It’s weird. I always try and keep my blogs about my current life and funny. Because, well, generally my life is always a hot mess pretty fucking funny. Let’s face it, the last few years have not been easy on me (or my grey hair for that matter), but you know what, your ex-husband gets engaged to his mistress you realize you are WAY fucking stronger than you ever thought, you get through. You just do…. First and foremost for me, is always my minimuffin tops (shout out to my fellow fat kids)….. They are really my whole heart and soul. They remind me the things I am good at (laundry) and the things I am not (cooking, Bigs told me the other night his dinner smelled like “Beaver food” which brings in the question “You eat fucking beaver food dude?”)….. Anyholla.
I knew, in my heart, I knew I would never be ready for these upcoming weeks, but now, I just have this heaviness in my heart and pit in my stomach (it’s not even because I am hungry, which I always am)….. #peewee is starting school….. Interesting fact, he has actually gone to a “special needs” program for 3 years now. Three fucking years. When he started, he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t walk up stairs. Couldn’t even consider walking down stairs. He couldn’t run. Well, now, he doesn’t shut up, he has a candor about him when he speaks that is nothing short of hysterical, does not even consider holding my hand walking up stairs, and actually runs (although, he sort of looks like a cartoon character when he does, still)…..
But here I am, filling out his back to school paperwork, for him to go to a different school than his brother, because as amazing as our town is, they can’t service him with his needs in district…. So, the little puff pastry will go into a class with 15 other kiddos he doesn’t know. He will be “that kid” you know, the one who has his own teacher, because he still can’t write, he can’t hold a pencil, he can’t go to the bathroom alone, he gets confused. He’s scared.
Selfishly, I’m scared. I’m so scared. I’m proud of him that when he was able to run, he no longer had to wear braces on his legs. I’m proud of him that he hardly has to use sign language to speak to me anymore. I’m proud of him that he can try and play with other kids. I’m so scared. I know he’s different. His brother knows he’s different. Deep down inside, I feel it in my heart that even he knows he is different. So I lay awake at night, scared. Scared he will get picked on more than he already does. Scared more people will ask “What’s wrong with him.” (Sidebar, props to me for not cold clocking the bitch outside of Dunks the other day who asked me that, I just said “Him, nothing, you, appears as though quite a bit is.”).
So, as I fill out his paperwork, I wonder questions that no parent should ever have to wonder. Will he be able to go on field trips? Will he go to gym class? Will music class be too loud for him? Will someone help him carry his pizza to his desk on pizza day? How am I going to get him to understand that his beloved “guys” can’t go to this school, and that there is no “school boo” to snuggle if he gets scared? What will happen if he needs me, but doesn’t know how to say it? Mostly, what happens when he gets picked on? Because he already does. And I know he will. Just because he is different. He doesn’t love any less, he likes the same things as other 5 year old boys, but he is different. And different isn’t “cool.” What will happen now? What will happen in one year, or three or five?
So my beloved friends and family, if (when) I am bitchy (ier) than I normally am, it’s just because I am scared.