The “C” Word

Columbine.

It hangs in the air. A weighty silence follows.

“I’m just saying,” I continue, “you can’t just ignore red flag after red flag after red flag. What has to happen before this child is treated as a serious threat?”

My husband snaps, “You sound hysterical when you say that. Don’t use the word Columbine, people will think you’re nuts.”

There is a storm brewing.

A week ago a fourth grader, knowing another student had severe peanut allergies, wiped his peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the other boy’s hand.

The boy with allergies broke out in hives all over his body. Thankfully, because he had not ingested any of the peanut butter he did not go into anaphylactic shock--which had happened once before. Nonetheless he was still terrified, never knowing how bad one of his allergic reactions can be.

As the story spread like wildfire from parent to parent, other incidents of dangerous and even violent behavior came to light.

Without going into too many details they involved fighting, lighting fires and weapons. Scary stuff.

After the “peanut butter incident” he was suspended for a couple of days, although it was hard to tell since he was riding his bike and eating an ice cream cone in the schoolyard after school.

The school’s solution was to assign a chaperone to stay with him throughout the school day, although I still see him in the hallways alone before and after school.

He lives on the same street as the school and has constant access to the grounds and the building.

No one argues that he doesn’t have “problems.”

Although “problems” is rather vague and polite in my opinion.

Let’s use some adjectives.

“Behavioral problems.”

“Emotional problems.”

“Mental problems.”

I swear I am not without sympathy for this child. He is “broken” on a very profound level that no “punishment” can fix.

So I am truly heartbroken for him and his family, but I am also full of fear.

The things that this boy has done terrify me, because they show an inability to know right from wrong.

They show an angry and troubled boy.

And, I think a dangerous boy.

I have laid awake at night imagining him storming the school with a bag of rifles. My son’s classroom is right near the front door. His seat can be seen through the window.

I picture the chaos and devastation.

“You’re being hysterical,” my husband insists.

“Maybe,” I agree, “but I can’t help the way I feel.”

I have an appointment to speak to the principal in the morning who I know is going to be placating, but ultimately I don’t think will do anything.

I know I’d feel a lot better if this kid’s chaperone escorted him into and out of the school.

I’d worry a little less if he were banned from the school grounds unless he is supervised.

But most of all, I want to know that the school views this child as a potential threat.

Because unless they acknowledge that he is, they cannot properly protect our children.

I’m not grabbing a pitchfork and torch or looking to have him run out of town on a rail, I’m truly not, but I wonder how many other school tragedies could have been prevented if teachers, parents and school administrators paid closer attention when they saw signs of disturbed behavior.

Everyone knows that the world is a dangerous place, and as parents if we thought too much about those dangers we’d go out of our minds. (Not to mention probably never let our children out of our sight.)

I can’t just put my head in the sand and ignore the warning signs. Wearing blinders is not going to make this situation go away.

I don’t want to persecute this child or contribute to his already bad reputation.

But ultimately, it’s not about this child.

It’s about mine, and the hundreds of others who attend our school.

So I have to say something now, because the one thing I never want to have to say is, “I told you so.”

What would you do?

Child’s Play

No, this isn't my son, his hair sticks out, not up.

I’ve always chalked up my son’s ability to occupy himself to the fact that he’s an only child. Well, that and he has a lazy mother.

Watching TV or playing video games aside (which are not so much occupying oneself as entering an electronic coma), he’s happy to go off and read, draw, smash rocks or play with Legos.

Usually I take the opportunity to do stuff around the house.

Ok fine, to read blogs, watch TV and sneak a bowl of Cheetos, but today I tried something different.

Today I went down to the playroom where he was contently hunched over an enormous bin of colorful interconnecting blocks.

“Hey! Watcha makin’?” I asked. “Can I see it?”

His eyes lit up and his voice rose an octave or two.
“Sure! Like it?”

“It’s great!”

“Wanna help?”

