For those of you who couldn't sleep, wondering if I made it to Monterey, rest assured I am here, safe and sound in paradise, away from it all. Well, except for the zillions of people I am connecting to through cyberspace (from my favorite blogs, to You Tube, to music files.)
I spent the day sleeping in, walking 2.5 miles around the wharf, downing beers at a pub with Rex (he drank 4, I drank 1... I'm a lightweight) and having some great laughs. And now, with the window opened on our 100 year old hotel (1905), the sounds of dixie land music pouring through from a college bar down street (it's Monterrey Jazz Festival weekend), I can't help but smile at the irony of the old and new: old hotel / internet wireless, young college kids / old artists with funky hair do's and glitter shirts, new atmosphere for the hubster and I, old habits (him reading a computer game book, me on this lap top).
My main reason for writing is to say that, despite wanting to get away from the kids, they are very much in my hearts. Once a mom, always a mom.
Despite all this joy, however, I had a quick teary conversation with Mrs. V. tonite, in the cellar of a pub, determined not to let a short burst of meloncholy interrupt my husband's buzz but compelled to release my stress. Turns out that even the smell of the sea air, a berry cobbler & coffee in my immediate future, couldn't erase thoughts of an impending teacher conference about Stink, initiated by his teachers on Thursday.
I might have mentioned a while ago we were going to neurologist about his "tics". Turns out he had allergies (no thanks to my dumb HMO... I had to do all this myself, from initiaing eye appointments, allergy appointments, finally buying Claritin and boom - tics stopped.) I am so relieved, believe me. But, according to his teachers, they want to talk about a few concerns they still have. What exactly those are? I don't know. It's all very mysterious. In a shotgun defense, I told them I was open to hearing their thoughts, but since they gave me two hours notice for the meeting (which I canceled for Thursday - too much going on) I assumed they were going to come up with a list of what their school was doing to aggravate his "situation", from environment (mold? carpet?) to aggressive kids (such as x, x and x he sometimes mentions).
I'm torn between gratefulness about their due diligence/analysis, but irritation. We saw the HEAD of NEUROLGOY. I was told he is fine. Now, I'm not a teacher (so all you educators out there, PLEASE comment.) But I am a mother, and I know my boy. And while I'm the first to admit when there are problems, I really think this is a case of when he's excited, he needs a way to output his energy. So he dances here and there. He hops. He throws his arms up. Big whoop. (Again, this is not a regular occurence - I'm talking NEVER at home, probably because he's comfortable with us. School? New friends? A recently released Scooby Doo and a bowl of icecream? Um, you're gonna see more dancing than Michael Flatley and a Lord of the Oinion Rings merger at Burger King.)
I'm just pissed that what if he's one of those artsy kids that doesn't fit in with the cookie cutter J Crew crowd. What if he prefers dancing over football? So what? I don't want him being diagnosed as this "weird kid". It just breaks my heart. (And of course this is not what his teachers are saying. I'm just being this defensive mom who loves her kid. That, and I project small things into huge ones quicker than Viagra on a senior.)
And this leads me to my midget waxing post of late. While I wasn't making fun of any midgets, in a way, I guess I was by retelling the goofy conversation I had about one. And now, I feel a bit guilty. Because you know what? No one has it easy. You think being short with a wacky body is easy? What if you had cancer? Or couldn't talk right? Or had a limp?
I really feel our generation of mothers have it hard, because we've seen so much tv, and there's been so much education. It's almost like if there's something a bit different, we have to see top specialists and label it: He eats from a pink spoon? He's a feminine utensil ADD addict! Bring on the meds!
I don't know. I just don't want my boy being made fun of. Ever. He is the most special kid on the planet, and right now, I'm pissed off at the over analysis, because if he had some real problem, don't you think, knowing me, I'd notice it? Then tell the world about it and become head of the society of "Kids Who Shake Inappropriately to Spanish Guitar?"
Clearly, the only one with the problem, now, is me. I've got an internet addiction. Quick, before this runs out of batteries, call Social Services! She's too social!