Fix It

I sat across the table from my dear friend a few weeks ago as she told me about the problems her son was having in school. A shy, sweet boy, he doesn't fit in with the other boys and is painfully introverted. 'I just want him to have friends. I just want to fix it.' she said. And then my very capable, very level headed, very loving friend started to cry out of frustration and desperation to just make everything okay.

When Katie was in second grade, she had a period of crippling anxiety. It was triggered the very first week of school by a little boy suffering from his own form of anxiety. Every time they had to do a particular task, he would stand up and vomit. Very graphic, very voluminous, projectile vomit. Katie has a severe vomit phobia, so seeing this boy hurl every morning just ruined school for her.

Here was a kid who had always been completely in love with school, now feigning illness to stay home. At first, I was incredulous. Really? I'd say, Stop being silly! He's not going to make you sick! Not the most empathetic response, especially considering I have my own issues with anxiety.

As things got worse, as they progressed from faking illness to calling home in a panic, to lying in the floor crying hysterically, begging us to please, please don't send me to school, so our responses changed. We talked to her teacher, the principal, the guidance counselor. We talked to the pediatrician when she refused to eat because she was afraid she'd get sick, and again for a recommendation for a therapist. And we talked to the therapist. We talked and talked until, slowly, things righted themselves and life returned to normal.

Through the process we had the care and concern and support of doctors and teachers, but no one could do the one thing I wanted done instantly. No one could fix her. Worst of all, I couldn't fix her. What good am I as a mother if I can't magically solve her problems?

When they are very small, fixing is so easy. A kiss or snuggle or clean diaper or warm milk. It gets progressively harder with age until it reaches the point where you wonder if there's anything you can do at all. As parents, we're willing to explore any option, with careful consideration, to help our children. My friend sat across the table from me, had a little cry, then carefully outlined what she was going to do to help her boy. She told me all the things they were going to do to give him the tools he needs. Then she said 'And I just keep telling him that he's a great kid and we love him.'

While we might not be able to fix all their problems, while we might not have all the right answers, we can do that. We can let them know that they're always loved, and never alone.

Misunderstood

We were standing in line for the Giant Jumping Pillow at the Awesome Corn Maze a couple of weeks ago, and Katie was humming a familiar song. You know it, the one that says, "Pave Paradise, put up a parking lot...". Except Katie wasn't saying that, she was saying "Crave Paradise, put up a mmm-mmm lot..."

I said, 'Katie, it's PAVE Paradise. And what is mmm-mmm lot?'
She replies - "No, it's CRAVE. And I'm saying mmm-mmm because they say, you know, that word.'

Now, I don't know what 'that word' is, but it can't be good. Then again, it could be like the time she came home and told me a friend of hers was cussing - the 'S' word, the 'F' word, and the 'C' word.
Sexy.
Freaking.
Crap.

'OK,' I laugh. Spell it.'

'F-U-C-K-I-N-G.' She says, her eyes like saucers.

Right here, I want to yell, 'WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU HEAR THAT!' Which I do, on the inside. On the outside, believe it or not, I rarely let a dirty bird word escape my lips. Especially not THAT word.

'NO. No, they absolutely do not say that word!'
'Yes, yes they do.'
'No! They do not! They do not say that! Where did you even learn that word?'
'On the radio.'
'You did NOT! That's not what they say. It's PARKING lot. PARKING. That other word doesn't even make sense.'
'Ohhhhh-kay.'

I didn't even ask if she knew what it meant. I don't think I want to know.

On a totally unrelated note, my amazing friend C- took some family photos for us last weekend. They are the first photos we've had done of all of us. I was so happy when I saw them, I actually got a little weepy. You may remember what happened the last time I tried to take a picture with all my children.

These turned out considerably better.

Just Desserts

When I was four, my mother made a delicious peach cobbler for dessert one night. She gave me an appropriate four-year-old portion and, being four, I asked for more. 


Some mothers may have just said, simply, 'No.', but my mother was testing out natural consequences that week (a fad sandwiched in between macrame and cross stitching) and said 'Okay. But you're not leaving the table until you eat it all.'


Being four, I ate a few bites and announced that I was done. 


My mother was, most times, a pretty lenient parent. Unless my father was around, and then she turned into a HAMMER DROPPER. As we sat at the dinner table and I made my announcement and my father glared at me from the head of the table, my mom decided to go badass.

'Oh no you're not. You are not getting up from that table until every bit of that is gone! You asked for it, you eat it!' She was really getting hot now. 'Your father works hard so that you can have nice things, like Weeble Wobbles and peach cobbler!' I could totally see how those two tied together.

'I slaved over a hot stove for TWO HOURS,' she continued, 'So you could have a nice dessert!' Total lie, she made it at my dad's request, but I thought it wise not to point this out. 'Do you think that little shit Tammy Redman's mommy makes her peach cobbler?'

The Redmans lived down the street and had a planter made out of a toilet in their front yard. From what I'd seen, the Redman kids lived on a steady diet of YooHoos and frozen Twinkies. I doubt they even knew what a peach was.

And then she said it - the phrase that cut into the hearts of overprivileged honky kids everywhere: 'Don't you know there are children starving in China?' She'd later change it to Africa, but we were still almost a decade away from Band Aid and USA for Africa. All our pity was still focused to the East, and those poor, starving Chinese babies.

'Yes, Mommy.' I said softly.

She had backed me against a wall, leaving me with only two choices. Either I eat the cobbler, or...

Slowly, I took a bite. I raised my eyes to meet her gaze, her mouth turning up at the corners. She thinks she has me. I chewed once, twice, then swallowed. And then,

I threw it all up, back into my bowl.

My mother's jaw clenched and her eye twitched. I thought I heard my father laugh softly. 'May I be excused?' I asked.

'Yes,' she sighed. 'You may be excused.'

Victory.

To Tell a Story

I spent hours as a child, huddled under the covers with a flashlight, reading. I read classics and contemporaries, young adult books and very adult books, anything I could get my hands on. Some times, many times, I would stop and reread a passage aloud. I'd read it to my parents and later to boyfriends and later still to my husband. And if there was no one to read it to, I'd read it aloud anyway, letting the sound of my own voice speaking someone else's words bounce around in my ears. There is something musical about a well written phrase read aloud. The careful precision of prose possesses an eloquence that I rarely - okay, never - manage when I open my mouth on my own.

And while my writing tends to be grammatically loose, and parenthetically excessive, and uses the poor dash in ways it was never meant to be used, every now and again, I say exactly what I meant to say, exactly how I wanted to say it. Sometimes, just sometimes, I sit back and read a bit and think "Oh. That's just right." It is a ridiculously self satisfying feeling.

All I want to do is tell you a story. I can not sew or paint or do anything practical or of real use. I can't change a tire or even drive a stick shift. My children laugh at me because I specialize in Play Doh snakes. Just snakes. But they ask me time and again, 'Tell me a story.' Because that, I can do.

I can tell you a story. And maybe, sometimes, you'll read it and sit back and think, "Oh. That's just right."


This post was inspired by the NaBloPoMo prompt, "What is your favorite part about writing?" I'm participating this year, which means a blog post every day for the month of November. For more details, and to see who else is participating, click the badge over there on the left. Wish me luck, I will try not to suck.