Yesterday was the first day back at school. I have to say things went okay! You know, if you’re measuring it on a scale of OH MY GOD, MY INTESTINES JUST FELL OUT OF MY ASSHOLE horrible to Oh, look at that, I have an ingrown toenail okay-ness.
We’re definitely on the ingrown toenail side of the scale. I received only one phone call from school. Wait, no, make that two. No, no, make that three. One from Payton, one from the school counselor, and one from the teacher. If I get any more popular I’m going to have to hire a publicist.
In all seriousness, the phone calls weren’t that bad, at least on my sliding scale. Payton only called to vent about HORRIBLE PE and the kid who made it horrible. The counselor only called (because I asked her to) to tell me Payton was so emotional because he was hungry (see also: Betty White commercials). The teacher called in the evening to tell me Payton didn’t freak him out. (I just love good news!)
But after Payton’s phone call in the morning, I began to worry, despite my new Swami promotion. He said he got in big trouble at P.E. and in his classroom, it’s HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE, I MUST COME SAVE HIM FROM THE HORRIBLENESS! It was hard to understand what happened. Payton relays these things very disjointedly, leaving me to fill in the blanks with my imagination. Believe me, it’s not one of those times when ignorance is bliss, especially with my kind of imagination.
Being a good mom who cares what happens at school and wants to reinforce good behavior or discipline unacceptable behavior, I walked up to pick up Payton instead going through the carpool lane. I wanted to know what happened and whether I should beat Payton senseless with a wet noodle or praise him with a shower of Kit Kats.
Not using the carpool was a BIG MISTAKE. A 4th grade teacher yelled at me for not using the carpool lane and they wouldn’t let me leave with my son. I was told to go through the carpool lane. Well! Obviously these people do not know that I am in the mafia, which affords special privileges.
In the end I left with my son and I didn’t use the carpool lane. Just like American Express, mafia membership has its privileges.
Now it’s day two at noon, and that’s thirty minutes longer without a phone call than yesterday. That’s what you call progress! What’s not progress is sabotaging my Level 3 30 Day Shred work out by eating two smore brownies in a row. This is on top of the four I ate yesterday.
Look, I have to cope with the worry somehow. I can’t drink because of the other Friday. I don’t know how normal people deal with high stress without alcohol. Oh, that’s right. They eat Xanax candy instead.
Fattening comfort food isn’t the only coping mechanism I’m relying on, though. I keep repeating a soothing mantra in my head: He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay. I do this while sitting criss-cross applesauce and burning incense in the air. And by incense, I mean a strawberry shortcake scented candle.
In addition, I’m also following Mr. Magorium (of the Wonder Emporium) as a second guru and he says “anything is possible.” And it is. Anything is possible, including the possibility that Payton will magically fall in love with school this year, all problems will disappear, and I’ll be a size six again, all because of a plain block of wood!
It’s now 12:10 and the phone remains quiet. Knock on wood for me.
I intellectually know he’s okay. That should be enough to ease the stress, but it’s not. A hundred times a day I find myself unconsciously pulled in an undercurrent of worry, imagining things are not okay for him. These waking nightmares are very vague in imagery but sharp in feeling. I have no idea what could be going wrong, but it could be something.
He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay. Now eat yourself a brownie!
And then I make myself imagine ANYTHING being possible, including Payton falling in love with school, OMG, Mom, the new school has a huge science lab! After all, believing is seeing.
So let’s end on a happy note. It’ll make me feel better, especially if you all tell me what a genius I’m raising, and don’t we all know geniuses do weird shit as kids? Yes we do!
Payton’s birthday is in a couple of weeks. He wants a Super Mario party, which absolutely thrills me. This is a party theme that I can just order supplies for, unlike his odobenocetops birthday. This year’s party will be easy! Or so I thought.
Apparently what’s good for the Amazon.com commoner isn’t good enough for Payton, the Royal Birthday Boy. He wants more. And this “more” includes authentic Mario bricks that float in the air. He wants floating brick boxes to decorate our house, as in no strings, true gravity-defying brick boxes.
