I Want To Be A Super Hero But I Am Just A Mother.

This blog is a day late. No excuses, no griping, just plain, simply late. I was going to write about my family's experience at the local ER where, 20 months apart, my daughter and I had the misfortune to encounter the same attending physician. I was going to tell you the irony of my experience compared to hers. I went in via ambulance on a backboard after an injury, given morphine, valium, sat up once I was floating in the sky, no X-ray taken, told my muscles were taut, told to exercise to release muscles, and discharged within 1 hour. One week later, I was still walking like a chicken and swearing like a 'fish-wife'; I went to my local doctor only to discover that I had actually fractured my spine and herniated a disc.

My daughter, on the other hand, fell off her scooter last week. We took her to the ER and the same doctor (just our luck) took eight X-rays, casted her arm, and told us he could not diagnose properly if it was broken but he felt sure it was and that we should see an orthopedic specialist. Needless to say, we followed instructions and after a week of juggling bags, books, baths, and general pain-in-the-bottom awkwardness, we were told that there was no way this arm was broken and the cast was taken off. Apart from the obvious, that this man should be seriously thinking about a new career, I also spent a fortune in medical bills. However, what struck me yesterday was not the irony of these two experiences that the one doctor had given us, not the total lack of professionalism, competency, and oblivion, it was the fact that twice this man had made my life just that little bit harder on top of all that a mother has to cope with.

So where is this going you may ask? Is this going to be another mother dribbling on about how much she has to do? Well, yes and no, it is sort of, and you know what, I wallow occasionally. I, unlike that doctor, cannot leave my responsibilities at the sliding doors and start again fresh with the next patient. Every day I juggle old problems with new ones and, if I am lucky, I will get a beautiful reprieve in the middle of it with a smiling, happy child. Take yesterday for instance. At 6 a.m. I woke up after six hours of interrupted sleep due to my son feeling poorly in the night. I packed lunch for my daughter, who is going back to school after also being sick. I get breakfast, showered, I get her breakfast, usher her to get showered and dressed appropriately. We go over completed homework to check it, we find pieces of important paper that have miraculously traveled about the house on their own, and finally we leave for school. All the time the atmosphere is getting tenser by the minute.

As we approach the school, we start the process of negotiation. The negotiation that always ends in screaming tears. You see, as I wrote about last year, she has something called School Phobia. Yes, for those of you who are laughing right now, it is a serious problem. After 45 minutes of gut-wrenching wails, I have to leave her stranded in the car park in the arms of her teacher, sobbing. She calls after me, saying I don't understand, and the final heart-string-pulling words "please, don't leave me." She is twelve, and this has been going on for seven years; I am emotionally exhausted. I sat in the car crying myself. I call her counselor for a pep talk, for confirmation that I have done the right thing. Then I go about my so-called normal day, trying to ignore the fact I had walked away from my child.

Leaving behind a distressed child is against all motherly instincts; being cruel to be kind is not a saying I like. Wanting to run back and whisk her away from her demons always pulls me, but I know I cannot. I have to forge forward hoping that by homecoming time she has forgiven me. During the day, I tend to my other child, make lunches, do laundry, shopping, trip to the pharmacy, pay bills, and clear up the devastation in my house. Within a few hours, I am heading back to the school, only to be greeted by a sulky child who obviously cannot comprehend why I leave her at a place that scares her so. We go to see her counselor, emotionally exhausting to say the least, and finally at 6 p.m. we are heading home. At home, we are thrown into homework, preparing dinner, book reading to calm down before the bedtime stresses, and then finally I can fall into my bed at about 10 p.m. By the time I was able to write this blog last night, I was too exhausted. What is more, I do confess I usually have a glass of something calming beside me.

School phobia does not come and go at the school gates, it infiltrates into your home like an unwanted visitor, and it can show up at any time, even in school vacations when there is not a school day in sight. It is not time-related, it is not aware of your other demands; it just has to come first. So, this is my life and I can say with certainty that it will probably not change for the next six years. It seems like a prison sentence to me, but, honestly, it must seem like a death sentence to my wonderful daughter. I will be with her every step of the way, come hell or high water I will never give up or let go, but I have to expect that I will fail at times with my other duties or deadlines. I can only hope that others can see this and forgive me.

From
The Brit, whose blog was late.

Delinquent Mother!

We all know that teenagers, at some point or other, are completely embarrassed by their parents but I think I just hit the top spot on the embarrassment poll. I could blame it on age, my grey cells dissipating, or my hormones taking over, but truthfully it was all me. No help at all, which makes it worse.