I’m sure he expected me to say something like, “Well, maybe later, I have to go grab the laundry,” but today I surprised us both by saying “Absolutely!”

We sat there for a long time discussing the structure, swapping ideas and complimenting each other’s fabulousness.

In that moment of intimacy I felt two things:

First, I can’t believe I never do this! (This is so great)

Second, I can’t believe I never do this. (I suck)

When our kids are younger, and depend on us for absolutely everything, we fantasize about a time when they won’t need us so much.

We yearn to have an hour to ourselves even when they’re around.

Sometimes, we just wish to be left alone.

Well, you know what they say, “be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.”

Today I realized that he’s growing up so quickly and his joy at having me around will, at some point, be replaced by utter disdain.

So, we may not have that many years left of afternoons filled with Legos and laughter.

I truly do consider myself lucky to have a kid who can occupy himself.

And I want him to feel lucky to have a mom who doesn’t always make him.

Control may be a clean countertop away.

This weekend there was an article in the New York Times (don’t be remotely impressed, I generally only read the restaurant reviews and the Style section), called “The Drudgery of Chores, and the Comfort.”

The writer has a very interesting viewpoint when it comes to the tedium of daily chores. Instead of resenting the repetition of doing endless loads of laundry, making beds or wiping up dust that will just reappear tomorrow, she takes a certain reassurance in it.

Her point is that when our houses are “in order,” both figuratively and literally, there is the sense (or delusion) of being in control. We are able to hold at bay the reality that at any moment something terrible or unexpected could turn our lives upside down.

With tornadoes touching down throughout the US and earthquakes reeking havoc abroad we intellectually recognize that our lives move forward on a thin and tenuous thread. Any event, no matter how insignificant, can strain that delicate thread.

For instance, last week I woke up with an agonizingly soar throat. (Hey, I said no matter how insignificant!)

Hardly life threatening (unless you look on the internet in which case this may be my last post as I may have a nearly-extinct rare viral infection and will be dead by morning), but just enough to put me into a tailspin.

I can’t get sick! What if this is the start of the flu? Or strep? There’s too much to do! I won’t be able to get him to school. I’ll miss my lunch with my friend who I haven’t seen in months! I’m going to infect everyone in my family and then have to take care of them while trying not to die!

And this is just a sore throat. Not a natural disaster, a terminal illness or some other life-altering event.

But, when wellness was restored, so was my sense of control. I say “sense" of control, because, as anyone has children will tell you, there really is no such thing.

And, to the extent there is, the screaming, sleep depriving, poop factory is “in” it, not you.

Still, I thought it was a fascinating and different way to look at the tedium of being a housewife and mother.

It’s true that putting away laundry (my least favorite chore to do) completes a cycle that will start up again immediately. But, for a moment everything is clean, orderly and in its place. And that feels good.

I guess now I will take comfort in the calm, so I can ignore the storm.

So Act Like a Lady for Godssake!

YOU.

That’s right, you know who you are.

I don’t know how you’re doing it, or why, but I’m putting you on notice.

You seem to know exactly what restaurant, coffee shop or library bathroom I will be in and then use it right before me.

Always one step ahead of me, you diabolical bathroom befowler.

I mean, why in God’s name would you pee on the seat rather than in the toilet?

And, giving you the benefit of the doubt, if you did it by accident, why would you not clean it up?

I don’t even know what to day about leaving “your business” in the toilet and then not flushing.

The lever, the thingie on the side of the toilet, yes, that’s the flusher. Use it.

Just know that there is a special place in hell for those who sprinkle when they tinkle and are not neat and do not wipe the seat.

And trust me, you do not want to see that bathroom.


***************************

Some of the comments reminded me that in the infancy of my blog I wrote a post called "If I were the bathroom Czar." Obviously I spend too much time thinking about this stuff...

I'm Not Bitter, Much...

