Swing and a Miss

I spend the next 20 minutes grand standing like a seasoned litigator. I use my experience with Pat's situation, which we'd just dissected in extensive detail, to point out the myriad failings of their so-called system in the making.

The lost reports speak of the disorganization.
The botched attempts to intervene in the cafeteria and the science classroom indicate that they were inexperienced and bumbling.
The lack of information about the school's stance on Bullying tells me they had not taken one.
The focus on the administrivia and the idiotic poster were clear demonstrations that they choose to focus on the legal definitions and technical compliance as opposed to effectiveness.
The volume of complaints is empirical data proving the kids know the students have the upper hand. Anarchy at its best.

They let me argue my case to the end, and only then does anyone object. No, no, I have it all wrong. They really are committed and really do know what they are doing. They are the experts. Really they are.

I close my notebook, place it in my open briefcase, and stand. McDuff looks a little surprised and can't conceal his relief that I am going.

As I walk toward the back wall of the office like I own the place, I say, "Don't get too excited, I'm not leaving yet." I remove a push pin, take the ridiculous circus poster on Bullying from the wall and walk over to McDuff. I give him the poster to review as I stand over him just as a teacher would when reviewing a pupil's work. (Hum the Jeopardy theme now.)

"In the absence of anything comprehensive in your handbook, is this what you are using to cover the district's collective derriere legally?"

His head snaps up to look at me. I continue. "Because according to the statute I read last night, it doesn't meet state law requirements."

He says what he has to say. "Yes. Yes, it does, and so does the handbook."

I sit. I retrieve and reopen the notebook. "Your handbook, which I hold in my hand, in its definition of Bullying, uses the word "bullying." I look at the other Principal, who has been pretty quiet for a while now. I notice that she is taking pages upon pages of notes. I am pleased to see that. I want this written down. And repeated to someone. Someone who will do something about it.

I say, "As you know, I attended this school and right here in these classrooms I learned that you can not use the word you are defining in the definition of that word. Was that not right?"

No argument. I continue. "And the definition lists a litany of offenses that fall under the umbrella of cyber or electronic bullying, but nowhere in your definition does it mention physical aggression. The law says you need both. Has it suddenly become OK to clean someone's clock on the playground?"

"No, of course not," the Notetaker offers.

"OK, so let's not waste anymore time arguing that point, and agree that this, (and with this statement I wave the paper like an insolent teenager and make a little smartassed face) needs to be rewritten. At once." I see that she writes that down on her pad and am secretly grateful that I read upside down. I am tempted to joke "Please enter this document into the record as Exhibit A, Your Honor.")

"And by the way, it was not lost on my that your handbook devotes a mere 19 words to this topic while your dress code rambles on for two and a half pages of drivel about strappy tank tops and low rise pants."

"Now," I command as I snatch the poster from McDuff. His grace period for familiarizing himself with it has just expired. "Let's talk about this." And again, I am waving the poster like a smartass.

My audience is rapt.

Strike Two

I decide to make them sweat a little by not speaking right away.

I remove a highly organized file from my high end leather brief case.

I am confident the no one in the room will notice that it is still embossed with my married name monogram.

I retrieve a smart looking pen from the same high end briefcase and remove the pretty little screw-off cap.

I gracefully uncross and recross my ankles and open my file with my flawlessly manicured hands (Thank you, Hil for the spa treatment.)

I am sure they are panicking. Clearly I’ve studied the game films.
Without looking at the contents of the file, I quietly clear my throat.

“I need to be frank with you, “ I say.

“Oh, of course! Please do!”exclaims McDuff with a welcoming gesture. He’s trying to look collected and unflappable.

“You, and by “you” I mean you personally, and you collectively, are unprepared and ill-equipped to deal with bullying on any level at this school. Further what inconsequential measures you do have in place are nothing more than lip service, and suggest to me that you are not really genuinely interested in this topic.” I took a breath to continue.

Before I could go much further, McDuff jumps in. “Oh no no no! We are very well aware of the importance of preventing bullying!” He has to say that, of course. He then goes on and on in an effort to wow me with all the neat things they have “in the works.” An online reporting system being tweaked for launch in a month or two. A seminar (the same one from last year and the year before) about cyberbullying (And what about bullying like they did before Alexander Graham Bell and the advent of crank phone calls?). Whips out a nifty two page checklist for conducting an investigation. It needs some tweaking, too, so it won’t make its debut until spring. I will be in Depends before they have their act together.

“With all due respect,” (there I go again) I am not interested in what you are going to do. What matters is what you have now. And frankly I am shocked at what you don’t have in place. This is not a new issue. You have nearly nothing and you know it. And your kids know it, too. And that is why you, Dr. McDuff have 75 complaints stuffed in your padfolio that you can’t organize let alone address. You are so caught up in perfecting and tweaking your back-of-the-house administrative tools that you have failed to make any kind of position statement to your kids. You haven’t told them what you expect. Nero is fiddling while Rome burns.”

McDuff is leaning away from me now. A defensive posture. “So what you are saying is…”

I cut him off. “What I’m saying is that you have a very serious problem exploding in your face and you won’t even begin to address it because you don’t have any idea how to address it! Your policy is pathetic and you have no procedural guidelines. I am beginning to feel a little badly about how I responded to your mishandling things with Pat. It’s not your fault. You have nothing and no one to tell you what to do.

He picks up on the idea that we were very much at odds during the email exchanges. He tries to assert that we are beyond that now, and can collaborate peaceably.

My ass.

I said, “Dr. McDuff, things did get a little prickly during our email conversation. My kid was getting picked on at your school and you were ready to ignore it and dismiss the whole things as “normal adolescent dynamics.” There is no normal teenage dynamic that includes hitting my kid. I am sure it would be convenient for you if there were, but there isn’t. And now that we’ve established THAT, I have no confidence at all that you’ll have any clue how to handle the next situation. Or anything else already in the pile of complaints sticking out of your notebook over there.”

Wake Up Call

First off, the Big Principal who assumes I know who she is without an introduction needs to leave to cover cafeteria duty. The counselor who is assigned has a crisis to deal with.

Then the 8th grade counselor needs to arrive a few minutes late. She is wrapping up a crisis.

McDuff takes a phone call before taking a seat. Two more crises.

I look at the 9th grade principal. “Where’s your crisis, Calamity Jane?”

I am the first to speak. This is going to be MY meeting dammit and nothing says so like taking to the podium before being invited to do so.

Housekeeping items first. I’d like to obtain copies of the reports filed by Pat and Lars a week ago.

Oh! And speaking of housekeeping, there is a 1000-legger slithering across the floor toward McDuff’s shoe if anyone is interested.

McDuff has several notebooks with him that are brimming with papers that are stuck in haphazardly at all angles. He starts rifling through the papers to find Pat’s complaints. He is making idiotic small talk the whole time and tries to distract me with some flier I should have gotten on Back to School Night but did not. It was jammed in one of the notebooks and a good prop if he aimed to distract, but I was not that easily distracted.

What I focus on is the fact that as McDuff examines forms, and turns over sheets of paper, and unfolds documents in search of Pat’s complaints, I can observe that about half of the papers were similar complaints submitted by other students. Too many to count. And all just stuffed in a folder where they will probably just get ignored.

I reach out to McDuff. I need to stop him. I really don’t want to be sitting in the principal’s office all day with my hand on my ass. I tell him he can find them later. I have a few points to address.

I ask all the questions Lars and I discussed (before he turned all to mush and didn’t want to push any buttons.)

Why was nothing done the moment Pat complained.

Oh they responded.
They changed the lunch tables.
The kids just didn’t listen

And moved Kevin’s Science seat.
They just didn’t know who the other two kids were or they would have given that some thought.
And they called Kevin’s mom but she wasn’t home.

I am sure Ashton Kutcher is going to bound from the closet to inform me that I’ve been punked.

I want to scream at them. Did anyone in their years upon years upon years of academic experience devoted to educating young people ever talk with a real live young person?

I take a broader approach.

I tell them that as they know, kids at this age are testing. Testing limits. Testing boundaries. Testing their environment. Testing your mettle.

They should have anticipated that the kids would not comply with the cafeteria rearranging. The kids called their bluff. Gambled and won. They guessed that McDuff et al would lay down the law and walk away assuming in all his hubris that Pharaoh’s law would be followed. So let it be written, so let it be done. Fools.