Excuse me while I brag, but I’m getting smarter at handling these IMPOSSIBLE BIRTHDAY REQUESTS. I told him I’m in charge of the food, hosting and cake decorating, he’s in charge of decorations. If he wants floating brick boxes, he has to figure out how to create them, end of story, BOOYAH!, Mama stumped you good!
I say I’m getting smarter, but not really, because he figured out how to do it, theoretically, at least. Payton hypothesized that if you took an equal number of opposing magnets, that the positive and negative fields would created a space where gravity doesn’t exist. The push and pull would cancel each other out and you could float an object in it.
*blink blink*
One more thing you should know. Payton has asked for a chemistry set for his birthday.
Hold me. First, though, call my homeowners insurance agent and increase my policy. Then hold me.
I published this post two years ago when Payton was in first grade, a time in history now known as Oh My Fucking God, My Kid is Insane and I’m Only Two Steps Behind Him.
Then, in a bout of paranoia, I took down the post. I recently reread it in draft and found myself laughing out loud, why did I take this down? And so, I share again…
Last week, I found out the school is keeping a secret daily behavioral log on Payton. It’s secret because I, THE MOTHER, wasn’t told.
The only reason I obtained a copy of this log is because I’m taking Payton to a neurologist’s office and the school assumed I would share such a log with the psychometrician there.
If you’re keeping your own secret log of wisdom gleaned from my blog (and you really should), write this down: never assume what I will or won’t do.
I read through this log and then questioned the teacher its purpose. She explained to me that “They” asked her to keep it and it’s standard for any child exhibiting unusual behavior.
Okay. And it’s also standard not to tell the parents. Who knew?
But after thinking on it, this idea of secretly noting the unusual behavior of others sounds kind of fun. So I organized a committee of fools authorities to do that very thing. Let me introduce them….
Dr. Professor Shake-Shake.
Dr. Shake-Shake holds a honors degree in psychology and is infamously known for her authority in the field of skid mark research, postnatal hemorrhoids, and is a prominent activist in the Freedom for Flatulence movement. She has also published a line of self-help blogs on becoming a fresh mait authori-tay.
Welcome Dr. Professor Shake-Shake
The second authority is:
Dr. Professor Monkey Britches
Dr. Monkey Britches is a renowned authority in primate social behavior and will lend his expertise to help us better understand the unusual behaviors we may encounter during this illegitimate gathering of information.
Please welcome Dr. Professor Monkey Britches
Let us begin.
Case #1 Ms. Carpool Director
This late middle-age female exhibits agitated behavior on a daily basis. She shows unusual verbal behavior by shouting at children during drop off to “Hurry Up! Hurry Up!” and as the students begin to obey and hurry, then shouts out, “Don’t Run!!!!” Subject perseverates on this odd gait that can only be described as a “hurry up but don’t run!!!” style of walking. Her insistence that everyone around her walk this odd gait implies rigidity in her thinking and impaired social function.
Dr. Professor Shake Shake suggest we refer her to the school counselor for social stories on the proper way to greet others in the morning.
Dr. Professor Monkey Britches believes group therapy is needed in order to teach this patient to groom the hair of others and eat the bugs found on their body. This specialized primate form of therapy is proven to reduce agitation.
Case #2 Principal
Subject does not understand the appropriate social rules of initiating a conversation. He stood several feet away in a door way (possibly does not understand the concept of appropriate conversational space) and gestured with finger to gain attention while others were in conversation. When this action failed to get the attention of the other adult who is appropriately conversing with someone else, subjects increases the gesticulation and acts as if the other adult is being rude to him.
Dr. Professor Shake-Shake states this is a clear social impairment with adult conversational interaction. The subject could have trouble transferring the knowledge that how people approach him is the same way he should approach other adults. She suggests that repeating kindergarten (where the fundamental rule of Do Unto Others is taught) could be beneficial and in the subject’s best interest.
However, Dr. Professor Monkey disagrees. He believes for the subject to learn appropriate conversational behavior, he should participate in the specialized form of primate therapy where patients learn the correct way to initiate conversation is to scratch someone’s butt and then sniff your finger.
