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.