another Chance encounter

Joe-Henry, future President of the United States, got off the bus today, looking at his shoes. I could tell that something was wrong the minute I saw his face. As soon as the bus pulled away, he gave me a hug and said "Mom, Chance was mean to me on the bus again. He kept repeating what I was saying, and was teasing me about my big finger." This story has a happy ending, but I have to do a little venting here.

As I've written before, my son was born with a rare disorder called Klippel-Trenaunay Syndrome. His case is fairly mild, and we consider ourselves incredibly blessed and lucky. If all we have to deal with is a few stares and rude comments, well, so be it. But still. When someone teases your kid about anything, it's very hard to keep any mama lion from roaring.

This is the second time this little boy has teased Joe-Henry, and it marks the first time that any child has teased him about his k-t. Kids have asked questions, and some have stared and whispered to their moms, but no child has ever been outright cruel. I want to meet this little boy. In a dark alley. All I could think to say to Joe-Henry was "It sounds like Chance doesn't hear any kind words at home. He doesn't seem to have anything nice to say at all. Just ignore him - he's not worth your time." What I didn't say was "This kid is an inbred peckerhead little shit meany meanpants." But it was on the tip of my tongue.

As I said, this story has a happy ending. After I told Joe-Henry to ignore him, he said, "I did Mom. And you know what? Desmond told him to knock it off. He said I was just born that way, and he needs to be quiet or he'll tell a grown up." If you've been reading this blog, you know that I've been a little worried about Joe-Henry missing his LA friends, and not really finding any pals here yet. But there he was. A friend on the bus.

Chance doesn't get any more space here, because I heart Desmond.

the incredible hulkmama

Do you remember the first time you were teased? I don't remember the words that were flung, but I do remember that I was in kindergarten and this first grade boy in kicked me in the shins, hard, and it gave me a huge bruise. The thing I remember most, though, was my mom's anger at this boy. My mom had a quick Irish temper, and I remember feeling that this boy was in Big Trouble with my mama. She said, and I quote (this part I remember very clearly) - "I wonder how he would like it if I put on my army boots and gave him a kick in HIS shins?!" I truly thought she would do it, too. She never did put on those boots, but I'm pretty sure she did talk to someone at school. I know she wouldn't, and couldn't have let it go. A couple years later, though, my same mother held my much older brothers back physically when they heard me yelling for help in the alley because I was being kissed against my will by Darren Teichmer. She knew I needed to learn to fight that fight myself. I think, too, that she had learned that righteous mama anger was all well and good, but children needed to learn to defend themselves, as hard as that sounds.

I bring this all up because yesterday after school, as we were walking up the hill from the bus stop, Joe-Henry stopped in his tracks and said "Mom! Chance teased me on the bus! He asked me if I slept with my mom, and I said I did, and he said 'You sleep with your mama, you sleep with your mama!' like that, teasing but not nice teasing. And he wouldn't stop, even when I told him to!" Nothing really prepares you for the feeling you get when your kid is picked on. I imagine it's something akin to Dr. Bruce Banner turning into the Incredible Hulk. I've had to deal with these feelings before, to a different degree, when people, mostly adult people who should know better, would look or make comments about Joe-Henry's feet or his birthmark. He was born with a rare syndrome and his feet are larger than other kids his age, and he has a large vascular birthmark on his leg, as well as two big fingers. But in those cases, even though you just can't BELIEVE how stupid and rude people are, the comments are without malice, so while I might strain against my necktie a bit, I always manage to stay in my mild mannered Dr. Banner guise. In this instance though, a little boy was actually being outright mean to my son. I put on my game face, but I felt myself flush a mighty shade of Hulk green, and I had to force myself to not say "What a little shi&t!" Instead, I managed to stay my own pleasant, but somewhat darker shade of MamaPink. I asked "What did you do?" He said, "I just ignored him. But if Mike (the bus driver) says I have to sit by him tomorrow, I'm going to ask if I can move." The first thing out of my mouth was that maybe his mommy didn't snuggle him, so he felt the need to be mean. Not the best thing I could have said, I know, but it just came out. But I also told him that I was proud of him for using his words so well, and that I had confidence that he could work out a good solution. I AM proud of him - he is exceptionally verbal and confident, and I know he can say what he needs to say to work it out.