I let them wallow in their ass-facedness and then moved quickly to make some demands about follow up on Pat’s situation. Gained some assurances that I would not have to darken their collective door for this purpose again.

And just as McDuff was restuffing and closing his notebooks and breathing a sigh of relief, I moved promptly onto the bigger reason I had come to see them.

The looks of disbelief were priceless.

Game Time

At the appointed hour, I drive to the school, take my high-end leather briefcase and fabulous Kenneth Cole bag from the car, smooth my hair, touch up my lipstick and strut into the school.

The fat, dumpy secretary asks me to sign in and to mar my fabulous outfit by affixing a neon yellow, 3x5 visitor sticker to my lapel.

Umm, hello, 99% of the occupants of this building are under the age of 14. And I will hardly blend in with the female portion of the other 1% with their broomstick skirts and knit twinsets and comfy wedge loafers. Just showing up I stand out in the one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-others department. I fill out the friggin' sticker and feign adhering it to my fabulous jacket. So sorry, what was your name? Beatrice? Sorry not to comply. You are welcome to chase me down the corridor to make me if you could pry your fat arse from your ergo-engineered wheely chair. But the safe money is on me. Even in the pointy little bitch on wheels shoes I'm teetering around in today.

McDuff comes out and acts all happy to greet me.

Stuff it, asswipe. I am your worst nightmare come roaring to life. You will wish the living dead had arrived instead.

He leaves me to get some last minute things while I scan the walls for signs of the Bullying Poster. I only have read it in headache-inspiring tiny print on an 8.5X11 page. I am certain it would be much larger in the classroom.

Not.

I spot one flapping in the breeze created by the oscillating fan behind Beatrice the Sweaty. It is just one increment larger in the standardized paper world. 11.5X14. The font would still give you a migraine.

Then McDuff returns and makes small talk as we traipse to the Big Principal's office. We walk through the corridor that used to connect the Junior High to the Senior High 100 years ago. My high school boyfriend (a year or two after Scott dated his way across the township and left for college like any handsome 18 year old would have done) had become a mural artist and had returned to our alma mater to paint a mural in the corridor. I wish I had more time to study it. The smartass undoubtedly painted in some hidden snarky references and messages I'd be sure to understand.

McDuff is naively going on and on enthusiastically telling me all about the rich history of the school. I tell him to stop, I went there a hundred years ago. And then to illustrate that point, tell him about the mural and my relationship to the artist.

He thinks it is Pat's father.

Really? It was the 80s. And hello, the artist's name is plain as day on the painting and it is neither Lars' name or mine. And artists usually don't have to conceal their identities. Anyone ever heard of a Nom de Paintbrush? I think not.

I clarify that it was a High School boyfriend, and at least 100 boyfriends later, I met Pat's Dad (and should have kept going) so no, the mural artist and I have no current connection.

He asks if it is bittersweet to see his work.

Do I look like I'm pining?

Umm, no. The Artist Formerly Known as My High School Boyfriend and I bump into each other at an occasional charity event in the city, and his mother still lives within striking distance of my house, but, geez, a lot changes in 3o years. I would not need to breathe into a paperbag at the sight of him. Where exactly is this office?

We turn a corner and enter a brightly lit office with a few plants and lots of paper. I am ushered to a chair and asked to make myself comfortable.

Oh, I am comfortable. Indeed I am. It is you, friend who will need to make the effort to remain comfortable.

Oh What A Beautiful Morning

The next morning I shower and shave all the shaveable parts, throw on some jeans and a t-shirt, brew some coffee, make the kids a nice hot breakfast, and wait for the smell of muffins to wake them. I have hours to kill.

I log on to my systems at work and piddle with a few projects, returning for more coffee and upgrades to the lunches I've packed every so often.

It is Friday. The kids return to Lars' Lair after school. It is always difficult to part. Pat and I used to fight all morning on Fridays. I think it helped him separate from me if he was good and mad and went to school thinking "Thank God she's out of my hair for a few days!"

But now it is all sweetness and "I'm gonna miss you, Mom" adoration. I tuck some money in cute little cards that encourage Hil and Pat and tell them how much I love them and how proud I am to be their Mom. Give them an opportunity to delay the descension into Hell by stopping at the pizza shop for a slice after school.

Pat is lured into the kitchen by the scent of blueberry muffins. He looks me over and asks why I am dressed like I am. Beads of sweat are forming on his head. I tell him that I am going to school to meet with this one and that one later.

He says he knows that, but by contrast, Dad had dressed for work before he'd gone to see the High Exalted Grand Poo Bah of Discipline. He'd dropped them off at school and gone right in.

Oh. My. God. He's worried about the impression I'll make in my Jack Daniels t-shirt.

I let him know that once I drop them off, I have a few hours before the meeting. (Thanks to the convenient and accommodating scheduling done by the same Grand Poo Bah.) I will spend that time fixing my hair and dressing to impress.

Pat is visibly relieved.

My thoughts turn to my own mother.

Estelle was not like anyone else's mother. (The Harper Valley PTA song starts going through my head when I think that thought.) She was at once, outrageous and enviable. I was torn between wanting to be just like her and fearing that she was laughable. She was lucky to have been pretty. If she had been a mambo-dog-face-in-a-banana-patch barker that kids secretly referred to as Jo-Jo the Dog-Faced Boy, things would have been different. You'd never know what Estelle would come trotting out in, but you dare not question it. And since she was pretty enough to have pulled off wearing a barrel with suspenders and a wax paper hat, not much was said.

Good for Pat to have questioned my appearance. I am as much a representation of him and of Hil as I am of me. And it was never more important than today.

Ass-Kicking Eve

The night before the meeting I am talking with Kate.

I mention my appointment the next day and she is similarly amused with fly-on-the-wall desires to be there. "They have no idea what they are in store for," she says.

I tell her that I have been amazed to learn that with all the affluence and all the do-gooding that my neighborhood has been known for, (Politicians, and Olympians, and Grammy winners, and Novelists, and you-name-it-we've-produced-one-you-know-by sights) we are way behind in an issue as prominent in the news as Bullying. (Yes, with a capital B.)

She mentions that her school district has made an investment in this formal program and has trained the teachers, and meets with the students, and conducts role plays, blah blah blah. Her kid is 7. They are getting them young.

She can't remember the name of the program but I google her school district and search for "Bullying" and the flood gates open. (What the Hell did anyone do before Google? Sit in the research library hoping Britannica covered it in the last reprint?)

The program Kate's school has thrown themselves into body and soul is called Olweus, after the genius that created it. It is fabulous. Assessment tools. Laws by state. Tools that help a school begin to formulate a program. Links to resources. (Go ahead. You know you want to Google it. I'll wait.)

It is indeed comprehensive. And probably expensive. But if you want to make a convincing demonstration that you have a zero tolerance policy for Bullying, and that "Zero Tolerance" means that not even one instance of Bullying will be ignored or accepted, and intend to make that perfectly clear to the bullies and the bullied, then this is the program you buy into.

And Scott sends me a link. It is called "Kidscape" and it is just as powerful. Tools. Sample policies. Poster ideas. Canned speeches. All geared toward the person who is pushing the issue at a school - whether they are a school employee or a parent. And the best part for me was warnings about the things the school might tell me, like "We don't have any Bullying here at The Divine Joyous School of Equality and Benevolence." And things I can say back (minus the curse words I will inevitably feel compelled to insert.)

I organize my notes.
I highlight policies.
I print and underline the more ridiculous sections of the circus poster on Bullying.
I jot down a few court room closing argument zingers. Once I've bulleted them out, I can deliver like Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch.

I press my shirt.
I pick my jewelry.
I make sure the pointy, bitchy black heels are polished beyond reproach.
I set my alarm for a little earlier than usual. I want to make sure I have time to make myself shiny.
I look over the stylish black suit that says that I am not boring, not afraid to be a woman, and won't hesitate to leave your dignity in shreds without raising my voice.

Pat comes into my room before he goes to bed. He would really like to forget any of this is happening and wants to know what I am going to say. I tell him that I want to make sure his situation is over for good and I will ask for assurances of that.

I tell him what assurances I will ask for.

I also tell him that I am on a crusade. Once he stops rolling his little teenaged eyes, I tell him why it is important that I do. Because to do nothing when you know there is a problem is to be part of the problem. And maybe there is some kid out there whose Mom and Dad will not go into school and make an issue. I will be that kid's advocate, too.