The place was high school orientation. The people involved were my son, his teacher, and me. The orientation was chaotic with hundreds of teenagers running around trying to find their way in a new school whilst skillfully texting each other, even though they were standing back to back. It was a parent's nightmare.

By the time we arrived at the last room on his list, I was frazzled and ready to go home. My head was spinning from the fact that he had been assigned to the wrong math class, that one of his teachers looked like a 'surfer dude' (he is very nice so I found out – naughty me!), and that not one person could tell us definitively where he was supposed to report to on day one. Yes, my mind was racing with a million questions and thoughts.

The last room was his homeroom and I was hoping to get answers to my remaining questions. As we entered, there was one other family in conversation with the teacher, so I ushered my son far enough away so as not to look as if we were trying to muscle in on the conversation. It is so annoying when someone does that right?

From our distant position, a few chairs back, I started to whisper to my son about what we needed to find out. He engaged in the conversation as quietly as I did – we were being polite, or so we thought! To our horror, the teacher didn't think so. Within a second the room went quiet, you could have heard a pin drop. I looked up from my huddled position and saw the stare. Yes, I got the "Teacher Stare". You know the one that you got in school, all those years ago, when you had done some dreadful deed. The one that told you detention was a sure thing and that your parents would certainly hear of this before the day was out. Thankfully, I didn't get many of these in my day but, unthankfully because of that, I am afraid of them.

The teacher then addressed me. He did not say many words. It was just a simple, "Did you say something?"

My son's gaze had followed mine and, as I noticed out of the corner of my eye, he had gone completely white. You see, this is the boy who would walk around the edge of the classroom so as not to be seen near the naughty chair in Kindergarten, or has ever had a reason to bring one of those 'notes' home. In fact, he never got off green in the Green, Yellow, Red (your dead) behavioral system favored by elementary schools. I knew this was disaster of mammoth proportions.

I couldn't answer the teacher; my mouth was stuck, stricken with fear. That apparently was making the situation worse. As he was not getting a satisfactory reply from me, he turned to my son.

"Do YOU have something to say?"

Well, I did not know whether to be proud of my son for answering the question or whether to ground him for the next year. Really, it was outrageous -- he blamed me! Simply he stammered that he was replying to me, his mother. I got another stare and then the final blow. The teacher turned his back on me. I was in school, in my forties, and been caught out for speaking out of turn in class. I started to giggle which was obviously catching, as the other boy who was talking with the teacher at the time followed suit.

He got the stare too.

At least my son was not the only one, I thought to myself. However, the damage was done; I had embarrassed my poor child. We did speak to the teacher after the other family had left, but I have to be honest and say that I didn't ask the questions I needed to, and the teacher thankfully didn't mention the incident just told us that we could expect a lot of paperwork.

My son never really said anything on the way home about my delinquent behavior so I decided to keep quiet – best thing to do under the circumstances, don't you think.

As SpongeBob states – “I’m Ready, I’m Ready…………..”

Brace yourselves parents it's coming… D-day is nearly here for most of us, and we are counting down. I have the celebratory wine chilling in the fridge, and the 20 million water bottles ready and waiting to go in the garage. School is nearly starting other than for one teeny, tiny obstacle to be overcome. We still have to run the back-to-school supply list gauntlet.

This mania has Black Friday beat. I am convinced that shops everywhere are bracing themselves for this week. Every year I swear to myself, God, or indeed anyone who will listen to me over the age of 18, that I will not lose control in Staples or Target. I pledge that I will NOT swear uncontrollably to the innocent shop assistant if they do not have anymore three holed pocket folders in bright pink. I will control my facial expressions, keep them 'poker faced ', when my son insists that the most expensive calculator will help him achieve higher marks in his math class. I will resist stamping my feet like a 5 year old because they only have clear glue and not white as my daughter cries uncontrollably since she is sure she will be making slime in science this year. No, I will not panic as I fight through the crowds to purchase endless reams of loose leaf paper only to find the lucky ones had scooped up the precious college ruled packs, leaving me to console my 14 year old that he will not look like a nerd with wide ruled. After all, what are a few millimeters between friends?

Pencils are another story - 2HB is the call of the schools. Great, they are everywhere, but this Shakespearean sonnet sound-alike is a minefield. Do you get the cheapest knowing that within one day your well supplied child will have mislaid them, and also knowing that every single one does not sharpen as its lead that has been shattered into a million pieces, probably by the aforementioned shop assistant, who had dropped the whole case whilst being chased by an over eager parent? Or, do you go for the technical, mechanical ones which are for the most part a huge NO-NO, and just let your child be the one who gets labeled as 'the one with the parent who cannot read the list properly'.

