Christmas break, I taught my daughter and step-daughter how to excuse themselves from the table. I'm not a fan of people just popping up when they're done eating, but I understand and remember how boring it can be for a 7 year old to listen to grown up talk long after the meal is over. Manners are important--ma'am and all its forms (yes, no, and in the form of a question) is expected in my house. And likewise, I'm not a fan of the "I wants" and other such demands. So, we had a lesson about getting up from the table, complete with practice and execution. They have to ask permission "May I please be excused?" and then wait for one of us to say "Yes, you may." They learned after a few wobbles and finally have it figured out.

Asking permission does have pretty awesome benefits sometimes.

But there are those times that I confess I'd rather beg for forgiveness. It's just way easier.

On a separate note that is completely unrelated: My 1st grader and I had a lesson the other day (you know, the other day that was really 3 weeks ago haha) about punctuation. She knew the exclamation point, the period, and the question mark. She was even vaguely familiar with the apostrophe (and used it CORRECTLY without my help in a sentence she was writing! PROUD MAMA MOMENT). We also talked about commas in a series. Yes, I told her she has to have one before the "and". I'm Old School like that. Then, she asked me to teach her some math. Wrong person to ask about that! And then, maybe a week later, my nephew called and asked about when you use a comma after words like well, yes, etc. at the beginning of a sentence. Even though I had to look up the formal name for that to explain to him (he's in 4th grade and actually cares what it's called--but I think he really wanted to impress his teacher), I felt all important because he knew who to ask for the answer. Or maybe it was because he couldn't get in touch with my mom. I'll continue to believe it's because he knew I knew the answer. ;)

Write Night

Hi folks,

Write Night (well, really, Write Week) starts February 8. I'm hoping people will post during the week and return the next week to comment.

The topic, which I lifted from NWP, is Permission. Write about the things you need permission to do, the things no one should be permitted to do, the times you got into trouble for not getting permission, whatever. Or ignore the prompt, and just write.

Donna