And I feel a little like Atticus Finch, who walked the talk with Scout and Jem with his upstanding and fearless attitude. He said:

"When a child asks you something, answer him, for goodness sake. But don't make a production of it. Children are children, but they can spot an evasion faster than adults, and evasion simply muddles 'em."

No evading on my part. Just straight forward information like you'd give to the answer to the question about where babies come from. Skirting the issue is not an option. And there is a lot to be learned in that.

Circling My Wagons

Later that day, I get a confirmation email that although "all the stakeholders were not available to meet at the original proposed time, we'd be happy to meet at 10 am Friday. Will Pat's father be joining us?"

Well if you'd include Pat's father on the email as I've asked 3 or 4 times, he'd be able to answer for himself, asswipe.

I forward the email to Lars and ask him to send them a reply.

I can tell from the email Lars sent to me in reply that he was concerned about my level of aggression toward the school. Like he was afraid they'd get so defensive they'd make things hard for Pat and Hil.

What a moron. Public school is the one place you can exercise your rights. They are always informing you of what they are. Usually on blue or peach paper. It's like they invite you to hold them accountable. Maybe no one does. I surely will.

He keeps asking what I hope to accomplish, and is most interested in the damn papers he filed with Pat. He is completely missing the point. I am learning that the school is completely inept when it comes to matters of bullying. We may resolve Pat's problem quite quickly. What happens when it is Hil? Or one of Pat's friends?

When he replies to McDuff that since he's already made two trips to the school he'll find it difficult to take time off to do so again, but that he is grateful for the effort that the school has made on Pat's behalf so far, I am afraid he's gone soft, and just as happy that he can't attend. I don't need his peacemaking milquetoast cowering interfering with my mission.

I set about information gathering and preparing for this meeting like Atticus Finch prepared his closing argument in defense of Tom Robinson. I got copies of other school district's policies. I got advice from websites geared toward creating awareness of bullying. I read and read and read.

And I open the documents McDuff had sent when I'd requested the policy against bullying and read them thoroughly again. The Harassment policy is thorough but no one here is making fun of Pat because of any affiliation with a protected class. And the handbook spends pages on the dress code, but devotes about 19 words to the definition of bullying. Uses the word "bullying" in the definition (Duh!), and mentions only things that would fall under the umbrella of cyber bullying. Makes no mention of physical violence. Doesn't anyone care about good old fashioned bloody-your-nose-on-the-playground bullying? And there isn't a single syllable written about bullying beyond its weak definition.

And again, I take to my iPhone and send an email to all of the administrators with whom I am scheduled to meet.

I am writing to inquire if there is an additional bullying policy that I can review.
I've read the links you sent and the Unlawful Harassment Policy is a standard policy that has no relevance to this situation.
The handbook barely mentions bullying, and poorly defines it. There is no procedural information at all.
The poster you initially sent seems to reference a more comprehensive position statement that I am hoping is fully articulated in a formal policy.
Please advise so that I may review thoroughly before we meet.

McDuff writes back the next morning.

"At the moment, these are the documents that guide our district."

Thought so. I have just painted him, and the district as well, into a corner without having even met yet.

Dear Sir

Monday morning and I awake to an email from McDuff the Disciplinarian. He'd sent it at 10 pm the night before. I'd guess that he composed it after a few beers during the football and playoff baseball games. It was a little torqued up.


It was sent just to me, not to me and Lars, and not to me and Lars and the rest of the group to whom I had sent my last email.


He seemed offended that I wanted to meet with more than just him. McDuff wrote that he'd be glad to meet but that he'd "do his best" to get the other administrators in the room. Since he routinely omitted them from the distribution list on his more ridiculous emails, I assumed that "his best" would mean no effort at all, because really, he'd like to handle this without any further witnesses to the embarrassment he'd surely experience.


I was tired and coffee-deprived, so I fired off an email which began with the words, "With all due respect."


I love any written or spoken statement that begins with those words. It is a little warning flare so you brace yourself for what follows. Because if you need to precede any statement with that phrase, it can be assumed that the next few words will suggest that you have absolutely no respect for the person you are addressing whatsoever.


"With all due respect, these were your proposed times. Before I take time off from work to accomplish something that the school should have more competently handled well before all of this intervention, kindly arrange for all the stakeholders to be there. Please advise as quickly as possible and apprise all copied on this e-mail as requested in a prior e-mail.

McDuff was obviously in a pissy mood, too. He wrote back immediately, also beginning his emails with "With all due respect." Again he referenced my "insisting." Like my demands were unreasonable. Hello, my kid is getting picked on and you are not doing anything. I think I am entitled to make a few demands, asswipe.

He wrote that he'd have to check calendars yadda yadda yadda.

It seems ironic to me the I can make a completely inconvenient meeting when I work in a neighboring state, yet these 4 people who report to this building every day and do not have a teaching component to their jobs, can't rearrange a calendar to accommodate a meeting a week in advance. Maybe they need a new secretary. Someone needs to make an effort to get their s*** in a pile.

He also wrote that he'd be interested to learn what I mean by "to accomplish something that the school should have more competently handled well before all of this intervention" and suggested that we all take "a micro and a macro look at this situation to determine if it is truly bullying or just normal adolescent dynamics."

An idiot says what?

I am not sure where McDuff grew up, or whether he spent any time as a youth or an education major in a Juvenile Detention Center, but there is no normal adolescent dynamic that includes hitting my kid. Sorry. No one is sweeping this under the schools filthy little threadbare rug.

I replied immediately and told McDuff I'd be happy to explain my statement and I'd be interested to hear him defend his, and frankly, he can get confirmation that the stakeholders would be present or I'd get a few from the school board and the Superintendent's office. Thanks so much for your cooperation.

I got into the shower to prepare for the day and immediately began my argument in my head.

The Dance

This time of year always reminds me of my Dad. So many things do. I have a million memories that come back so easily with the slightest provocations. Playoff baseball. Football season. The sound of my high school band practicing just up the street.

But my Dad died in the Fall. And as the cool weather arrives, and the leaves change, and people begin to light their fireplaces, I can barely get him out of my mind.

Senses are powerful things. I have heard that the sense of smell is one of the most powerful and most neglected sense we have. (OK there are only 5, so really, the competition isn't that stiff.) It is incredible to me how a smell can bring to life a long dormant memory, perhaps of something that would not spring to mind on its own, just by reaching our noses.

The smell of old books transports me back to my elementary school library, with its warped floors, and chubby little librarian, and shelves upon shelves of books that called to me, and its Dewey Decimal System and archaic card file drawers and typed cards.

The smell of Shalimar takes me back to a time when my parents were married, they still got dressed up for dates with one another, and the sense of impending doom had not yet crept into my psyche.

The smell of tequila makes my stomach churn and I relive the night in college when a few of us made it a mission to get to the worm as fast as we could with near disastrous results. I could hardly be in the same room with a lemon and a salt shaker for a while either.

But the memories of the end of my Dad's life are triggered by a smell nearly completely unrelated to my Dad himself.

It was a Fall day and I was working at a law firm. I'd just decided the firm would better off without the services and sabotaging activities of our Benefits Manager and had severed her from employment just as her peak season of rate negotiation and enrollment were ramping up. I had just wrapped up a meeting with one of our brokers when I'd been met in the corridor by an assistant, Barbie. She had taken a call from Charlotte, had been explained its urgency, and had come to find me. While I returned Charlotte's call, Barbie completed a cab voucher and called me a cab to take me to my car at the train station in the suburbs so I could drive to Dad's bedside at the hospital. She cleared my calendar and vowed to run interference on email. Barbie was a good egg. She was ten steps ahead of me on a good day.

I called Charlotte again from the cab. "This is the beginning of the end, isn't it?" I'd said. She agreed with the assessment. She was on her way to meet me at the hospital. She'd be about 10 minutes behind me. Not wanting to walk in and deal with things alone for even a minute, I offered to stop at Starbucks and get us some preposterously large coffees. I'd spring for the seasonal latte. A pumpkin spice flavor with whip and nutmeg.

Charlotte agreed to the treat.

And now, every late September when Starbucks brings out the pumpkin spices I am in my time machine. Going nearly 6 years back in time to relive the sadness and mercifulness of the last few weeks of my beloved father's life.