But if he can't, and this kid can't stop teasing, I WILL turn green, and my boots are going ON.

vigilance

Parenting requires you to have your eyes open all the time. When they are babies, you watch them breath, when they get older you watch them climb and crawl and fall down, and do your utmost to prevent major injuries. As they get older though, this watchfulness requires more finesse, and less active (or at least less obvious) intervention.

A couple years ago, when my son was in preschool, he was deathly afraid of a boy in his class. He would cry every day when I dropped him off. I couldn't figure it out for months. Then finally it came out, and we told his teacher. She was of the belief that my son needed to deal with it. He needed to use his words and say what he needed to say to this boy. And he couldn't do it. He couldn't put his finger on why this boy scared him for the longest time. So he continued to cry at drop off. Every. single. day. It wasn't until he had a substitute teacher that it happened. With her help, he named it and conquered it. She noticed him clinging to me and asked what was wrong. He told her he was scared of this boy. And when she asked him why, he said "because he makes mean faces at me in his heart". His teacher and I looked at each other, and she said "well, I'll go talk to him right now". I'm not sure that she said anything to him about my son, but she walked over and talked to him. And my son knew he had an ally, someone he could go to when I wasn't there, someone who would help him learn to keep himself safe. I was and am, so grateful. But the thing that stuck with me was what my son said about this boy. He made "mean faces in his heart". He was mean to my son. He did it carefully so as not to get caught or called on it. At four, he knew how to do this. I eventually witnessed it for myself, and I did call him on it. Rightly or wrongly, my mama instincts compelled me to say "I saw that. Knock it off." But as my son gets older, and enters the world of elementary school, where mama's interference might just make things worse, I'm left trying to sort out those feelings on my own.

I volunteer in my son's classroom one day a week. It's a priveledge and an education. I'm there for an hour or so, doing whatever the teacher needs me to do. I love his teacher - she is completely and utterly present for these kids. She's not gooey at all, and has enough years of experience (and kids of her own) to know how to deal with 18-20 five and six year olds, but not so many years under her belt that she has hardened into one forced set of rules and regulations. She is learning with them and from them, and she has eyes not just in the back of her head, but everywhere, it seems.
Most of the time when I'm there, I do testing. Although I don't know if they call it that, it's more of an assessment. I hate the thought of "testing" for kids so young, but at this point I believe it's more of an indicator to see where the kids are and what their particular needs will be. I get that, and I can wrap my brain around it and stand behind it. And even though my heart aches for those kids who apparently don't have the parental guidance to know how to count past 7, I don't worry for them. They are in good hands. They will have help and caring instruction and encouragement.

But I do worry for this one boy. This child is tall for his age, and full of something more than just piss and vinegar, as my parents so quaintly put it. Every time I've been in my son's class, he's been willfully mean. To me, and to the kids around him. He's disruptive and violent and knows how not to get caught, and I wonder what's happening at home and worry that he's being hurt or neglected, and I worry for the kids that are in his path, and those that are just watching. Ugh. But mostly, I worry that his rage will grow with him, and become even more destructive. The teacher is on him and watches his behavior closely. She does what she can, and doesn't give anything away emotionally to give him any power. I know the school is aware of him - I trust them, I really do. That is a comforting feeling, because even though it's only a half mile away, my son is there and I'm here, and I'm sure other parents know what I'm talking about.

My son is much better now at dealing with behavior he doesn't like in other kids. He's found the power of his voice, and is confident that he'll be heard. It's a wonder to witness, and I'm grateful to see it. And yet...

I'll keep my eyes open, keep watching, just in case.