Doubt

I've been rather remiss about my blog lately.
Truthfully, I've been having one of those "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."
It's a far cry from my usual "If you don't have anything nice to say . . . come sit next to me" motto.
For multiple reasons, my life has dropped a big stinky one smack in my lap.
I'm a big girl. Shat doesn't bother me after three kids, dogs, cats, and The Man.
But this last pile left me wondering if I was really that crappy a parent or if I'd just had a bad start off the line.
As I've written before, Bug is having issues at school.
Not light the place on fire pyro issues or walk in wearing an arsenal issues, but issues.
We're saving the other issues for kindergarten.
No, he is having the kind of issues that make you sit back as a parent and wonder, in five short years, how you could have screwed up that badly?
Not that anything is wrong with Bug.
At least not anything that's his fault.
It's me.
And the Grim Reaper.
And me.
And some of The Man on the side. (Yes, he's the condiment parent.)
And me. (The main course)
I remember going into this parenting gig with great intentions.
They died under the onslaught of labor and drugs and having my body ripped open to bring forth life.
I remember thinking I would do everything just right.
That particular illusion crashed and burned in the middle of the night when I didn't know what to do with leaking boobs and a screaming baby.
I remember vowing I would always be there for my child.
Until alone, suffering PPD, I couldn't bear to hear my child cry any more and pondered escape.
And I understood why Bug is having the problems he's having.
He isn't the one failing.
I am.
Because of actions taken the last five years with good intent and wrong implementation.
I look to my child and realize if he's broken or damaged, I'm the one responsible.
A humbling, sobering, horrifying thought guaranteed to send me running for booze.
One The Man and my family and friends would argue with me about.
And one I will carry with me for life.
Wondering what if.
What if I had been better?
Been there more?
Been less busy?
Been more fun?
Been better?
Just . . . been.

Today

Today is my Doodle Bug's fifth birthday.
It's hard to believe it has been five years since he and I shared a body.
It's hard to believe the baby I held is now a boy who barely fits in my lap any longer.
He is my miracle baby, a child I was given after a horrific loss, a child I wasn't sure I could carry to term.
He is his father's mini me and his buddy. He is the first to run outside to play and the last to collapse at night.
He is the first to lose his temper and the last to forgive. But he is the child who gives affection most readily.
Bug is the child least like me, but the child I love so much because he is so much like his Daddy.
Today, I will pick up cupcakes and drinks to take to his school to celebrate.
We will have a family party.
And I will watch my boy take one step closer to becoming teh man he's meant to be.
I just wish he'd slow down a bit.
Happy birthday, baby Bug.
I love you whole bunch!
M.

School sucks!

Or at least it's heading that direction.
For Bug.
We're still having problems. He's trying. I know he is. But he has good days and bad days.
But we're having some issues with the teacher and the teacher's assistant.
And we're trying to make steps for a meeting with the principal and the two offenders to resolve it.
I'm trying to control the mama bear that wants to come out when I hear my son say he doesn't think they like him.
I'm trying not to clutch him to my breast and keep him home when he tells me he doesn't want to go to school.
I'm trying to make this work.
But The Man and I feel like we're not getting the same effort in return.
The TA is always gruff with us and with Bug it seems, as well. He says she's always mad at him and he doesn't enjoy being around her.
She's about to get a can of whoop ass unloaded on her.
My son has gone from excited about school to not wanting to go in a months time. While I understand that kids go through phases, this is more than a phase. There are excuses every morning. Some ridiculous. Some legit sounding.
When he has a bad day, the teacher says it in front of him, and he melts later.
He's unhappy. He's hard on himself.
We're trying everything we know to do to improve Bug's behavior.
But we're not getting any input from his teachers. What we are getting is greeted at the door with a brief summary of what he did wrong--and an occasional "he had a great day." This is bad enough, but often its said with out son right there.
This is breaking my heart. Even as the old woman I am now, I remember fondly my early teachers and my excitement for school. I still have a strong affection for those ladies who made learning fun for me.
I want that experience for my kids.
I want them to love school, adore their teachers, and be eager to go every day.
I don't want them to worry if their teacher likes them.
Because that should be something no child worries about.
Bug should be worried about the three R's.
Reading, writing (can people not spell?), and rebellion.
Which is what got us to this point.
BORN TO BE WIIIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!

Out of the mouths of heathens

Bug: I don't want friends at school. They take your toys and make you share!

Brotherly love

Boo's teachers have told us its obvious our boys love each other.
They share a playground, and ever so often, the recess gods align to allow our boys to share some play time.
Bug and Boo cry out each other names and run towards each other like a bad 70's movie scene, ending in a hug and words of affection.
The teachers get a huge kick out of it.
Especially since Boo plots to find his brothers classroom after they separate, and then sits with his face pressed to the classroom window.
Or when bug runs over because his little brother has fallen and busted his lip.
What they don't realize is this is the public facade.
At home, its WWF wrestling, no holds barred, cage match craziness.
But at least they remember to behave well in public.
With witnesses.

Still waiting

This is seriously like the pregnancy that never ends.
This court case, I mean.
No, I am not preggers.
*shudder*
It's been over two weeks since we proposed a settlement offer, and, like so many dates, we've put out and never heard back from them.
Our lawyer says they will offer a counter offer. They have to. But they could offer a ridiculously low amount. And we can't touch base with them because we might seem desperate.
I've got news for you, honey, I've got desperate written all over me in technicolor.
DESPERATE.
Yep, that's me.
The waiting is seriously killing me, inch by inch, complete with Chinese water torture.
I've never been patient. I'm not good at waiting.
I tried to convince my babies to vacate my womb early because I couldn't stand the waiting.
When it finally comes time for me to kick the bucket, the Grim Reaper better not be late or he'll get an earful.
I don't do patient.
So I pace. And wait. And pace. And bitch. And pace. And gripe. And pace.
Why won't they just give me the money?

Trying

Bug is trying so hard to fit into school.
But its like being dropped in a strange country where they don't speak you language and you don't know their customs.
He has good days, great days, and not so great days.
And we're still not even going full time.
But every day, he tries so hard. And on the good days, he glows. On the not so good ones, he stares at us in confusion and melts right before our eyes.
It's heartbreaking watching him.
I alternate between pride at his efforts and the desire to scoop him up and keep him with me and safe from all outside stresses.
We know that would last about five minutes. Max.
But I never thought about how difficult it would be for him to acclimate.
I though kids just went to school and it made sense.
Like a switch that got flipped when it was time.
Bug's switch is stuck halfway between baby and big boy.
And I don't know which way I want it to go.