Case #3 School Counselor
This particular subject displays dysfunctional thinking patterns by making inappropriate assumptions of those she does not know and/or has short interactions with. For example, she makes immediate, inappropriate leaps from behavior to label without considering environmental influences or other possibilities. This is indicative of linear thinking and an impairment in processing abstract thought.
Dr. Professor Shake-Shake can only refer this subject to Dr. James T. Webb.
Dr. Professor Monkey Britches believes he is equipped to deal with this subject by utilizing occupational therapy so she can learn to play the only appropriate game there is: flinging poop at spectators.
This concludes our notes on unusual behavior for last week alone, and only those behaviors that can be observed during drop off, pick up, and 5 minute phone calls. There are possibly even more unusual behaviors if subjects could be observed all day.
I republished this piece for a couple of reasons, not just because it made me laugh, though let’s not discount the importance of humor in the face of adversity.
As I reread it after so long, I was impressed by the way Dr. Professor Shake-Shake was able to make the case problems sound real. Case #3 really shines as an example, I think. I made it sound so official and serious.
I highlight this aspect because, as a parent who read and read and read the information on Aspergers, ADHD, PDD-NOD, it all sounds so real and it is so very hard to not get caught up in it. These are “experts” with degrees and acronyms galore behind their names, surely they know of what they speak!
My only advice to parents regarding that is to proceed consciously (or maybe even unconsciously). Keep not only your head (because intellect will only take you so far) but your heart about you. Don’t let fear guide your decision because it sounds real.
“Reality is an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” -Albert Einstein
In my original draft, the following paragraph was at the end:
In the anti-spirit of noting odd behaviors, I began my own daily log of my son. While I’m being honest and writing down “unusual” things, I’m also purposely taking note of the completely typical kid stuff he does, something the school is not doing. They are solely noting odd things. I admit I started the log in the spirit of tit-for-tat, but now that I’ve done it, I realize how often Payton behaves quite normally and I let it pass by my eyes unnoticed.
I needed to be reminded that the difference between the seen and unseen, the real and unreal, is a gray, misty world of knowledge that has yet taken form.
“The moment a person forms a theory, his imagination sees, in every object, only the traits that favor that theory.” -Thomas Jefferson
School starts back in eleven days, which means I’m busy checking off the final required items on the school supply list – coffee, Irish Cream, orange juice, champagne.
I’m not sure which I’m going to need: medicinal whiskey with a splash of coffee or celebratory champagne with a hint of OJ for coloration. I plan to play it safe by having both on hand.
You may wonder why it is these four items appear on our school supply list while yours only contains the typical boring items of crayons, paper, glue, etc. I think you’ll best understand if I let Payton recount all the first days of school he’s experienced so far…
Mom’s Day Out/K2
Wait, what are you doing, Mom? Are…are you leaving? Without me? OH MY GOD, YOU’RE LEAVING ME! AHHHHHHHH! MUST SUPERGLUE SELF TO YOUR LEG! AAAHHHH! OH MY GOD, WHO IS THIS EVIL WOMAN TRYING TO PEEL ME OFF OF YOU! I WILL SUCKER PUNCH HER IN THE BOOB! I WON’T LET GO! I WON’T LET GO! I! WON’T! LET! GODDAMN IT, SHE PRIED ME OFF! ARRRHHHHH!
(repeat first day for, I don’t know, weeks)
Mom’s Day Out/K3
Are you kidding me, you’re trying to pull this shit on me again? Let’s dispense with the formalities. ARRRGGGGGHHHH! AHHHHHHHH! EEEEEEEEAAAAAHHHHHH! AAAARRHHHHH!
(repeat weekly)
Preschool/K4
I’m not going in that goddamn school, woman. I’m warning you, I will scream my head off if you try to make. OH MY GOD, YOU DIDN’T TAKE ME SERIOUSLY. You were warned. ARRRHHHHHHH! AHHHHHH! AHHHHHHH!
(repeat weekly)
Kindergarten
What IS this huge place? With all these people? And halls? And noise! You know I’m not even going to stay in this classroom, woman. I’m going to run the Juvenile Delinquent Marathon just as soon as you turn your back. THERE YOU GO AGAIN, TRYING TO LEAVE ME! ARRRRGGGHHHHH! AHHHHHH! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE ABANDONING ME IN THIS HELLHOLE WHERE THIS SUCCUBUS TEACHER WILL EAT MY SOUL! COME BACK, MAMA! COME BACK! DON’T LEAVE ME HERE, MAMA! COME BACK! COME BACK! AAHHHHHHH!