First order of business, let me clarify. My last post, ‘Twas the night before Mother’s Day… was a work of complete fiction. It came to me as I was chopping vegetables for the salad I would be serving for dinner that night--For my mother-in-law!

“Let’s just grill,” my husband said, “it’ll be easier.”
“Really? Easier? You mean the actual putting the meat on the grill for 12-14 minutes will be easier or the part where I go shopping for the food, prepare hor d’ouevres, the salad, side dishes and dessert will be easier? Easier for whom?” (That’s right, “whom,” the voice inside my head is very formal.)

I should backtrack a bit.

I don’t know about where you live, but in New York there are three holidays I would never dream of going to a restaurant for: Valentine’s Day, New Year’s Eve and Mother’s Day. On all of these occasions restaurants will charge a huge premium for an inferior experience. No, getting a carnation does not make up for $29 eggs.

Since we’ve just completed a major home renovation my husband and I are trying to tighten our proverbial belts. (If we could actually afford belts anymore) I felt that spending all that money to take his parents and out for an overpriced meal was a bad idea.

So I rejected the idea of Mother’s Day brunch. Idiot!

Next year we are going out. And I am going to savor my $29 eggs.

I mean dammit, I work hard all year for no pay, this is the least that they could do.

Oh wait, no the least that they could do is have me cook everyone else a meal.

'Twas the Night Before Mother's Day

‘Twas the night before Mother’s Day and all through the house,
There was a slight stirring of child and spouse.
The cards were signed by my family with care,
A sloppy smiley face added for flair.

Then as I snuggled sound in my bed,
visions of “sleeping-in” danced in my head.
And lo the next morning came pancakes and fruit,
Snuggles and hugs and kisses so cute.

When down in the kitchen there came a large clatter
I sprang from my bed to see what’s the matter.
When around the corner to the kitchen I looked,
The mess of all messes from the breakfast they cooked.

Dishes and pots and batter all about,
But it was Mother’s Day, no need to shout.
364 days we all bust our ass,
but today is the day we get a free pass.

Hope you all were worshiped this Mother’s Day.

Now, get back to work.

The Whole Story.

Today I went to Whole Foods.

For those of you not familiar with it, it’s an “organic-centric” super market. They focus on political correctness, social consciousness and make a pretty mean vegetarian lasagna.

I haven’t been in a very long time, but I realized shopping there makes me want to be a better person.

I am more aware of the “yang” when I’m ensconced by the “ying.”

When you’re surrounded by “fare trade” coffee you feel horrible about buying Chock full O’ Nuts (“The heavenly coffee. Better coffee a millionaires money can’t buy”--weirdest slogan ever).

When you see piles of organic bell peppers, tomatoes and kumquats you realize that you must really despise your family since you’re willing to feed them that regular old crap produce. I mean slap a skull and cross bones on those heads of lettuce and call it a day.

I decided to use salad bar, because I am too lazy to buy whole peppers and cut them up. When I asked one of the employees where the containers were she motioned over to a pile of cardboard boxes.

No, I mean, containers. Plastic, you know, to bring home peppers.

Well, I might as well have screamed, “I hate the earth and baby seals too!” for the look I got.

“You want plastic containers?”

“Um, what? No. Oh look, beets!” and I skulked off.

As I spooned my tri-colored peppers into a recyclable biodegradable cardboard container I felt greener immediately.

Yes, I thought, this is me.

The new me.

The better me.

From now on, I thought, I will be more diligent about not using plastic bags. I mean I’m going to peel the potatoes anyway right? And, I’m going to stop grabbing handfuls of napkins when I get coffee, although I have to be honest. I’ve been taking about a half an inch worth of napkins lately because I feel it makes up a little bit for charging $4.00 for a cup o’ joe.

However, when I went to check out I was shocked that it cost me $43.00 for about six items.

So it’s back to my regular super market. Regular peppers--double bagged.

Sorry, I tried. It turns out being "green" cost too much of it.