Parental Exhaustion Suggested

I have not actually read Dante’s Inferno, however I am confident that one of his circles of hell must include having two children in middle school at the same time.  I have not been this parentally exhausted since the crying-poop years of 2001-2006.  There is a reason that so many shows and books are dedicated to the woes of middle school: it sucks.  And it sucks even more watching and pushing your kids through it. 

My night last night is indicative of all the nights since school started.  4:58pm call from home asking if they can have a soda.  The next three minutes spent in a debate as to why caffeinated soda is not a good choice at 5pm and to stop calling me to ask if they can drink soda.    Get home, SG has some sort of tooth emergency.  We have at least three of these a week and when that girl gets her braces off, I will cry in relief.  There was nothing but she felt like it was something could I immediately walk through the door and look in her mouth?  If she would just let me go to the bathroom, maybe change my clothes, I might be more sympathetic.  Quick dinner while we encourage William to stop talking and start eating as piano guy will be there any minute.  Piano guy is there, piano lesson for the boy followed by guitar lesson for SG.  SG starts guitar, homework begins with W.  He failed another Social Studies test, so while going over economies we are also correcting types of government on the failed test.  He can’t keep either straight.  He gets teary, I want to get teary.  SG comes in and starts her math homework.  Math homework is a two person process for her.  I am now doing math and social studies and making lunches.  Oh and she tells me she has to do a SS review for a big test tomorrow.  I ask why she wasn’t studying for it this weekend.  She goes dark.  Why wasn’t it written in your agenda?  No reply.  9pm she finishes her last math problem and heads up to shower and go to bed.  I move to the living room and sit in a chair.  I am empty, glaze-eyed and as a hollow as a pumpkin about to be carved.

The nightly war room.

This is every night and this is a night we didn’t have to be out somewhere.  I am going to bed after telling the children I love to get their heads out of their ass or step it up, or please just let me sit here a minute.  I am emotionally, physically and spiritually exhausted.  My wine and chocolate consumption is through the roof and it is not helping.  We have Sunday meetings to look at grades and walk through what we have to do this week.  We menu plan because last week we didn’t and I am embarrassed to tell you how many nights we ended up eating tater tots.  We are on this sinking ship of middle school and while I am bailing as fast as I can, the two of them are watching me as they lean casually up against the mast and talk about how tired they are and how hard school is.  What hormone is it that turns kids into sloths?  My children are producing all of it.  I wish they sold spray-on ambition like they do sunscreen.  I would dose them both head to toe each day.

In addition to the nightly shenanigans, we have also had illegal social media apps found on a phone, bullying and social drama at school, the start of a brand new sport and someone needing to go to tutorials every morning.  If having a baby and toddler at the same time gave us the crying-poop years are these now the holy-crap-I-can’t-keep-my-head-above-water-years?  And I know they will be grown and gone before I know it and the house will be quiet and small and I will be sad.  I know.  And yet driving home I routinely think “please no homework”, “please someone have had a good day”, “please, can I just put on my pajama pants” and “for the love of God, if I could just pee before I need to look in someone’s mouth.”

There was one time when the boy was a newborn and SG was a toddler where we all ended up sobbing at the check-out at Target.  The boy was crying because he was hungry, SG was crying because she was two and I was crying, sweating and leaking while trying to calm everyone down and pay for my diapers as everyone in the store was judging me and I remember just wanting to sit down and sob.  This very nice lady came over and put her hand on my arm and said “Honey, it gets easier, it really does.”  That simple reassurance gave me the hope to power through.  I really would like that reassurance now but what I am getting is laughter while I recount my episodes, or nods of agreement when I say HOLY CRAP ten times a day, or tiny smirks in the corner of people’s mouths.  Someone please put your hand on my arm and tell me it will get easier!  I don’t care if it is a lie; say it!!  Until then you can find me in bed by 9pm staring straight up at the ceiling thinking HOLY CRAP.

Dear John

power of the pen.

Dear John,

You don't know me, but we have a mutual acquaintance in my son William.  You and he are in the same grade and lately, you have made it part of your day to taunt him and his friends, to tease them and to make them feel miserable.  You know John how they say that sticks and stones will break our bones but names will never hurt us?  This is one of the biggest parent lies out there.  Words crush John.  Words wound and take time to heal.  Words can make our breath catch in our throat and make us want to sink to our knees.  There is a lot of power in words and you like to use it. Again, I don't know you, but I bet you are popular.  I bet you do well in school. School is easy for you and you are bored so you find your fun in lording your power over those who are finding this transition to middle school harder.  You zeroed in on William and his friends because they are good kids, but they are awkward, they are the kids who don't even know they are supposed to be trying hard to be cool.  I can see the attraction for you.

Lately you have taken to following this group around as they enjoy being outside after lunch.  You like to pick at them, tell them what they are wearing is dumb, what they are doing is dumb.  You are like a small Robespierre using your sharp words to guillotine through fragile egos and self-esteem.  You like to call them things like "loser" or "gaywad".  I am not sure what a gaywad actually is but the sound of it is offensive and I guess that is what you are going for.  You like to take their names and put spins on them.  Wyatt has become Wyatt Derp and while I give you points for historical referencing John, I just want you to know that I'm your huckleberry.  

He is not going to fight you John, or tell on you. I am not going to call the school or come up at lunch to see what goes on myself.  He's going to learn how to ignore you, how to see that the words you hurl with such accuracy and speed can be deflected.  He will learn that you are a predatory, pugilistic punk and that he is better.  He will learn to ignore you and he will learn to walk away and when he does John, you will grow smaller. 