This year, when the aroma takes me back, I decide to download the song that had wordlessly made me cry last year on the anniversary of Dad's passing, in the home store in Arizona with my girlfriends. It's Garth Brooks' "The Dance."

"And now, I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would it end, the way it all would go.
Our lives are better left to chance,
I could have missed the pain,
but I'd have had to miss the dance."

Thank you for the dance, Dad.

Bathroom Humor

Later that afternoon, I acknowledge McDuff's e-mail and accept his invitation (actually, he'd insisted) to meet with him to discuss the situation and how it had been handled. I further ask for confirmation that the 8th grade principal, the head principal, and the counselor for the grade (who handles all the crises) would be in attendance.

I hit the send key and look forward to the weekend with Pat and Hil. And in the meantime continue to gather intel from other parents. My boss had some great ideas. He'd been bullied a bit in school. And he'd been a teacher in his past. His wife still is. He encouraged me to keep up the pressure on the school, to copy up, including the Superintendent and the School Board in emails that do not secure satisfying replies. He also suggested that I enroll Pat in Karate.

Pat in Karate?

Yes, he said. Find a school that is not so interested in art and form as they are in teaching fighting. Pat will learn to drop a kid with one hit, and walk away without a lot of fur flying. And he'll get T-shirts from the school. The message will be out. "Don't take a chance poking fun at Pat Royal. He takes Karate." And Pat will gain confidence. Develop a swagger. A swagger he deserves to have.

All good stuff. I have a mission for the weekend.

I stop in a colleague's office on my way to brush my teeth and Invisalign plates, my routine now for months. Invisalign is miraculous but it is quite a commitment to brush every time you remove the plates to eat or drink anything. You would think the inconvenience would curtail the snacking. It does not. So I am constantly brushing. The colleague I stop to see is one of the other mothers who's joined the ranks of my anti-bullying campaign, and I want to tell her about the latest update. She laughs at the idea of me meeting with the school. They have no idea what they are in store for.

As I speak and gesticulate with my hands, she asks what I am holding. I stop and show her: Toothbrush, toothpaste and the little hinged plastic carrying case that the plates live in while I eat. I tell her that I am on my way to brush and am hoping to avoid the lady in the adjoining suite who is always very nervous and uncomfortable with my brushing in the ladies room. (And where, I might ask, would she prefer that I brush?) She always looks unnerved and scurries out without washing her hands, making a statement that trails off at the end about washing in the kitchen.

My colleague laughs and tells me that for a moment she thought what I was carrying looked like the little case she'd gotten from her gynecologist when she'd gotten a diaphragm.

Mother of God.

I bet that's it. The little nerveen in the next office probably thinks I am carrying my diaphragm. It all makes sense now. Everyday, right about lunch time, I go into the ladies room to freshen up for my nooner. Brush my teeth, place my diaphragm. Off to meet whomever. And she wants no parts of the seedy little routine I have. Oh. My. God.

And now I feel compelled to explain to her. Corner her in front of the full length funhouse mirror and go on and on about my Invisalign and show her the little case with the little models of my teeth in them, (not a bouncy little birth control gizmo) and complain overly emphatically about what a chore it is to brush my teeth all the friggin' time, even at work, in the public toily. I can just imagine the scene. Her closing her eyes tightly and putting up her little hands defensively as I open the case, and then plugging her ears so as to not hear my undoubtedly untoward explanation. Clutching her Miraculous Medal and praying like a martyr at various points in the conversation.

But I won't. What would be the point? She's a little gray haired chubbins with nothing better to do than make assumptions about people and whisper about them in polite company. Let her think I am enjoying the torrid affair of the century or a love life to be envied. In many ways, I am.

A War of Words

A good night's sleep, a cup of coffee and an Aleve later, I reopened the e-mail and read it again.



It was so annoying that I actually called Lars, who is normally the most annoying person I can think of, but compared with this guy, was barely tipping the scales.



I told him I would reply to McDuff on our behalf, copy him, and copy the administrators he failed to copy. He seemed happy to relinquish the responsibility, as all Percocet aficionados do when they are pressured to do anything that requires clarity. I needed to be able to tell McDuff that I read between the lines, am not that easily cowed, and will not be pacified with a half-assed answer or solution. So he better scrounge up the remainder of the ass, pronto.

I left for work early, and composed this reply as I bombed over the bridge, ready to fire it off from my iPhone as soon as I landed:

Thank you for your prompt reply. Mr. Royal and I will give your responses thoughtful consideration.

My most immediate concerns, and to which I would like a meaningful and timely response, pertain to your first two statements:

-What precisely is the the new seating arrangement in the cafeteria and what is the plan to ensure that it is executed today?

-What does "will be mindful of the student dynamics when assigning class seats, collaborative groups and labs" mean, exactly? Is Patrick going to be seated away from the three students who harass him today, or is he not? I would like to know before 7th period commences. Your response will dictate what action I take.

Secondarily, I believe what I requested was the policy on bullying, not a synopsis. Can you direct me to where I and other parents and students might read it?

Thank you. I will provide a more thorough response when I have had a chance to review your e-mail with Mr. Royal.

I was satisfied that I'd effectively dissected the statements and stripped the school of its ability to argue any semantic discrepancy they might have hoped for. I went about having a productive morning. Until one of the other mothers in my office who'd easily seen herself in my shoes, came looking for an update to the drama. Had I heard from the school? Wasn't it getting to be lunch time?

Oh crap. I checked to see that I had not missed an e-mail. I had not.

I checked the schedule of class period beginning and end times and had found Pat's assigned lunch period. I had an hour.

I took to e-mail once again, and this time just went to the 8th grade principal, bypassing the Discipline Guru, and placing the word "urgent" in caps in the subject line:

I do not wish to labor this issue, but I asked for timely and meaningful feedback on two points in the email below. Patrick's lunch period begins within the hour and the Science class is two periods later, and I am unclear on several critical details. My earlier e-mail has not been acknowledged. I would appreciate a reply from you or Dr. McDuff before 5th period so that I can be assured what actions have been taken.

I wanted to chip away at McDuff's credibility in his role and compel them to act. Why weren't they acting?

Within a few minutes, I got a thorough reply from the 8th grade principal detailing exactly what actions had been taken and ensuring me that they'd follow through on them. Pat's lunch table would be dispersed to other tables, and Pat had been assigned a seat with some friends. The seating assignment in Science was similarly addressed and as projects and classroom experiments were assigned, the teacher knew to refrain from teaming Pat with any of these three lummoxes.

I also got a phone call from McDuff, which I'd missed because of work, which made the same points, all coming after my email and after the reply from the 8th grade principal. I took this to mean that he'd become hesitant to make commitments in writing. Clearly I'd use anything discoverable to twist him in his own statements eventually.

But he did send one additional email. It attached links to the Harassment Policy and the school handbook for my reading pleasure.

Here we go. A cage match on my home turf.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered, You're Mine

I painstakingly went through the school directory and found the names and e-mail addresses of the 8th grade principal, the 7th grade principal and self anointed discipline guru, the school principal, and the counselor for Pat's grade. I wrote, edited, added, deleted, reviewed and then hit the send key on this:

I am writing to you today, to express my profound concern about the bullying situation that my son Patrick Royal has brought to my attention. The purpose of my e-mail is to introduce myself to each of you as Patrick's mother, and to inform you that Mr. Royal and I, though divorced and living separately, have shared custody of our children and are both very much involved in and in agreement on this issue. Mr. Royal has kept me apprised of what has been happening at school, Pat's demeanor and reaction to those events, and how the school has responded.

I speak for Mr. Royal and myself when I say that what we seek is a safe environment, conducive to learning and free of harassment. To that end, I understand that following Mr. Royal's return to the school this morning that it has been agreed that:

An alternate seating arrangement will be established in the cafeteria that separates Pat from the three students identified as the bullies;
Pat's seating in Science will be reassigned so that his contact with these students is minimized, and therefore the opportunities to bother him will be reduced;
The student that struck Pat will be spoken to and reprimanded appropriately.
Each of these requests will be carried out in a way that does not inadvertently penalize Patrick.

I would like to see these items completed by the end of the day this coming Friday. If this not possible, or if this is not your understanding, please advise Mr. Royal and me at your earliest convenience, so that we can let Patrick know what to expect when he returns to school. Mr. Royal and I are looking for a convincing demonstration that you are capable and willing to meet the expectation of safety while Patrick is at school and you are acting in loco parentis. More importantly, Patrick needs to be convinced.