Pink erasers this year seem to be necessary. What happened to white or are we now trying to be politically correct and pink is the new in? However, there is a plus to this; at least the pencils seem to all come with pink erasers on top. Yes, I know they will become a daily part of my children's diet as they munch on them in class (the granola bars just don't taste the same) but who cares, I am focusing on my parent-of-the-year award for having the right supplies.

Then once we are done with the stationary side of things, we find ourselves moving onto the sanitary section. Oh how we love our germ-free schools. The fear factor is before us. It shouts "your child needs these items - Cleanliness is next to Godliness!". I agree for the most part, and I do pity our poor teachers as they battle with germ-infested children but, seriously, do I really need to supply tissues, hand sanitizer, disinfectant wipes and much more? Can we not just wrap them up in a self-sanitizing body suit, give them a facial mask, surgeon's gloves, and have a heat (fever) detector installed on all the main entrances? After all, isn't that how airports do it? Better still, lets jab them as they enter with flu shots. You may laugh, but in England, when I was a child, we all lined up for the BCG vaccine (Tuberculosis), and like sitting ducks we sweated as the end of the line neared. A little of what we had to go through may be a good learning curve for our precious ones. If all parents clubbed together the money, we are to spend on these products, we could afford those sensors I am sure!

So what is a parent to do? Already as I write this, I can feel the stress rising. No, I am not going to let it get me! I am going to get my coffee, combine my lists (2 children, 2 lists), and face the day like a combat soldier, and for those of you who have already successfully planted your kids back in school, and completed the gauntlet, I tip my hat to you. Sit back and heave a sigh of relief. Pity my pain. Hindsight is a glorious state of mind.

Running in Circles Back to the Old School

By Sheilah Zimpel

I edited a parenting column last night about how this mother got her kids ready to go back to school. And I didn’t believe a word of it. Seriously, trading in playing cards for flash cards, videogames for books? Putting away beach puzzles for maps of continents? Storing away logo T-shirts for collared ones? Hiding remotes, turning off the TV? Setting alarm clocks earlier in 10-minute increments a day, moving bedtime from 10 to 8? Who is this hyperorganized woman so in control of her subjects, I ask. Keep her away from me.

I barely remembered to buy new shoes and a backpack. Check. Ready for school.

My theory for preparing to go back to school, borrowed from some wise like-minded soul, is similar to your pre-college summer: Make the last weeks of summer at home so incredibly, so stupefyingly, so outrageously boring that he’ll be begging for school as an escape. With the amount of hours Dave and I have worked (outside the home) this summer, I think Dylan is uber-prepared. He read half a book. He wrote a total of two words, and that’s just because I asked him if he still knew how to write. It was legible. Check. (Then I recalled his teacher saying to practice his penmanship. Uh oh.) This penman’s ship is sunk.

One way we accidentally prepared for the return to school was mentioning the annoying kid’s name, the kid we call in code by his moniker spelled backward, the kid who is so pesky that everyone avoids him. Now I’ve trained Dylan to be nice to everyone, but this dern kid just wouldn’t let up, and I think it’s because I trained Dylan to be nice to everyone. (So I revised for next year: Avoid him at all costs.) We said a little prayer that maybe he won’t be in his class, which is doubtful, as last year’s teacher is looping up with the same class. But she loves Dylan, so I think we’ll ask to sit far away from the bane of our fourth-gradeness. Check.

So I say, why prepare for back to school—it brings up horrors of routine and annoyance. Kids are resilient, can change on a dime, and enjoy a good foot race to the bus stop. And Moms seem born ready for the return, for all those projects we failed to do in the summertime because we were driving here and there and having kidlike fun. Back to school time means no excuses for housework undone, unkempt lawns, dinner out. We like to think, dreamily, that it means free time, but it really means back to getting things done. And I don’t wanna. Can’t make me.

I feel the need to lay upside down on the couch and see if the video game works that way. Then I just might need to duct tape the chair silver. And freeze some more Lego dudes. I sure will miss that Phineas and Ferb theme song.

But the second parenting columnist I edited last night, the old-school child psychologist I always laugh with in agreement, brought the SuperMom columnist back to reality. His column was a response to parents whose tween runs in circles, spontaneously, erratically, dumbfoundingly. And he set me straight on all this line-your-kids-up-like-ducks-in-a-row mess—he said your tween’s just quirky, an oddball like the rest of us. It’s just what we do, and there’s no need to suppress it.

Let’s run in circles for no reason at all.