Turning twelve in Spain...the beginning of the end (there was A LOT of sullen gelato-eating)
I had started this lovely, esoteric post about what we learn from our mothers about music; how this teaches us larger lessons about life, beauty, identity, joy. [Triggered by a sudden memory of my mother, butt-long red hair swaying, belting out Linda Ronstadt in our living room full of ferns and antiques.]
But today is not the day for these musings. Today I'm in the thick of it and all attempts at abstraction and philosophy are crumbling in the face of cold, hard reality. Caving in like Kirstie Alley at a dessert buffet.
I was up with a child who had appendicitis-type stomach pains (or a brilliantly-acted impersonation of them) all night, and so, even when I was finally able to soothe him to sleep, I spent the early morning hours half awake and uneasy. I was ready to run to the ER with my Gene Simmons-smeared makeup. Is it bad that I worried about what I would wear for a 3am ER run? Something warm and comfortable that didn't say, "I am a homeless crack addict"?
Today a sick day gave us time to review school grades and I discovered whole swaths of missing assignments. Apparently when you're a twelve-year old boy your brain can go MIA for days at a time and parents have to send search parties to get it back. There were tears and threats and fist-banging and that was before I even called the kid into my office.
Someone said that a mother can never be happier than her least happy child. I would add to this that mothers cannot have an "A" day if her kid is getting a "D". I don't feel good unless all is well with my children. Fathers are so annoyingly exempt from this torture.
Beyond this, our house feels chaotic. There are balls being dropped. Roles being reversed and then reversed back without warning. Who is responsible for what keeps changing. All I'm sure of today is that my job is to do everything that no one else gets done. I feel like a tractor trawling the sand on the beach for forgotten responsibilities, missed appointments, and unpaid bills.
I feel like the lone fireman in a family of arsonists.
Happy, happy Monday to me.
Click here to read about the last time I faced the infamous 12-year old male species!