I would like to obtain copies of the reports Patrick and his father filed in the office this week, and if such policy exists, the school or district's policy prohibiting bullying or conduct of that nature. Patrick will be living in my home next week, and I would be happy to pick them up from the 8th grade office when I transport his sister and him to school.

I ask that you correspond with me on any issues which are addressed with Mr. Royal, and vice versa. Mr. Royal is copied on this e-mail. I appreciate the attention you have given to this matter so far, and am confident that it can be resolved swiftly and without additional consequence. I am happy to avail myself for further discussion.

Satisfied with my writing but afraid of what I might find out, I refrained from checking email until much later in the day. So much later that I was already at a work event having a cocktail with colleagues when I took a peek.

The disciplinarian, Dr. McDuff, had responded only to me and Lars, which I took to mean that he was not confident in his reply and wanted to minimize its damage.

He inserted statements in red italics throughout what I'd written providing point by point feedback to each statement I'd made.

But it didn't say anything. It was a lot of corporate-speak, intended to give the illusion that it was providing information, but really skirted issues and made no commitments.

He did commit to providinge the reports to me, but only if I came to school to meet with them, and provided several supremely inconvenient times that I could choose from. I am sure it was to dissuade me from being to committed to my cause. Fat chance.

The only other concrete thing in the whole reply was a "paraphrased version of the district unlawful harassment policy which hangs in every classroom in the district."

I opened it. Though viewing was tricky on my iPhone and after 3 beers, I could make out that it was a poster not unlike those that announce that the circus is coming, with gold and red letters and lots of crazy fonts. And it had about 2000 words of legalese that surely no middle schooler would ever waste time reading.

I was beginning to feel a shift in power. Dr. McDuff had just stepped into my sandbox.

Monday Morning Quarterback

The next morning, feeling blue but with a mission, I made myself fabulous and left Scott's house in the pitch black and fog to trek through blueberry country to work. It's a long drive and I was stuck with just myself for company. And I was really crappy company.

I called Scott. He was already at work but had a few moments to give me a pep talk. Do my homework, give Pat advice he can use. Compel the school to follow through.

I got to work and immersed myself in the calamities du jour. A badging system on the fritz. A licensed professional without verifiable credentials. A hiring manager with a bone to pick. Nothing I couldn't handle simply falling out of bed, but enough to draw my attention from Pat.

At least momentarily.

Lars and his familiar "Highway to Hell" ringtone disturbed the relative peace shortly after 9.
He was practically frothing he was so pissed.

And for the next 15 minutes I listened to several hundred half statements and expletives and "ya know-s" and "I mean, come on-s" and cobbled together the story he struggled to tell. (Perhaps attempting to make a coherent point with a Percocet hangover is ill advised. Just a thought.)

What I eventually gathered, and then confirmed with a "let me make sure I have this straight" regurgitation of what I thought I'd heard emerge from the babbling was:

Pat had returned to class following the meeting in which he'd filed the detailed complaint.
At lunch, he found the same kids to be seated at his table, and the kid who punched him called him out for squealing. And the other kids taunted him.
Pat attempted to find another lunch table but in the absence of any available seats, was forced to return to his original table and subject himself to more abuse.
Science class two periods later was only marginally better. The kid who had hit him was removed from the lab table but the other two remained behind to harass him.

Part B was that Lars had again gone to the school again and challenged the "disciplinarian" on his incompetent handling of the situation. He was told:

They'd told all 3 kids to separate at lunch and Oh My God they hadn't listened. Imagine that.
The science teacher had not removed all three kids from the lab table because that would single out Pat. Lars had suggested that Pat be moved and the three little SOBs could work toward expulsion together.
They weren't sure how Kevin found out about Pat's report. It's a mystery. They had not called his parents because there had been no witnesses. (I'm sorry, I thought this was middle school disciplinary situation, not the OJ Simpson murder trial.)

So in essence, the Keystone Cops ran around in little circles and bumped in to each other for a while and got nothing of value accomplished.

And this is where Lars being an asshole is really very handy. He poked the bear over and over again and eventually provoked the disciplinarian to the point where he jumped up and suggested that he call the police to handle the situation. It must have been hilarious, but just then I couldn't see it that way.

Lars had not been convinced that Pat was safe at school and told the principal and disciplinarian that he was taking him home. Nothing says "You've failed as a school administrator" louder than that.

So I had little more to worry about for the moment. Pat was not going to have cling peaches thrown on him in the cafeteria or have his backpack set ablaze with the Bunsen burner in science.

But I was worried. Worried that he and Hil were coming back to me in a day or so, and that in the absence of some message to the school, if there were trouble next week, we'd be starting at the line of scrimmage with a new quarterback, and they'd be trying to split Lars and which is admittedly easy to do. I had to let them know I was up to speed and could not be easily patronized.

I took to my e-mail account and began composing. Time to introduce the Middle School Administration to "The Closer."

Wednesday's Child

That night I left for Scott's after work. We've gotten into a groove. We each do the long drive once during the week, and play the weekend by where we have to be and when. Football games to in one town, Scout pancake breakfast in another, cheer competition in yet another location.

Still aching to give Pat a hug, I called him from the road. He was a little solemn. I can understand that. I asked him how he was feeling about things and how the rest of the day went. His affect was not encouraging. My heart broke for him. His friend had turned on him. Then he'd teamed up with two other thugs and ganged up on him. They'd banished him from the lunch table. Is there anything worse in Middle School than cafeteria social politics? (OK maybe the maiden voyage into the locker room where everyone has to change into a gym uniform in front of 25 other strangers tops it, but everyone is vulnerable in their underwear.)

I assured Pat that Lars and I were going to make sure the school did the right things. Would hold their feet to the fire and would insist that they hold the bullies accountable for their actions. I tried my best to convince him that things were not so bleak.

But when I hung up the phone and continued my drive to Scott's, my point of view was pretty bleak, to be honest. So far, I was out of the loop. Lars was playing this round. I felt powerless. I felt powerless against the bullies and I felt powerless to protect my child.

When I arrived at Scott's house, the sight of him nearly made me cry, but considering we had things to do, I could not cave. Had to put on a modestly happy face. Though it was admittedly impossible for me to feign anything convincingly optimistic. I couldn't pull off dancing-on-the-doghouse-Snoopy joy, but I could avoid Droopy Dog woe. I was more Charlie Brown.

Scott and I dropped his daughter at gymnastics and went to grab burgers and beers. Once the beers were served, he asked me about Pat. I'd sent one text about it earlier and could not dwell without crying. So I hadn't.

I choked out an explanation, taking long breaks between sentences to let the lump in my throat subside. Scott listened. And was inquisitive. And offered possible solutions without cramming them down my throat in a "you're a terrible mother if you don't march right into that school and blah blah blah, that's what I would do" manner. It was all good stuff, but still I was torn about what path to place my feet upon with this situation. I just didn't know what to do to help Pat. Part of me wanted to call my mother. And part of me wished for a moment that I could be her. Fearless and aggressive, she would talk over you, march past you to a more powerful person, point out things in such an insulting, you've -to-be-kidding-me-with-this-crap, bold-faced conviction that you'd be asking "How high" before she could finish telling you that you'd better jump. The master of the game. And artist.

But although I have occasional Estelle leanings, I am not my mother. Because I realize that my mother's approach was great for getting the place blazing, but not so effective when we were all standing there afterwards in the dust and ash of it all. And scorched, I might add. Great opening act. Not much of a closer.

Scott and I went to watch his daughter finish her gymnastics class. In the cavernous gym which smells alarmingly like feet, we sat and nodded in approval at her amazing tumbling, flying, and climbing feats. While she was not looking, I texted my college roommate and gave her the scoop. She is an educator. Teaches drama. I knew she'd appreciate my drama. She was appropriately horrified, natch.

And then I got to thinking about the power of Facebook. I have dozens of friends who are educators. I would ask them, as parents and as school representatives, how to elicit the right reactions from my child and the school. A straw poll on the approach to take.

Feeling like I had a little more direction, I relaxed a little. But in doing so, I found myself wiping away a tear or two on the way home from the gym, and trying hard to pretend I was not crying when I talked to Scott and his daughter.