(repeat for a couple of weeks and then again after every holiday break)
First Grade
What is this bullshit, repeatedly bringing me up to the school to see my class and teacher? IT’S NOT EVEN THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL! You like to torture me, don’t you, Mommy Dearest? Where did you get this Einstein idea, huh? What was that? In an austim book? What the hell? You should have consulted a bat shit crazy book because THAT’S WHAT ABOUT I’M ABOUT TO BE! I refuse to put on that school uniform, are you crazy? I WILL DIE BEFORE I WEAR IT! AAHHHHHHH! SHE MADE ME WEAR IT! ARRRGGGHHHH! THE SCHOOL DOORS OF DEATH! NOOOO! SAVE ME! I’M THE ONLY FIRST GRADER SCREAMING AND CLINGING TO MY MOM BUT I DON’T CARE! AAARRRHHH! AAGGGGGGGGHHHH! AHHHHHHH!
(repeat with variations for TWO MONTHS)
Second Grade
Oh, I’m going back to school. Okay.
I’m not even kidding, the first day of school drama ended just like that.
I’m trying to not worry, not let myself imagine first day horrors. This will go just like last year! Perfect! Like that “N” word – normal! Yes, yes it will.
I tell myself over and over.
Because I want to hide the unstoppable stress that I feel creeping in lest Payton picks up on it and reacts accordingly. Do you know what it’s like to try to hide stress from a kid who can correctly interpret Beethoven’s music? Damn impossible.
I don’t want him to stress because I’m stressed (and he does! he has an emotional compass that will kick the magnetic north’s ass) because we’ve had five years of back-to-school HELL out of six.
Doctors prescribe prophylactic antibiotics to prevent infections before they occur.
How do you say “Torture fun for the whole family!” in French? I do worship French things so I think that would be a sophisticated euphemism for describing the social skills therapy we’ve been going to.
I had planned to share our experience on a week-by-week basis, embracing my philosophy of psychological nudity here on my blog. Being a Light-Bearer and all, I want other mothers like me to know all sides of this 18+ year path of raising a Way-Shower. But that weekly synopsis hasn’t happened for two reasons.
#1 We get home from therapy and I just want to drink. At 10:30 in the fucking morning.
#2 I haven’t been drinking lately (I do recognize the point where I could possibly rely on it too much) so instead I come home and promptly fall into a comatose state until selective amnesia takes affect and I forget the entire 45-minute session.
Since I’m 4 sessions behind, let me give you a sort of Cliff Notes version to my memoir, working title – Self-Imposed Sobriety When I Really Deserve To Be Drunk.
Session 1: Info gathering session. Internally grin as if eating Whole Foods-quality shit when son tells SLP how bored he is at school. SLP looks at me and responds, “This is where his teachers should be challenging him.” I hastily don my choir robes and await the preaching. Internally break apart as son sobs and sobs when they talk about how he’s been teased at P.E.
Session 2: Spend entire 45 minutes trying to convince son to even step into SLP room while he says he can’t take the stress of talking about being teased, stays in the hall and then runs away if we try to approach him. SLP suggests I motivate him with a prize, as if we’re dealing with a true eight-year-old and not a 30-year-old trapped in an 8-year-old body. Play along with her idea, shout treat offer down the hall to him only to have son reply, “I know you’re trying to trick me, Mom!” SLP looks to me for an answer to the unanswerable question, “What motivates him?” What motivates a mule bent on non-cooperation? A cattle prod?
Session 3: Son actually steps into room (yay!) but tells me I’m wasting my money. SLP tries to keep things light by discussing making friends instead of the trauma of being repeatedly teased. This works for 15 minutes before son breaks down again crying, because he’s doing the things she is saying he should do and the kids are still mean to him, he doesn’t understand why. I manage to swallow huge lump in my throat as I hear this through the door.
