Monday, September 14, 2015

Awkward Mom vs. Pity

Dear Moms shooting me wary and pitying looks as my child throws the mother of all fits in the hallway-

Believe me, I get it. I really get it. I know that you don't know where to look, how to look, if to look. I know you aren't quite sure what to do with your hands, because they are aching to reach out to me and you think you shouldn't. I know that you think our unfamiliarity means I don't want your help or smiles. You are wrong. I want both. What I don't want it your pity. That I don't want. Keep your pity.

If anyone is going to be handing out pity, I'll be me. If you decide to give me nothing but pity from your perch up there in the my-child-would-never-behave-like-that clouds, then you are the one who needs the pity.

Because my child is amazing.

Because I am amazing.

Because we are some of the most amazing people you could ever meet and befriend, and you are missing the opportunity of a lifetime if you do not become friends with us right now.

Doesn't cost a lot, just a smile. The real kind. Actual compassion. A nod of understanding. A flash of connection. A brief word. An I've-been-there-too. An It'll-all-be-alright. A my-name's-Rumpelstilskin-what's-yours? That's it, and we're buddies for life.

Because we're life-buddy type of people. We're not fake. We're not fair weather. We're true and strong and here for you when times are tough and someone's throwing a fit in the hallway.

We're amazing. Truly amazing. Utterly amazing. Truly and utterly amazing. And in no need of pity. Keep that and give me your hand.

Anytime you are ready,
Awkward Mom

Truly and utterly amazing. 

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Awkward Mom vs. Kindergarten

When the principal calls you three times and school has only been in session for a week and a half, that's awkward. 

Have you guys met Super Kindergartener? Here he is:

He's awesome. And wonderful. And thoughtful. And creative. And unique. And magical. And hilarious. And sweet. And imaginative. And kind. And strong. And smart. And all around fabulous.

He is also ill-named, because he is no longer going to be in Kindergarten.

After three phone calls from the principal, numerous melt-downs, 2 flat-out refusals to go to gym, countless tears (mine, his, and, I assume, the teacher's), and a week and a half, we have all come to the conclusion that Super Kindergartener is not ready for Kindergarten and would be much happier in preschool. So, that is what we are doing. As of tomorrow, Super Kindergartener goes back to being Super Preschooler. Only this time, it's all week, in the afternoons. It is a great solution and everyone is thinking this will help him ease into a full school day for next year or even later this school year, perhaps. Neat, tidy, and everyone's happy, especially Invisible Grandpa, Super Preschooler's imaginary friend, who doesn't much care for all-day school either and refused to attend with him. Happy happy.

So, why can't I stop crying?

Because they rejected my baby.

Now, I need say that, of course, no one rejected anyone and no one was in any way cruel or dismissive or anything but caring, as we sought a solution to Super Preschooler's obvious discomfort and frustration. I know that. I just wish someone would explain it to my heart.

The crap going down in there is downright cruel, dismissive, and anything but caring. Not towards the teachers, they did exactly what they were supposed to do. Not towards Super Preschooler, he did exactly what he was supposed to do. But me? I don't know. That's where my train goes off the tracks. That's where my Inner Voice is saying, "This is because I ate lunch meat that one time when I was 4 months along with him. This is because I didn't breast feed. This is because he didn't talk right away and I just let him take his time. This is because he walked late and I thought the physical therapy was premature. This is because I didn't do those math flashcards. This is because we have too many children. This is because I don't like to cook dinner. This is because we moved. This is because I didn't get him into therapy when his imaginary friends showed up. This is because of me. This is my fault. This is because I am a terrible mother."

Yeah. So, that's been going on since this morning when I went and picked him up and he smiled up at me and said "oh, thank goodness you are here. I was missing you a ton." And I took him into my arms and told him that he didn't have to miss me as much any more because we were changing our schedules and he was gonna eat lunch with me every day and then I took him to his new classroom down the hall and we met his new teacher and they played with markers for a little bit while I filled out all the new paperwork. And then I took him home and we ate lunch and watched Jake and the Pirates and now he is playing dinosaurs with his sister while I mentally abuse myself for having my child's best interests at heart. So, like 2 hours of mental abuse from my inner critic.

And that's 2 hours too long. So, you can just shut up now, Inner Voice. I don't have to deal with enough mom comparison, confusion, and conflict from the freaking entirety of the internet? I don't have enough self-doubt and worry to overcome without you piling on? Being a parent isn't hard enough? You have to start too? You are wrong and exhausting and, I've never told you this before, but sometimes your voice is incredibly whiny and grating. So, get it together, Inner Voice. I don't want to replace you with a soundtrack of Morgan Freeman reading Shakespearean sonnets on a loop, but I totally will. So, get it together, Inner Voice.  Get positive. Get supportive. Get with the program.

Get. It. Together. Right. Now.

It doesn't matter what we call him. 
He's Super, regardless.