Why I haven’t signed up to take the GRE? Let me count the excuses

GRE, What?

I have an exam to take. Preferably soon.

There was no problem signing up for motorcycle lessons – in September – but for some reason I’m putting off scheduling this exam.

Reasons.

I’m painting my house – room by room.  With Barb and the kids out of town, I’ve spent practically every day after work, down till about midnight, mudding, sanding, priming, painting, lather, rinse, repeat.

My bedroom is last, and worst. The previous owner had a DIY-streak with a healthy dose of don’t-give-a-sh*t. He didn’t sand Spackle. He bought a 5-gallon bucket of realtor-beige and sprayed everything. Even the ceilings, trim, kickboard. Everything. Dull. Monotonous. Beige.

We almost left this room alone, except that one time I spilled an open bottle of gentian violet all over one wall. But for that, I almost didn’t need primer for this room that, mind you, was entirely beige.

When the family came home that first weekend, Barb confessed she felt lazy because I did a lot of the cleaning, cooking and bedtimes. Then I confessed I felt I’d been taking it easy because I hadn’t spent 6-hours painting the whole time they were home. For once it felt peaceful to have a house full of kids and to hear them out in the court squealing with all the other kids.

Actually, it’s more like screaming, but that’s a story for another day (and part of the reason we’re painting and trying to sell our house).

So. Registering for the Returning Journalist masters program .  Yeah, that’s not getting very far. I have three committed professors willing to write a recommendation, so I only need one more. Perhaps the guy who keeps Facebook messaging me to blog could trade some words.

More reasons – Okay, so I’ll go into the whole moving thing, it’s certainly not helping me get fully registered in the Philip Merrill School of Journalism.

And the screaming. Can a neighborhood be cursed? Can a whole block of houses fall under a pall of angry, hateful boys who don’t have much chance of ever learning how to interact or have meaningful relationships?

Without going into any individual details, all I hear out the windows when I’ve been painting (in cooler weather), with lots of cross-ventilation and 0-VOC paints, is yelling, screaming, hitting, crying, bullying and general nastiness. There have been elements here all along who don’t know restraint, but over the past year it’s just been getting unbearable.

My brother chides me about “running away,” but I don’t see it that way. I’ve been involved. I’ve been calling boys out for the worst behavior and calling parents out when needed. No, riding your bike into another child at speed is not “just a bump,” it’s vehicular assault and damn painful.

Sorry, I wasn’t trying to get this blog site in any libel trouble. I’ll just stop there.

I’m at the point where I’m considering bringing a pack of popsicles out on a busy day in the court and sharing them, so long as the children sit, suck ice, and listen to my rant/lecture about please, thank you and the importance of being nice to people when you don’t “have to.”

At some point you are responsible. Would you live in a neighborhood where teenagers’ arguments result in dead 5-year-olds? Stray bullets? No. If things don’t dramatically change here. If families don’t come together and determine that they have a responsibility for their children’s behavior, that will be this neighborhood in 3-5 years. I don’t want to live here when these children become old enough to drive and drink underage. I don’t want my children riding in their cars or Madeline suffering 5- and 10-year-olds with 60-years-old attitudes about what girls can and cannot do.

It’s not the only reason we’re moving. I actually like my house, small as it is. I like my terraced back yard with its ancient brick patio, azaleas,  forsythia and nearly unbroken view of greenery and a diversity of oaks.

I also would like Madeline to have a bedroom most people wouldn’t take for a walk-in closet. Maybe it would be nice for the boys to have their own rooms? Not on one income.

My goal was to get the masters degree first. Increase my earning potential. Buy a house we want rather than a compromise. But the toxic atmosphere outside our door is pushing the clock faster and faster. To this end, Barb and I have been talking, reluctantly, about what kinds of part-time jobs she would want or qualify for, having not worked outside the home since before Madeline was born in 2002.

And putting  a house on the market is not good for things like studying for a test I know nothing about, so I reckon I’ll pay another $75 registration fee for the fall as a non-degree student (I have 9 more credits I can take this way).

So, today I sit in my underwear on the couch while Spackle dries slowly – so very slowly – upstairs and contemplate the American dream.

I’m living the dream – enjoying the freedom to write, to sit in my underwear and blog about it, to seek advanced degrees and move up in the world.

I’m also wondering what happened to the “Dream.”  Why can’t a single-income family afford a house big enough to support their dreams?

We’re not talking some ambitious show-home designed to impress or move up that way. Just something with a room for everyone and maybe space to write undisturbed. Someplace with neighbors who care how their loin-fruit behave.

I’m also not holding any illusions that the American Dream is a cakewalk. There is nothing worth having that doesn’t take some work, and juggling a masters degree, buying and selling a home, work, family and being a surrogate parent to the fatherless children in our court – not to mention sweat equity in my home and wearing bits of paint and Spackle unaware – is part of the work I’m willing to put in.