I texted Pat when I got into bed. I wished more than anything that I could kiss his sweet face and tuck him into bed and tell him a funny story to set the stage for a night of peaceful slumber. But all I could offer were my words. Words that told him that I love him and miss him and that he means the world to me. And that I was going to make everything alright, come Hell, high water or four horses of the Apocalypse. Big Mama was on it.

Bad Company

I listened to Lars' story and took notes. Not because I intended to do anything with them. I'd need to reread them when my head stopped spinning.

Lars had gone to the school. He'd filed a report with Pat. He was confident that something would be done to rectify the situation, but really agitated that it had happened.

Pat has a friend named Kevin that he plays XBox with. Kevin is a sort of misfit kid. Scrawny and ungroomed. Unsupervised and foul-mouthed. Traits Pat is likely to overlook because of the XBox rivalry.

But Kevin evidently teamed up with two other punks and set about making Pat's life a little more miserable than necessary, and suddenly, Kevin was not only not playing Xbox with Pat, he was ostracizing him at the lunch table, and harassing at the lab table in science, and even resorted to hitting him on the school steps. Twice. Pat was bothered by the team approach, but really offended by Kevin. They were supposed to be friends.

And Pat is a gentle soul. Expects the best from people. Is stunned when people choose to be mean. Middle School is really not his scene.

So Lars completed the complaint form. He was a little concerned that the 7th grade principal, who pulls double duty as the school disciplinarian and is therefore involved in an 8th grade incident, seemed so excited at the chance to use the schools shiny new reporting form. (Oooohhh, we get to use the new blue form oh boy oh boy oh boy!) But he'd helped Pat complete the questions and carefully spell out "assault" and "harassed" and identify the three little punks who were involved, and name the ring leader.

Lars was cautiously optimistic that he'd put the situation to bed and had wanted me to know the details. Pat and Hil were coming back to me in two days and he owed me an explanation before the kids offered me their version. And he got a chance to go on and on about his parental heroism, natch.

But I was having a more visceral reaction. I longed to hug both kids and stroke their hair and tell them I could fix it all in record time. And I felt physically sick and fought back tears for hours. And when I felt like I could leave my office and speak without whimpering, I was surprised to realize how angry I'd become. Nothing frosts my cakes worse than feeling powerless. I wanted more than anything to make sure this was handled my way.

And the she-wolf in me, the mama bear we are all born with, the Estelle without a muzzle or a leash I can sometimes become was blood-thirsty.

In my heart, what I truly wanted to do was go to the school, walk into the cafeteria, and tap Kevin on the shoulder as he sat making snarky conversation with the other two future flunkies. And when he'd turn around, I'd rake my fingernails down his face and bloody it so badly that he'd spend the next month explaining that some lady did it to him because he was a nasty little piss ant with nothing but petty crime and jail sentences to look forward to.

Instead I took deep cleansing breaths, and began to do my homework on the subject of bullying.

My Dad's Bigger Than Your Dad

I am sitting in my office one morning when Lars calls.

The last call was to inform me of his engagement.

Please let this one be to tell me that he's eloped and will be living with Liza in a commune in some remote Eastern nation.

Or that he's been abducted by aliens and I'll have to pick up the kids myself.

Or that he's been arrested and is being held on 5 billion dollars bail and would I be kind enough to post the bond so he could go back to wasting his life doing whatever it is he does. (Not likely...)

I reluctantly answer with "I will never let you know you rattle me" joyfulness.

It would not last.

I spent the next few minutes sitting nearly motionless, with my head resting on on palm, eyes closed. Lars was calling to tell me about a problem at school.

My sister has a quaint little stitched and framed piece of art in her cottage that depicts a hen. In quirky uneven stitching that makes it ever the more adorable, it reads "Raising 3 boys is like being pecked to death by a chicken."

I find this hilarious. Truly I do. But I also understand it in a more realistic way.

I remember being pregnant and feeling so protective of my belly and the little tiny being inside it who would be completely dependent upon me to do so. I was nearly overwhelmed by my need to protect my little tenant.

And I also remember having a near panic attack in the moments right after Pat was born when he struggled to "pink up" as the doctor implored him. And feeling desperate to help him. All I could think was "How will he know how much I love him? He can not hear me or feel me near him. Does he know that I am here to be his champion and his protector and would sacrifice anything for him?" But I could do nothing. I was immobilized by the resident stitching my episiotomy, how nice.

And when I brought him home, Lars and I would look at him endlessly, hoping for clues as to what he needed and willing to stomp anyone or anything to death, or darn close to it, if they so much as coughed on his precious little person.

And as he an Hil grew, I'd take precautions, and teach lessons and explain things. There were lots of "No, no, no!" and "Hot!" and "Owweee" comments when one of them would wander toward the stair, or reach toward the stove, or try to introduce Mr. Fork to Mrs. Electrical Outlet.

I remember feeling like everything posed a threat to my precious children. And I loved them so dearly and so completely and endlessly and unconditionally that I felt vulnerable in a way that I could barely comprehend. I remember seeing an ad for a Michele Pfeiffer movie, "The Deep End of the Ocean," and learning that it was about a woman's experience with having her child abducted from her. I remember thinking "My life would stop at that moment and nothing would ever matter ever again. It would consume me. There would be nothing else that could distract me from thinking about what my child could be experiencing and how to get him back. No need to see that little work of pure horror."

And now, even with all the years of holding my breath when they cross the street for the first time, and crossing my fingers as I see them onto the bus, or wincing on the sidelines as the ball is snapped, or delicately guiding them through the first betrayals by friends or love interests who lose interest, you'd think I'd be confidently prepared for the big guns.

But truly nothing can prepare you to hear what Lars called to say.

"Pat is being bullied by three kids at school."

Watch the Birdie

The consolation prize to not having the kids with me to truly celebrate the first day of school was the fact that they'd be with me for picture day.

In years past, as we shopped for back to school clothes, we'd set aside a little time to find the perfect outfit. Flattering color, photographable pattern, styles that the kids won't feel dorky in but that won't look too trendy when they are hanging from the wall of GrandmaStella's nursing home room. But this year we skipped that step. Pat could not care less about what he's wearing for any occasion, and Hil was going to defer the decision until she could observe what other girls were deeming acceptable this school year. Not a problem. How awful could it be to figure it out the weekend before?

I had no idea what I was in store for this year.

I should have guessed that there'd be trouble the moment the prior school year ended and Hil morphed from a darling little impressionable girl to an argumentative, eye-rolling little pisspot overnight. And Pat, he'd sooner skip the argument about it, agree to what I select, and change from a pressed and starched collared shirt into some militant snarky T-shirt he's hidden in his backpack.

I have gone through Hil's closet and dresser and have assembled at least 4 separate and distinct outfits from which she can choose. I ask her opinion first, which is where the trouble begins. She has elected to wear short shorts and a sporty, logo T-shirt from Aeropostale.

Not.

And this is where the You're-Not-Wearing-That-For-Picture-Day-Yes-I-Am argument begins, and ensues for several hours. I begin to arduously suggest and rave about all manner of alternate selections. I even dip into my own wardrobe (there is always a lot of appeal there, or used to be) and I am met with eye-roll upon foot tap upon wince at the suggestions.

I finally get smart and find a cute hippy-chick peasant top she wore to a party the week before and had gotten loads of compliments. I up the ante by ironing it before presenting it to her, and further, offer to let her wear my jewelry.

"Look, Hil! You looked great in this last week. And you know what would look great with it? If you promise not to lose it, I'll let you wear my cool Lucky Brand necklace with the beads and turquoise. And since you now have pierced ears, I could let you wear my turquoise bangle earrings. The ones I got in Arizona? The ones made by a real Indian? The ones that are supposed to bring good luck, and ...ummm, clear skin?" I lie. "You'd look so cool."

Cool. That makes more convincing an argument than pretty. You either are pretty or you are not. Cool is a look you have to work at.

Eventually, she agrees to the shirt, and in an effort to thoroughly reject me and anything that reeks of me, she picks out her own necklace and earrings and is quite proud of herself.

The next day, while I am styling her hair, Pat attempts to sneak down the steps unnoticed.

Hello, I drive you to school. I am going to notice what you are wearing eventually.

I catch up with him on the run and nearly faint at the sight. After all the bickering and haranguing that he witnessed between Hil and me the prior night, he somehow thought he was going to get away with wearing a Beavis and Butthead graphic T-shirt.

"Pat!" I shriek. "I told you you couldn't wear something like that!"