These might be the best years of your life John, so I hope you are enjoying them.  Guys like you John become less important with each passing year.  You will probably peak in high school and early on in high school.  Your friends will grow tired of your games and your inability to grow up with them and one by one John, they will drop you.  Your texts will go unanswered, your snaps unopened and all your many status updates unliked.  You will be the kind of guy people avoid in the breakroom and I don't see you ever really getting out of a cubicle.  Forget the corner office John; you won't even see an office. 

And William?  Don't worry about him.  He will be strong because of you.  He will be empathetic because of you.  He will value friendship and a be a great friend because of you John.  He will survive you and have the skills necessary to survive the next John in his life.  True, you hurt him.  You hurt his heart and it hurts mine in turn, but he is going to get through this.  He will forget about you as he grows stronger and grows up.  Your reign of terror, as vicious and well-played as it is, will not last long.  So, enjoy this time of being lord of lunch recess and I hope the memories you make will help you through your sad adult life.  

Sincerely,

William's mom

Know When to Fold Them

We have all had birthdays that were not great.  We have all had birthdays that come and go with little fan fare and when you are older than ten, it is probably safe to say we have all had a birthday that just plain stunk.  Poor Bill is having a birthday that is all three.  And this is fifty! This is a milestone birthday that is hard to face and harder to handle when it goes as badly as this one has gone.

It all starts with me.  I am a good person but sometimes I drop the ball.  Sometimes I don't speak the same love language as my husband and as a result, I disappoint him.  My love language is words; no surprise there.  His is acts of service and I forgot this.  So when I asked him for months what did he want to do for his 50th birthday and he kept avoiding or not answering, I should have recognized he was looking for something big.  However, as I did not hear any words, I thought he just wants to keep it low key.  I continued in this thought until the night before his birthday when he said he thought I really would have planned something to wow him.  Instant stomach ache, overwhelming feelings of guilt and cue the tears because there are no words to fix this.

On Friday, his actual birthday, Bill got up at 1:30am and went to work as one of his sites was pouring concrete and he needed to be there.  That stinks as a start.  Later when he got to his office he saw a brand new company truck in the lot like the one he was promised and thought "Happy Birthday to me!".  Except it wasn't for him.  And there was no cake in the break room for him and no one even said happy birthday.  Later in the day he got a call from the owner of a restaurant that he built saying the water heater was out and he needed to get there right now.  With one final squeeze of his ten year old boy heart, he headed there thinking it was a surprise party after all.  It really was just the water heater.  When he was telling us all of this last night, both SG and I cried as he laughed retelling it.  That tender-hearted girl is going to need counseling after hearing all that.  We did give him presents and the kids made him beautiful cards (because they speak my language) and the day ended slightly better than it started.

Today we decided would be Bill day.  We would do the things he likes that we never do and no one would complain.  Maizy came over and we all crammed into the car Bill just got back after a month at the repair shop.  We were a block away when it became apparent someone smelled and smelled terribly.  Yes, it was the boy.  A mile down the road one sister threatened to throw up and the other threatened to kill him if he didn't put his arms down.  Good times.  We are now five miles from home and piece of the cowling on roof flies off and hits a car behind us.  Yes, on the car he just got back from the shop.  No one spoke for a good ten minutes.  Bill shook off his anger and we continued on.  We went to the vegan taco food trailer Bill always wants to go to and we always resist going to.  We found it and put in our order and then heard it would be at least twenty minutes.  It was forty minutes, it was blazing hot and we had to sit with strangers at picnic tables.  The strangers got the shade and we got the hot, hot sun.  Oh, and thirty minutes into the wait the boy started getting attacked by yellow jackets.  But we were not going to complain because this was Bill's birthday celebration!  Luckily, the food came and it was really good or we were starving, hard to tell.  Everyone but SG enjoyed their food and Bill was feeling if not happy, at least loved.

He and I then left the kids at home and went to go see a movie.  A movie where they serve you beer and food so it should be great.  No.  The movie was terrible! I haven't seen a movie that bad in forever because if a movie is that bad I just go to sleep.  You know when all the previews are terrible that the movie probably stinks and stink it did.  A Walk in the Woods quickly proved that Robert Redford is too old to act and direct films.  Everything about it was painful and Nick Nolte was such a mess I thought he was Gary Busse at first.  I hoped fervently that Bill was enjoying it even though I was not.  A quick glance into his glazed eyes told me he was not.  I think he even fell asleep for awhile.  We had planned to go out tonight but as we left the movie theater, Bill remarked that he was done.  He was done with this birthday because this birthday is done with him and we should just go home and call it.  So we came home laughing, a little, and wondering why it is the world has it in for him.  We then realized we had nothing for dinner and Bill had to run to the store.  Look at this poor man peeling potatoes on his day of Bill.

Sadness personified.

Forget SG; I am going to need counseling after this terrible birthday.

We think that because McMahon men rarely make it to fifty that the world was just not prepared for this McMahon man to actually turn fifty. I am grateful he was able to turn fifty and he is happy to be alive if not yet happy to be fifty.  We have decided to just put this birthday to bed and get on with the weekend.  The vegan coconut cream pie that will be made tomorrow is not for Bill's birthday, it will just because it is a long weekend and there is time to bake. I am afraid the oven will catch on fire if I say it is for his birthday.   The places we have yet to go and the things we have yet to do are in no way part of a birthday celebration, they are just because it is a long weekend and there is time to do things.  No birthday fun happening here, no sir!

And me, because all I know to do is to use words, I am using my words to try and make a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad birthday into one that at least makes him smile a little in the corners when he reads through it.  I am also writing this so everyone reminds me next year to do something big; I need to plan the hell out of fifty-one.  No words, just acts.  Well, some words, but they won't be center stage.