(In between session 3 and 4: Witness son meeting a middle-school age boy at neighbor’s house where he initiates a typical social conversation, if typical means 8-year-old discusses ideas on same intellectual level as a middle school student. Okay, not exactly on the same intellectual level. A middle-schooler knows almost as much as son, but not quite.)
Session 4: Two words become one – CLUSTERFUCK. See also words: SNAFU, FUBAR, and BOHICA (bend over, here it comes again).
And that concludes the Cliff Notes of my memoir, new working title – Can I Buy Xanax in Bulk?
Is Payton right that I’m wasting our money? I’m beginning to think so. The trauma of the playground teasing is too close to the surface for him. Even I wasn’t aware of the extent of the gaping wound left on him by the taunts, the name-calling, the rejection.
I knew he had been hurt by it. Who wouldn’t be? But these invisible wounds, how do you know how deep they go? Why didn’t he tell me sooner? How did this happen on my watch – me, the vigilant, protective mother.
I try not to should on myself but it’s hard. I should have been more vigilant. I knew the teasing had been an issue. I should have made SURE it ended.
But I asked him. Many times! Specifically about how P.E. was going. He didn’t tell me. I should have a better relationship with him. I should be the type of mother he would tell.
I should. I should. I should.
I still don’t know how deep this invisible hurt goes. I do know he’s not ready to talk about and relive this.
When he is, we’ll go from there. Until then, it’s summer and, my god, the kid deserves to relax.
This is your lucky week! I went through my drafts folder and found a ton of stuff I wrote but promptly forgot due to syphilis and never published. Or maybe I did publish it then took it down in a fit of paranoia, which is why it pays to subscribe to my blog. So I’m publishing (or republishing) this one, even though school is out and it isn’t exactly applicable. However, simply exchange “school” for “social skills therapy” and it becomes 100% relevant again.
What does this photo say to you?
Does it say….
A) Jesus, help me!
B) Are you the crazy one? Or am I? I’m just not sure!
C) Give me a drink!
D) What the fuck?
E) I’m about to eat my weight in cheese-powdered snack mix.
If you guessed all of the above, you’re a winner!
You know how we parents joke about the mistakes we make with our kids and how they can send us the therapy bill when their older?
Pardon me, but I have some very French thoughts on that idea.
FUCK THAT SHIT.
You want to know who should be paying for whose future therapy bills? Payton should pay for mine.
When I picked him up from school last week, there was yet another note from his teacher. I began to feel guilty for the destruction of all the rain forests, what with all of the notes Payton gets home from school. That alone is probably responsible for the loss of 5 acres of rain forest somewhere in South America.
But don’t worry! I believe in going green so I’ll be repurposing these notes to use as wallpaper in MY PADDED CELL!
The note said Payton didn’t do much of any of his work. Of course that’s what it said. That’s what almost all of them say.
Payton usually tells on himself before I get the note. His method of confession is, like himself, very unique. His method is to run bat shit crazy, like a boy being chased by a pack of rabid hyenas, at the sight of me. That’s how I know he’s gotten in trouble that day. He comes out of the school doors, sees me waiting with his brother, and there he goes! Bat shit crazy run.
If they had an elementary track team, Payton would be their #1 star because all they’d have to do to get him to run fast as hell is to tell him he’s getting a note sent home from school and then point to me in the stands.
Honest to God, the people at school must think I beat him at home when he does things like this. Except he’s been known to run bat shit crazy from teachers like that too, so yay! I’m not the only child abuser.
As we were driving home, we were talking about the note and Payton was very mad. He flipped his lid that the teacher wrote he didn’t do much of any of his schoolwork. He said he did some and he wanted to know why he wasn’t getting credit for the work he did do.
“Payton, teachers expect students to do all of their school work, not just some. That’s their expectation.”
“What about Japanese?” he asked, as if we were discussing what to have for dinner.
Wait for it…
What the hell? What does Japanese have to do with not completing his work?
I saw the mountain of school work that came home incomplete, and I tried to talk to him about what was going on, but then he spoke in what I swear is Tongues because his sentences made absolutely no sense to me.
This boy doesn’t come and say, “Mom, I’m hungry. Can I have a snack?”