"No, Mom. You said the shirt couldn't say something snarky. This doesn't say anything!" I am not entirely sure he isn't serious.

We march back upstairs and the fur begins to fly in earnest. And the clothes. Drawer by drawer we go through the wardrobe and he systematically rejects each outfit. I try reasoning. I ask him to imagine GrandmomStella having a hissy fit when she gets the pictures and he's wearing two hatefully dorky and insipid characters that are so completely unappealing even kids don't like them. I even suggest that he wear the logo-free shirt I have in my hand and change into the snarky shirt after the photos are taken. It is turning into quite a showdown and the clock is ticking toward the late bell. I am nearly hyperventilating.

Eventually, he wordlessly changes into a shirt I don't love but is not universally offensive. I am sure he will be in such a sour mood the scowl will be affixed to his face long after the picture has been taken. No one will notice the shirt for the grimace.

But just the same, before they leave, I sweetly inspect each of their youthful faces for signs of toothpaste or breakfast, fix a few stray strands of squeaky clean hair, heap on the praise, nod in approval and compliment them both repeatedly as we step out to the car.

I hate that the day has begun this way and wonder how it would have gone at Lars' house. Sometimes I feel like I have no idea what I am doing.

The X Factor Files

I have a very talented friend. Well, I have lots of talented friends, to be truthful, but maybe it would be more accurate to say that I have lots of friends with lots of talents. We've already touched on Kate's unique ability to score really cool stuff for free like tickets and vacation homes and invitations to things and drinks. Most especially drinks. That only scratches the surface.


I have one very talented young friend who is likely to have a fabulous career among the rich and famous. His name is Ryan and he is in the band that the Gals and I usually see when we are in Arizona together. He's got a marvelous voice and a charismatic presence and has the benefit of being very young. Young enough that when we all friended him on Facebook, we friended his parents as well. They are closer to our age bracket. It made friending him seem less seamy. But that does not stop Kate (or Kate's children for that matter) from referring to him as her boyfriend. We've all accepted that if anyone is going to run off with Ryan it should be Kate.


But anyway, he's a really talented kid, with no issues with his looks to overcome on his way to stardom, and he has the extra benefit of having been raised really well. So in addition to being backed by a band that is loads of fun to see play, he's a very sweet, gracious, genuine, appreciative guy. Who also happens to have stunning blue eyes and a perfect smile and really good hair. (There really is such a thing as Good Genes.)


So anyway, the point of all this blathering on and on about Ryan is that he auditioned and got a spot on The X-Factor, Simon Cowell's spin off answer to American Idol. And I know this because of Facebook and frequent posts from Ryan and his parents, who are rightfully overjoyed and proud. The audition was taped and aired the other night. We were all on high alert; if we were going to see him on TV it would be then. So me and Hil and Pat and Charlotte and the Gals tuned in from our respective livingrooms and dens and rumpus rooms across many neighborhoods and states to get a glimpse of His Royal Yumminess.

But it is a two hour show. We had a lot of acts to get through. And all the while, Charlotte, Hil and I carried on a three-way conversation, with Charlotte and I texting, and Hil and I talking, and frankly, weighing in on all the contestants and their families with more harsh judgment than even Simon could muster. It went something like this:


(Enter a very odd man with his eyes spinning in his head and weighing about as much as Hil and describing himself as a Renaissance Man for the future)

Me: WTF?

Charlotte: Seriously?

Hil: This guy is a total weirdo.

Charlotte: Calls himself "J Mark?" "Renaissance?"

Me: Dorkasance.

(Hil is shrieking with laughter)

Charlotte: Is Hil dying?

Me: Actually, she looks concerned.


Charlotte: Simon looks evil.


Me: That's because he knows that J Mark is a psychokiller.

(New contestant of uncertain gender.)

Charlotte: What is that? Ru Paul?

Me: Again. WTF?

Charlotte: What was that name? Crystal Child???

Me: Should be Crystal Meth

Charlotte: Look at Paula. One too many bong hits.

Me: Seriously. Retire the crack pipe already.

(Commercial featuring the kid from Glee who plays Artie, who is in a wheelchair)

Charlotte: Artie is walking!

Me: He's adorable upright.

Charlotte: It's a miracle.

Me: God bless us everyone.

Hil: He can walk?

(Back to X-Factor. Big lummox with atrocious grooming is auditioning)

Charlotte: Look! It's the cave man from the insurance commercials.

Hil: Yuck. He just said he smells like onions.

Me: Who is that with him? His Mom or his hag?

Charlotte: His Mom!

Me: Lord love a duck.

Hil: (looking over at my phone) What's a hag? She doesn't look like a hag.

(The self identified Burrito Slinger begins to croon Etta James' "At Last.")

Hil: He can sing, Mom. I like this song. (She begins to surf YouTube for Beyonce's version from Inauguration Night)

Charlotte: Who'd have thought?

Me: Not I, she said. He still looks like Uncle George's friend, Bubba to me, though.

Hil (peeking again) Who the heck is Bubba?

(New contestants. A pair of large circus act contestants. Hil is breathless with laughter.)

Charlotte: Mama Cass. Oh dear.

Me: Where's the ham sandwich when you need one?

Charlotte: OMG missing teeth! And Mary Jane shoes? With Socks!


Me: And caftans. You'd think someone would have suggested a different get-up for this event.

Charlotte: Less is more.

Me: None would be more.


A full two hours of schizophrenic conversation goes by without so much as a glimpse of Ryan. Maybe that was him in the blue shirt that flashed by so fast one's brain could barely recognize another human form, but who knows. I am two hours older and none the richer.


But now I'm hooked. The one who simply can not stomach contestant shows is now committed to X-Factor because now that I've spilled the beans about Ryan to Hil, I can't not show up myself. I am doomed.

Alma Mater, Alma Schmater

I used to love going back to school. New clothes, old friends, and some new school supplies. A new notebook and a few new pens. Maybe a new calculator or something if there was a sale at Woolworths, and there always was. New school supplies always smelled so good.

It's different now. There are lists, lengthy lists, of required crap that you dare not show up without on the first day of school. And don't try to say you lost the list (lovingly printed on the colored paper schools are so fond of) that they handed to each pupil as he ran screaming from the grounds on the last day. They have outdone themselves by posting it on the website. You can run but you can not hide.

Whatever happened to getting your standard issue tablet and two No. 2 pencils on the first day of each semester and everything else was at your desire or preference? Now they even have rules about which folders to buy, which binders are acceptable and what type of backpack you better not show up with. (I think the teachers union is at war with Trappers. Their stuff is persona non grata in my district.) I secretly suspect that anyone rebelliously arriving with Trappers merchandise will have it forcibly confiscated to have it held hostage as fuel for the Homecoming bonfire.

But my very favorite part of back-to-school is Back-to-School Night. I get to return to the very middle school that I attended to roam the halls remembering the horror of it all and meeting the teachers, some of whom taught me an astonishing number of years ago, and some of which do not appear old enough to shave. One man (kid) graduated so recently he still proudly displays his fraternity pledge paddle in class. How cute.

But really, school has come a long way. Report cards are no longer issued and signed and returned. You recieve report cards, and in fact every grade, comment, quiz score, and homework assessment on PowerSchool, the parent portal to authorized spying on your kids. So from the privacy of my office at work, I can log on and find out whether Hil actually did ace that quiz on the Underground Railroad once she realized it was not really underground, or whether Pat did actually turn in that essay on Mesopotamian culture. It is a lot more involved than simply rifling through their backpacks (or even the trash cans) after they've gone to bed. I actually have to remember passwords. I can barely remember what grades they're in for chrissake.

And there is a homework hotline. A dial in message center where you, or your forgetful or avoiding child, can eventually get the assignments for the day. Even better, there is a website for each teacher where you can not only read what has been assigned and trip up your fibbing middle schooler, but in many cases download the freakin' pdf of the worksheet or flashcards or study guide they were supposed to be making responsible use of that night. The dog can simply not get away with eating one's homework. Not without being electrocuted anyway.

And I know this because we've seen it all on the interactive Smartboards that are in each classroom. Touchscreens, windows technology, and all the bells and whistles you can think of. No one is clapping the erasers in my neighborhood anymore. A disrespectful student can stay after school and de-frag Miss Crabtree's iPad instead.

