Aching for the Best For and From my Offspring

I make no bones about the fact that it has been very hard for me to break in and find a place for myself here in this small rural community. Perhaps I came here assuming that I would quickly assimilate and blend right in. Perhaps I tried too hard to mold the new experiences to old ones I felt safe with in Illinois.

At the time, I did chalk much of the initial emotional difficulty up to my very round body. We arrived here in August and I delivered my youngest son in December. That first month was fraught with dizzying emotions.

The best example would have to be my initial experience with my oldest son's school. I received an e-mail requesting a donation of baked goods for the annual back-to-school teacher appreciation gathering. Somehow, in my head, I immediately likened it to a time held back in our old school for parents and students to gather and meet the teachers. In my head it was a beautiful cozy event for meeting and greeting, something I was ripe for.

It was due to start immediately following one of the first school days. I arrived twenty minutes early, bearing my gift of a loaf of banana chocolate chip bread and a tray of school bus shaped rice crispy treats (complete with mini Oreo wheels). I had given Bryce the heads-up that he didn't have to ride the bus home because he could ride home with me.

The tables were arrayed with an explosion of food - a good forty or fifty feet full of delectable treats. I stood off a ways, by myself, waiting for the festivities to get under way. It felt like everyone else there was sizing me up, wondering who in the world I was and why I was there. (John believes this was my imagination. I believe it was my perception.)

There was only one individual who came up and spoke to me. Ironically, she bore the same name as my previous supervisor when I worked at Littlejohn Elementary in DeKalb. I don't remember if it was the same exact name or merely the same surname, but for matters of anonymity, we'll call her "Muriel Schlurbenflibber." She was a para-educator. I was a para-educator. We both remarked on how curious it was that I should encounter someone with a unique name like Schlurbenflibber. She was pleasant and very friendly.

When my son arrived, he was dying to sample all the goodies. I reminded him that the teachers should go first (still not realizing the full understanding that this was an event orchestrated for the teachers and the teachers ALONE). Eventually, the woman who was in charge of organizing it asked me if I wanted to have my son wait in a side room. The light still didn't click on, sadly. She escorted him to a small room off the cafeteria and then took him a small plate of food.

As I stood at the end of the line and it began to finally dawn on me that there were no other parents or students arriving. I was MORTIFIED. It was as if a cartoon image of me were suddenly replaced with a cartoon image of a donkey braying. I hurried over to Bryce and told him we had to leave immediately. I cried the whole way home out of disappointment over the loss of opportunity for getting to know the teachers and out of embarrassment for my misunderstanding.

The rest of the year seemed to continue to roll down-hill. My first PTA meeting, not a single person spoke to me and at the close of the meeting, everyone merely turned to each other and began animatedly talking. I never went back, despite having paid my dues.

At every school related function, the only individual who ever spoke to me was Mrs. Schlurbenflibber. Her son was in the same grade level as mine. She was not originally from this small town, but had recently moved here when her husband was appointed as a local pastor. When I see Mrs. Schlurbenflibber, I smile and feel accepted.

When Sean made his appearance and our family life erupted in total chaos (how is it that a second child brings not much more than a ripple, but a third child ... when the two youngest are close in age ... feels like a tsunami hit?), Bryce began acting out at school. He was seeking attention from his peers. He was embellishing stories of his exploits. He was bringing harmful things to school (a lighter). Used to being a boy in the limelight, well known by everyone in a school where his mother worked, we figured he was desperately trying to assimilate to his new status as sole new kid in a small rural school.

We were frustrated. The school administrator was frustrated. We barrelled on, trying to help him find his way. The school administrator, on the other hand, black-balled my son. He told us that she would stop by his classroom and call him out to the hall and ask him what kind of trouble he was plotting. It broke my heart and seemed so unfair.

This was a fairly good kid (with a bundle of imagination and a strong desire to fit in), yet she was treating him as a potential felon. I wanted to shake her and say "Look, Miss, I worked in a school outside of Chicago. If you want to know what a true juvenile delinquent looks like, I can tell you. Would you like to hear about my student, Zeus (my husband always reminded me, "You let him know he's not GOD!")? He defaced a class bib the students were making for me, when instead of painting his name, he penned "Pimp Zeus" on the bib. "What???? That's my name!" he said, when accosted.

Thankfully, Bryce found his way. When he entered middle school, he was no longer the only new kid. The middle school merged two rural elementary schools. He began to strive for the best grades. His teachers had good things to say about him. When he got in a bit of trouble, he wasn't treated as if he had a stronger propensity for trouble than the next middle school boy.

He now has a whole host of friends and seems to have a very full social agenda. Last night, he went to a birthday party. He had secured a ride home from someone else and so I went out to lock the door after he returned home. He was full of animation as he began to tell me about their fun.

He was telling me about a football game they played where they were divided into teams of ten. The goal was to get a football all the way over to the blacktop of the other side.

"Oh, and sorry ... 'cuz I ripped my shirt," he turned to show me a rip in an Aeropostale shirt (the only kind of shirt you can wear, if you don't want to be considered a dweeb, he has informed me - although dweeb is probably the word I'm filling in).

"How did that happen?"

"Well, Hubert Schlurbenflibber was on the other team and I don't like him much ..."

"Oh, really?" I interject.

"No."

"Why's that?" I'm thinking ... "He's a good student from a good family, in the accelerated classes with Bryce, involved in sports..."

"No, 'cuz he's full of himself."

"And you're not, right?" I poke back.

"Well, Hubert has kind of a bad wrist ... like he sprained it or something ... and he grabbed onto to me and I flung him off and hurt his wrist."

"Oh, Bryce, you didn't!" I'm again MORTIFIED!

"Yeah, and he ripped my shirt as he tried to hang on."

Aye-yi-yi! I hate it when my child does something that I, then, feel guilty about. And something that might make Mrs. Schlurbenflibber less friendly towards me.

John suggested I give her a call to say we were wondering how the boy's wrist is doing and hoping that he's alright. I thought about making such a call several times today. I just never got around to it.

As much as I want others to treat my sons fairly, I also long for my sons to treat others fairly. The sad truth is ... I can't control either equation. Still, I think hubby is right. I should let the mother know that I am concerned about her son. After all, she's another mom aching for the best for her son.