He blasts into the room, acting as if he’s dying and says, “I HAVE LOW BLOOD SUGAR!” Because, stupid me, I took the time to explain to him how food converts to sugar in our blood and if we get too hungry, blood sugar gets too low it can cause headaches, stress, etc. And, oh my god, once you give that kid a scientific explanation you can forget ever hearing laymen terms again.
When he’s around my mind is in constant interpretation mode, trying to fit pieces of a Japanese puzzle together, rearranging his sentences so they make sense in the English structure of speech, and deciphering his scientific meaning.
And this is where the payment owed for Weight Watchers comes in. I’m an emotional eater. I get stressed or upset and, goddamn it,I need chocolate! And wine! And salty stuff! And anything with cheese powdered coating should legally be considered crack. Doritos, cheese Pringles, cheese Chex mix. It’s all crack and I eat it like a crack whore in rehab.
And now the Wii Fit is going to give me hell about it tomorrow morning. I’m adding that to my list of things to discuss with my future therapist.
As you probably know, I volunteer in Parker’s kindergarten class every week. I know it may seem as if I’m a good person out doing good deeds in the world, but in reality, I have a lot of evil shit to make up for from my twenties.
I miss the days when you could do evil shit and get away with it. Like how my grandparents could smoke all the time without people and packaging screaming at them how terrible it is for them. Coincidentally (or probably not), since no one screamed at them how sick it would make them, it never did and they got to have their nicotine cake and eat it too.
But nowadays, you have to atone for evil shit.
Like the time I co-conspired with some co-workers to hide the controller’s glasses while he was gone on his honeymoon. Apparently he didn’t need them on his honeymoon, but they were a do-or-die necessity for him to count beans. I don’t why he needed them at work and not at home. I don’t speak Asshole, so I never understood how his mind worked.
But we laughed and laughed as he shit a gold monkey when he couldn’t find them.
OR I could need to atone for hiding the toilet paper from one of my co-workers and disconnecting her phone handset so that it would ring, but when she picked it up, it wouldn’t work. I was a technological genius ahead of my time.
But I actually liked her and those pranks are what we did to keep ourselves mentally challenged. So I don’t think that should be counted against me. Besides, she got me back.
Now that I’m a fake Catholic, I’m sure it’s a mortal sin that I’m sitting here laughing my ass off again over the pranks I pulled on that gigantic asshole of a bean counter instead of being contrite and sorrowful. Hold on while I go say a few Hell Marys and slaughter a sacrificial stuffed animal from Mardi Gras.
Ok, I’m back.
I think it’s safe to say this: Don’t screw me out of a raise or you’ll face my wrath of immaturity. And I have dues to pay. Obviously.
So every week, I go in to the kindergarten class and do things like boss other people’s kids around. I have to tell you, I kinda like the power trip. And how they cry when they can’t find the toilet paper.
I put together a lot of books for the teacher to use in class. I’m such a prodigy at folding and stapling those that the teacher is always impressed with how quickly I do it and gives me a smiley face stamp on my hand. And to think I worried my college degree went to waste!
Even though I have a set day I go in every week, a few weeks ago, Wally planned to surprise me by taking the afternoon off, completely forgetting that was the one day I’m on work release and actually get out of the house. When he found out that morning I wouldn’t be here, he had to ruin the surprise and tell me.
Marriage is about give and take, so, of course, I walked in with Parker that morning and explained it to the teacher…
“Mrs. Teacher, Wally, bless his sweet heart, had planned to surprise me by taking the afternoon off and completely forgot today is the day I help you in the classroom.”
“Oh gosh, how sweet! You just forget all about coming in and have a good time with Wally.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure! Go have fun!”
“OK!”
Wow, I thought, that was easy
Then, as I climbed into my Mom Mobile, I realized I just indirectly admitted to a grandmother-aged kindergarten teacher that I’m blowing off my volunteer work so I can have a nooner.
I’m wondering if there is anyone out there who would agree with the statement that public schools are a well-functioning system. Anyone? Don’t be shy. Anyone?