And I am realizing that since they blew the budget on technology and renovations (but still haven't figured out that leak situation that still makes the corridor by the Woodshop damp and peeling with a pervasive drip-drip-drip sound in the background) we get to foot the bill for the myriad other essentials, like a certain color scheme of folders, and a particular brand of highlighters, and a year's supply of tissues (There are either a lot of runny noses or there is an awful lot to cry about in school these days.), and a picayune quality of anti-bacterial wipes. Because now, not only do we have to stock the classroom, we have to clean and disinfect it as well. (Maybe we can't afford janitorial services either?)

But Back-to-School Night sets the stage. I go and show my face and introduce myself to each teacher of import as I ping-pong back and forth between Hil's schedule and Pat's. And before I do, I make sure I am dressed smartly and stylishly, but in a way that doesn't suggest self-absorption. I make sure my makeup is tastefully applied and free of smears and smudges. My breath is beyond reproach. I will carry on breif and articulate conversation with each teacher and not insist on discussing my child ad infinitum. I want to have made a favorable impression before push comes to shove and I make my inevitable first trip to the school to deal with the bullshit that will inescapably present in the early days of the school year. When I meet them I want them thinking "the apple has not fallen far from the tree" not "so that explains that."

It will be far easier to make a convincing presentation as an involved and engaged and reasonable parent if my first impression has been more Carol Brady than Roseanne Conners.

Stay tuned. The fun is just beginning.

See You In September

Labor Day Weekend. Summer's last hurrah. It is so bittersweet. I love the change in weather. I jones for warm fuzzy clothes in rich hues (because my brain is fried from all the candy-inspired colors I've been wearing since Memorial Day) But I am sad to be retiring the bikinis and flip flops, and want to squeeze every last wear out of my blinding white jeans (is that Taps I hear?)

But adding to my general malaise over this last weekend of easy breezy summer mentality, is the bluesy feeling that sneaks up on me an inch at a time like that green fog in The Ten Commandments. School starts on Tuesday, and I will not be there to see my children off on their first day.

There is something bizarre and unnatural about not celebrating your children's bon voyage on the first day of school. It is a mother's finest hour. And Hil and Pat will be with Lars, and therefore I will not get to participate in the annual ritual, more sacred and celebrated than the swallows return to San Juan Capistrano.

It is weighing on me that I will not be there to give them the send off that sets the stage for the year to come:

Tiptoe into each of their rooms to very sweetly awaken them and once they are awake, pretend there is a spider crawling on them while I tickle them on the neck.

Blowdry/curl/crimp/flat iron/whatever Hil's hair to perfection and oversee the tasteful application of lip gloss and a stroke or two of brown mascara.

Rip the tags from Pat's new basketball shorts and snarky T-shirt bearing the likes of Green Day or some video game character I don't recognize.

Prepare a hot breakfast. Toasted bagels with cream cheese or a grilled muffin, or an egg and bacon sandwich. Something that says "I love you and want to take care of you."

Pack a fun but nutritious lunch. A delicious sandwich, a peach or some grapes or strawberries, a homemade cookie. An extra little something like a Fun Size Snickers Bar. A favorite drink.

Tuck a note inside the new backpack telling each child how special they are, how proud I am to be their Mom, and that I know for sure it is going to be a great day and a great school year.

Place that note somewhere in the backpack where they will see it before their friends do and can read it in private with out it being snatched and passed around the room by the little SOBs that are in every middle school population.

Take pictures of their first day of school fabulousness and swear that I won't show them to anyone at work.

Drive them to school and see them each off with an warm but unobtrusive hug and smooch as they fly out of the car to greet the friends they haven't seen for weeks.

But Lars won't do anything of this nature.

He will call to the kids to awaken them from the bathroom where he is slicing and dicing his face with a razor.

Hil will be on her own with her hair, and will not have the appropriate accouterments anyway. And even Liza being there won't help. Her hair is fright wig quality on the best of days. No guidance there.

Pat will wear whatever, and hopefully will peel off all the little plastic sticky things that run down the fronts of shirts and pants indicating size before he steps out the door. Lars won't notice them, but the other kids at school will for sure.

There will be breakfast bars scarfed down in the car. No notes, no pictures. No fanfair. A day like any other.

And I, knowing that if I try to make arrangements to see them off myself, I will be refused, rebuffed and be seen as an intrusion, don't do anything to change the situation. Lars will assume I am criticizing his abilities and blame the kids for making me feel that way. And knowing this, I make it impossible for myself to even attempt to see them by accepting an early meeting that same day. A conflict that keeps me from caving to my motherly instincts and insisting on seeing them, and therefore also gives me a little less to struggle with from a guilt perspective. I can tell myself with some degree of honesty, that I'd love to be there but I can not.

I know in my heart that the kids are feeling it too, and for that I am profoundly sorry. One more cross for the kids of divorce to grin and bear.

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

At some point during the trip, I got an idiotic text from my brother, whose texts generally have idiotic leanings. And are all caps, which when you are texting I would think would be more difficult. So I assume it was intentionally screaming, not incidental screaming (Thank you Mindy, for enlightening me to the faux pas in my early days of e-mail use).

Worse, I was expecting something cute, maybe from Scott, like a bunch of Xs and Os. It made the fact that it was an intrusive message of moronic quality from my brother (also of moronic quality on a good day) that much more aggravating.

It simply read, "HAVE YOU HEARD FROM MOM?"

I grimaced, but had to think for a second. I had not heard from Mom since I called her on the way home from work the same evening I'd had the stupid conversation with Lars about the amusement park trip in the hurricane. I'd heard they were evacuating coastal North Carolina and assumed she'd be on the road to Western Hayseed, and had nearly rolled my eyes to the point of injury (and car accident) at the long and overly emphatic explanation for her stubborn insistence on staying put.

I could have typed all that but I would have surely gotten mugged in DC doing so. Instead, I typed a dismissive "No." He'd rather text me than just call her himself. Oh right, the wife would hardly permit that.

I put it out of my head, forcibly. It would be just Mom's MO to sit in NC stewing and making a list of all the ungrateful people in her life that did not think to worry about her sufficiently to make a phone call to check on her. And cross them off the Christmas list. Oh, silly me. I am already off the Christmas list. Let her do some worrying. It's not like she was ringing my phone off its cradle checking to see if my house had finally and inevitably floated off its foundation to a new position on the map.

But a few nights later, as I sat watching a baseball game with Scott and eating ice cream straight from the carton with two spoons, she called me. Scott muted the TV and himself almost on cue.

I guess she got tired of us waiting to call her (or realized Hell might have to be well on its way to freezing over before I'd call her for anything not related to an obligatory holiday call or to report someone's untimely death, or to gloat that one of her least favorite people had gained 300 pounds and had been recently spotted eating a jumbo can of SPAM directly from the can with a fork while perusing the aisles at Big Lots for deals on bulk snack foods.)

Maybe Joe had read her the riot act about just vanishing in the storm a la Dorothy and Toto and she felt guilty? Probably not. I am not sure guilt is something Estelle entertains for long, and am fairly certain she does not suffer it more than a moment at a time before squashing it with self-righteous thoughts.

Anyway, I buckle my seatbelt for the lengthy rant. That Scott can hear even without consciously eavesdropping.

Seems Mom's high-falutin' Trac-fon went on the fritz mid-Irene. And she thought it might be the battery (please pronounce this word "bat-tree" with only two syllables as you read this to yourself in your head) because she had had "3 bars" just moments before the damn little thing went dead as a doornail. So one night after driving all over the Mighty South when they'd had no electricity and no A/C and "you know, Bill can't sleep like that" (Hello, he has emphysema and is 110 years old. Put a pillow over his face and call it a night, Estelle.) looking for a m0-tel, and by the way, not finding one, the weather finally cleared to the point where she could pay a visit to the local Radio Shack, where she was pleasantly surprised to learn that she could get herself a new high-falutin' Trac-fon, a car charger, a regular charger, a nifty carrying case and a deal on 300 minutes with the coupon she'd found on the floor of the Piggly Wiggly, all for less than the price of a new bat-tree, inclusive of their outrageous 8 percent sales tax or something like that. I'd stopped listening. I have a very distractingly cute boyfriend after all.

Shortly thereafter, her overly-active bladder came a-calling and she abruptly ended the call (probably had something to do with the balance left on the 300 minutes) and I went back to ice cream and baseball and my cute boyfriend, who was kind enough not to ask for an explanation for any of it.