Raising a Middle School Sociopath and the Worst Birthday Ever

I sent a Facebook message from work today to the Goddess. It said, "I need to figure out what my role is in our lives."

I had had such high hopes for this past week.

It's October. I should start by saying that Halloween is a big deal in our family. I mean, I know Halloween is a big deal in everyone's families. But I write horror and play in a horror punk band. Everyone in this house likes dressing up in costumes, even on regular days. Halloween is our time of year.

And last year was really successful. At least, I remember it being really successful. It was our first Halloween together as a family and we did this whole, "31 Days of Halloween" thing. We had an activity of some sort every night and it was so successful, we wanted to replicate it this year.

Last weekend was the first weekend of the month, and we'd planned on going to the local pumpkin farm that has a corn maze and all of these other kid's activities. It just pissed down the rain, so that didn't happen. Instead, I drank Bloody Marys and we overdosed on Netflix: Nightmare before Christmas, Beetlejuice, Hocus Pocus, and Monster Squad. Oh, and a couple of Doctor Who episodes, the ones with the weeping angels, because the Goddess decided that she wants to go as a weeping angel this year, which sounds fantastic, if we can manage to match the color of make-up to the costume.

So it was a pretty good weekend. I was looking forward to the week.

Things started downhill on Monday.

We had all stayed up much too late watching Doctor Who and we overslept. The Goddess had to take the six-year-old to school and she was late. Then I went to pay for the six-year-old's violin at work (I work at a music store) and had my debit card declined for insufficient funds. This was an especial drag as I was seven full days away from another pay day and had actually gotten a lot of overtime on the last check. On the up side, Ape had to go to the doctor and we found he now weighs 22 lbs. at just seven months. (I'm thinking of calling him "Pugsley.") The six-year-old had choir. I worked late. Then the six-year-old had a meltdown -- complete with lying in the floor and crying -- when asked to practice her violin for ten fucking minutes. I'm at a loss at those moments. I had to practice piano for thirty minutes a day at her age and I would have been beaten senseless for lying in the floor. I tired a combination of stern reproach and negotiation which was a complete failure.

On Tuesday, the six-year-old turned seven, so her biological father was picking her up from gymnastics and taking her out for her birthday. At some point, the eleven-year-old asked to use the Goddess' Macbook and we noticed him looking at his grades online -- something not particularly usual for him. So we went and looked, too. He's failing Math and English. Not only that, but he's missing assignments from every single one of his classes.

We are completely failing on this front.

His mom and I both worked in education for years. I get that school is kind of bullshit (more on that later) and that homework is largely pointless (definitely more on that later) and that middle school is like a prison, but come on man.

He's not a stupid kid. He's just really fucking lazy.

Which, you know, so was I at his age and come to think of it, some of my grades started sucking at his age, too.

But the worst part is that he lied all grading period -- nine fucking weeks -- about having homework. And we didn't double-check, because like a couple of schmucks, we believed him.

So he's grounded for like, ever.

Oh, and all three of us got to work on homework that night until about 10:30 trying to turn in incomplete assignments late.

I'm glad I didn't work Wednesday. Instead I stayed in, watched this little indie horror film called Mr. Jones, played with the babies, and then started working on my electronic music project for most of the night. My band's rehearsal got canceled, so I had some extra time for that.

Thursday, the Goddess had an out-of-town performance with her burlesque troupe, so I hustled on home and started making dinner: Chef Boyardee pizza. I thought she wouldn't even make it out the door, because she had a near-breakdown ("I just won't go. I'm going to quit.") because she needed a piece of equipment I'd loaned her and I forgot to put it back. But once she was out the door, the five of us settled in, ate pizza, and watched a couple more episodes of Doctor Who. I got everyone in bed on time (even though I skipped bathing the babies, because they both were falling asleep), and I even read a few Junie B. Jones chapters to the seven-year-old. I put on Day of the Dead and drank wine and felt like a damn super-parent while waiting on the Goddess' return.

Yesterday, we had a birthday party for the seven-year-old. The Goddess had planned all of it, but just asked me to stop by the store on the way home to pick up a few things. Then I get a call at about 4:00. The eleven-year-old got in trouble at school. Bullying.

Fuuuuuuuucccckkkk.

The Goddess' is kind of beside herself, so I did this thing I do where I go into my old middle school teacher mode and talk through the whole situation, kind of telling her how to handle it. I mean, she was asking me at this point, so I thought that was okay.

When I get home, I take the eleven-year-old aside while all of these kids are arriving. I talked to him, super seriously, about his behavior. I make him read his disciplinary referral. I ask him what is meant by the words "habitual" and "no remorse." I tell him we love him but want him to grow up to be a kind person. I write out some words for him like "empathy" and "manipulative." He listens. He looks at me while I'm talking. He doesn't roll his eyes.

Then he tells me his side of the story.

And the thing is, I kind of want to believe it, because it sounds totally believable. Only I remember that he lied to us about his homework and that I just wrote out the word "manipulative" on my mini legal pad. So it looks like we're headed to a meeting with his teachers to determine if we're raising a total sociopath.

Then it's downstairs for the birthday party. Things are going okay. I mean, there are seven six-to-eight-year-old girls screaming like mad over French pop music blaring on the hi-fi (the Goddess had decided on a Gallic theme), the Monkey is running around trying to take everyone's toys, and the eleven-year-old is obnoxiously showing off for everyone, but it's okay. Until the piñata.

We go to the front porch for the piñata and I can tell that the Goddess is going to lose her shit over this. First of all, the girls won't form an orderly line. Then, they keep missing the piñata (is this really a French word?) and manage to damage the porch swing. Then they are getting on the bouncy horse that's really designed for a single toddler, not seven-year-olds, and especially not the fat one and her friend. I'm getting frustrated, too, not just by the kids, but because I think I could probably organize this a little better.

Yeah, I know. Total asshole thing to think, especially about the love of your life. The thing is, I used to work in education and at one point kind of helped teachers work on this sort of thing. And I have a real problem thinking like a parent instead of a teacher, because I haven't been a parent that long.

So, I say a few things to her, which, you know, aren't received really well.

Then I go in with the Monkey and leave the rest of them out on the porch. It takes like 30 minutes to bust this damn thing open, so the Goddess is really irritable when they come back in.

The seven-year-old decides that she wants to have a dance contest, then has a near breakdown ("This is the worst birthday, EVER!") when she fails to force all of her friends to do exactly what she wants on her birthday. But we soldier on through a series of first-grade dance routines to "Watch Me Whip," "Uptown Funk," and "Let It Go" from Frozen.

At one point, we discover that one of our young guests has absconded upstairs. Upon being discovered, she informs us that "she just needs some alone time." My initial reaction is, "Why the fuck did you come to a party then, kid?" which I am about to say to the Goddess when she looks at me and says, "I already know what you're going to say. You're so critical."

Ugh.

So I take the Monkey to bed and pass out myself.

Which brings me to this morning, when I messaged her from work, saying, "I need to figure out what my role is in our lives."

She suggested I try blogging to work through all these issues.

So, here I am, home from work, drinking a really terrible table wine, and finishing up my first blog post. I hope to post regularly, but with a family of six, we'll see how that goes. I'd also hoped to keep the posts to blog length rather than full essays, but I've already failed on that front.

Welcome to Dispatches from Crackerbox Palace. Thanks for stopping by.