For years, long before I had school-age children, I heard others talk of how the schools are dysfunctional, and I’ll admit I rolled my eyes. Because I knew all about it even though I was in no way involved in schools. I knew because I was a product of public education, my sister was, my husband was and, I don’t know what is wrong with you complainers, but what was true about the education system 25 years ago is certainly still true now.
*ahem*
Well, slap my fanny and call it ironic because, boy oh, boy, have I had my eyes opened. With both of the boys in school now, I’ve gotten all involved at their school. I’ve been volunteering my little ass off in the classrooms and I’m seeing things I wouldn’t see by simply being a parent who goes to the holiday class parties and joins the PTA.
On top of that, I’m one of those parents – I ask the teacher and principal why are there 16 tests in the course of two weeks**, and then I take upper administration names and I call them too.
Being more involved this year, I’m seeing the layers beneath the facade that props up the system, and I have to say what an absolute crazy cluster fuck the education system is.* Which isn’t surprising. It’s government ran, of course it’s a cluster fuck.
In a recent post, a commenter said, more or less, why aren’t the teachers trying to figure out why Payton is having so many problems in the classroom.*** That seems like an obvious question, don’t you think? It did to me. If a child isn’t functioning in class, we should know why!
But then I wondered (because I always do) …
What does it mean to function in a dysfunctional environment?
Would that be the definition of insanity? Does it mean losing yourself as an individual as you mold to the status quo of dysfunction? Does it mean losing your mind to the mind of the masses?
I’m not really sure, but it makes me question whether the goal of complete functionality for my sons in a dysfunctional system is something to aim for.
My youngest son is having zero problems in school. If I’m going to spend my time worrying, maybe he’s the one I should really worry about.
*Of course, I speak of the education system that we attend. While no public school is perfect (because we all have to deal with NCLB), our system here takes the meaning of asinine to new heights.
**I asked the teacher about those 12 tests yesterday. She said she may not have entered a few from previous week until the following week, so the date could be off. So then I counted how many were in the past two weeks, which was sixteen and still an ungodly amount for 2nd graders.
***For the record, his current teacher and principal are working with us to figure out how to help Payton. These are good people trying to do the right thing in a fucked up system with 900+ other kids. The end.
Yesterday I realized that I am a BIG, huge tool. I’m such a tool that I would have Craftsman tattoo’d on my forehead if I didn’t think tattoos were kinda trashy. (They turn green or black as they get old and it looks like mold. Mold belongs in the trash.)
It’s entirely possible that I’m a big, huge tool because I don’t know how to spell “tattoo’d” and I’m too lazy to find out, or I just admitted I think tattoos are kinda trashy (ducking now), however, that is not the reason I’m a big, huge tool.
Payton’s bi-monthly test folder came home from school yesterday. Would you like to guess how many tests in all he had last week? Let’s all play a guessing game and see who guesses best.
I’m thinking of a number between twelve and twelve. Pick one and see who gets closest.
Ding! Ding! You win! I was thinking TWELVE!
That’s twelve tests in five days, people. In second grade. Did your head just explode? Because mine totally did.
I don’t blame Payton for melting down. I would have mentally collapsed too. I would have freaked the fuck out if I had that many tests in a week in college, and we’re talking second grade. The fact that Payton didn’t lose his cool until the last day of testing says a lot to me. Instead of worrying about the boy, I now give him a helluva lot of credit for making it to Friday before breaking down in tears.
Before anyone gets started with questions of private school, let me go ahead and address that. We did consider private schools during kindergarten and again at first grade. I narrowed down the field of possibilities by tuition we can afford and that left zero. I then narrowed that number down by eliminating the parochial schools and that left -2. (See, I like negative equations too.)
There are no Montessori or alternative learning schools except for one an hour away and I heard some not so good things about it over the summer. Alabama’s idea of a gifted school is a middle school preparatory where they think it’s fun to give smart kids zeros on their perfectly answered paper because they wrote their name in the left-hand corner of the paper instead of the right.
You are probably thinking, but Heather, surely you jest because what kind of fucking asshole would do something like flunk a kid because he put his name in the left corner or wrote in pencil instead of pen? And then I would answer the fucking assholes in Alabama, that’s who.
So that leaves homeschooling.
I have just one question about homeschooling for all of you who swear by it.
How do you people do it and not become a drunk? Because I would become a total drunk.
I started to write “I’m sorry, but I like my children better when I’m not around them ALL the time,” but I don’t need to apologize for that. I was with my kids all the time for eight years. I do like them more when I’m not around them all the time, and since Parker started school, it’s amazing how much more likable my kids are.
I have tasted freedom and it is sweet.
Then I thought to myself, before there were schools, mothers spent years and years with their children. How fucking spoiled am I that I spent eight years with mine and I think ENOUGH! If they did it, why can’t I? Then I remember that back in the old days when kids didn’t go to elementary school, women used to die in their thirties.
I wrote this post yesterday morning, after I dropped the boys off for their first day at school…
Today is the first day of school and I’m sitting here in a house of absolute silence. Except for the refrigerator humming, which I’ve never really noticed before, probably due to the constant sounds from Nickelodeon, the Wii and the screams from the most recent Band of Brothers battle.
Now the refrigerator stopped and this is total silence. My ears don’t know what to do with themselves.
Both of my boys are in school. Both of them. Even my baby.
I thought I would be a pile of blubbering mess by now, but I’m not. There was a moment in the car when I turned back and looked at Parker, sitting in his booster seat with his school uniform on for the first time and, had I been alone, I would have bawled right then. But I didn’t want to upset Parker, who was feeling a little nervous on his first day, so I sucked it up.
This is my sixth year of first days of school. Payton started mom’s day out when he was 2.5 years old and today started second grade.
For the first time in six years, I’m not an emotional train wreck.
For the first time ever, Payton started school just like every other kid.
For the first time ever, Parker started big school, and he too started just like every other kid.
For the first time ever, I was able to walk out of the school without fighting back a torrential flood of tears. Not because of sentimentality, but because I didn’t literally drag anyone (read: Payton) into the building, pry my son (read again: Payton) off of my legs, have the teacher physically restrain him and then walk away as I hear him screaming, as if I’m breaking his heart from abandonment, “Mama! Don’t leave me! Come back, Mama! Come back!”
Today is a bigger milestone in my life than even I thought it would be.
Parker was such a big boy on his first day of kindergarten. He put his backpack up, turned in his lunch money, found his seat and started his work. He gave me and his dad hugs and kisses and that was it.
So this is the kindergarten experience most other mothers have. I never knew.
Isn’t it funny that of all the things that got to me, the fact that he is going to be a tray-luncher today instead of lunch-boxer is what bothered me? Just imagining him walking through the cafeteria with a green lunchroom tray in his hands somehow screams NOT YOUR BABY ANYMORE! more than anything else. Odd.
Payton?
Wow. Payton on his first day of second grade.
Wow.
He got dressed for school with no drama; no crying, screaming or kicking. He walked into the school. Walked, not dragged. He went to his classroom with no crying, talked to his teacher, and I was able to wave bye and leave him without someone holding him back.
I’m almost speechless at the transformation fromthetotalhellthatwaslastyear and the year before (and before that and before that and before that). I don’t know if there are any words to describe how I feel right now.
It’s like the weight from years of worry is suddenly gone and I could float off into the sky, all the way to the moon if I wanted.
Ok, now I start to cry.
I no longer have to hold my breath, swimming blindly in a stormy sea of confusion, desperately trying to convince everyone (including myself) there is nothing wrong with my son, until I’m sure I’ll drown in the emotional hurricane.
Today, I won’t sit here and worry how Payton is all day long, tense and tight until 3:15. I won’t worry that he’ll disrupt the class, require counselor intervention, or that he’ll try to run away from the school again. I’m not flinching when the phone rings, dreading to see the school’s number on caller ID. I’m not scouring my books, lining up my defense and authoritative evidence, ready to shine the light on the real life with gifted children and open people’s eyes to something other than disorder.
Today, I won’t calm myself in a mug of Irish Creme with a splash of coffee.
Instead, I popped open a bottle of champagne and made mimosas in celebration. After the second mimosa, I went straight for the champagne.
I'm Heather, and I'm both politically and grammatically incorrect. This blog kicks ass because I write only the truth. And the truth is always funnier than fiction.
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