After a promise that I would return to regular blogging, I abandoned my post for over a month. But I have sound reasons, my faithful readers (both of you). I was really, really busy. But yeah, I'll do better.
Today was a milestone of sorts for Team Crackerbox.
Last month, the Goddess returned to the World of Work, or rather, the World of Those Who Are Gainfully Employed, as I am beginning to believe that staying home with the Monkey and Ape constitutes something more than a full-time job. Nevertheless, we celebrate her triumphal return to the land of paid labor.
And now, all of our financial woes are over.
You believe that, right?
Well, as I mentioned, we made the decision to send the twelve-year-old to Montessori School this year. It is expensive. I mean, it's not Philips Exeter Academy, but it's expensive for us. That means saving up gig money and overtime. It means we didn't take a vacation this summer, too. I'm not complaining. I'm glad we can do it. I kind of think it's do or die time with this kid and school.
He got to go for a day last year and really loved it. It's so much different than his regular school and such a good fit for him. I'm not naive. I know it won't guarantee success. But I have so much hope for him now.
Of course, life does not stop while we figure all of this out.
The seven-year-old started 2nd grade last week, a full week before her brother had to go back.
The Monkey is being potty trained. Results have varied widely. One day, he is taking himself to the bathroom, taking a leak while holding his manhood in one hand and tipping a sippy cup of chocolate milk with the other: a pro. (This has the same effect as a guy in the men's room at the bar who guzzles beer while taking a piss.) Other days, he will happily urinate in his Spider Man underpants while standing feet from the bathroom door. But we are getting there.
Two weeks ago I managed to come down with hand-foot-and-mouth disease. I assumed I picked it up from one of the kids, although none of them had gotten the symptoms. Last week, the Ape woke up with the spots on his legs and face. The daycare worker said every child in his class had gotten it. (His cleared up in a day, while my skin is still peeling from the rash.)
I'm also getting acclimated to full-time dad duties. Luckily, I've been able to ease into it.
When the Goddess went back to work, it fell to me to get the youngest two to daycare.
Beginning last week, I also started taking the seven-year-old to the bus stop and waiting with her.
Then today, the twelve-year-old began school as well. Since it's not a public school, that means I drive him every morning.
Last week, the Goddess took him to an orientation meeting at the school. They don't have traditional grade groups, so they placed him in the "upper elementary" group, based largely on what the Goddess had told them about his academic needs. I texted her, asking her to let me know how it went.
The twelve-year-old was crying.
Dammit.
I know change is frightening, especially when you're an adolescent. But he had already visited the school. He should have known what to expect. What was going on?
He didn't want to open up to his mom, but she kept trying to pry it out of him. Finally he cracked.
He was crying because his teacher referred to his class as 6th grade. And she intimated that they might need to do some homework on weekends.
So I need to come clean here and admit that I am not the most empathetic person you will meet. The Goddess is typically all caring and loving and sensitive about the kids' feelings and I'm the guy who can honestly not give a shit if one of them is having a meltdown. I mean, other than the fact that I want some peace and quiet.
Look, the 6th grade thing, I get. It made him feel like he was being treated like a little kid. But honestly, that's not it. There are other kids his age in the group and it isn't "6th grade" -- that was just the teacher misspeaking.
But the homework thing? Pfffffttttttt.
He kinda stewed all weekend. My dad would have said he had the "studs." He was moody and grumpy and difficult with everyone.
Saturday, both of the older two kids were sullen because the Goddess insisted they go shopping with her. For, you know, stuff for the two of them. They thought it better that she do the shopping while they spent their day unencumbered with the world's cares.
Sunday morning, I was trying to sleep in. I had a gig the night before, and it was my one day off this week. I hear the twelve-year-old and the seven-year-old going at each other downstairs. Typical stuff, mostly revolving around who gave a mean look to whom first. It had devolved into a shouting match and I heard the Goddess ascending the stairs. She opened the bedroom door, where I was still trying to sleep.
"You may want to cover your ears. There's probably going to be a meltdown."
About thirty seconds later, there is a sound from downstairs akin to to what I imagine is meant when the Bible describes "wailing and gnashing of teeth": the Goddess has taken away screen time for the remainder of the day.
It was a grim day at Crackerbox Palace. A gloom descended on the people. They were left joyless and tearful, with nothing to lighten their heavy loads.
"There's nothing for me to do now!" cried the seven-year-old.
"Should we throw away all your toys then? Because if you aren't playing with them, they're taking up a lot of space." Like I said, Mr. Empathy.
At some point, the twelve-year-old goes comes upstairs, goes into his room, slams the door, begins screaming, and then slams the door again, apparently unsatisfied with the effect the first time.
I'm at my most parental at this point.
I get out of the bed and march into his room.
"What is your goddamn problem?! If I hear that door slam one more time, you won't see a fucking iPad until Christmas!"
Later that morning, we decide that it is time for a come-to-Jesus meeting with the older two kids. We sit them at the dinner table and explain -- for what seems to be the 100th time -- that they must learn to get along with each other.
At this point, the twelve-year-old launches into an ill-advised defense of his mistreatment of his sister. His primary theses are, "You didn't tell me I couldn't be mean to her," and, "My actions are the fault of everyone else, including my baby brother."
What followed this was another profanity-laced explanation on my part that we shouldn't have to tell him every single thing he isn't allowed to do; that he is twelve, not four, and needs to begin acting like it; and that we really love him, but this shit has got to stop.
Then he has another meltdown about school.
It isn't fair, he tells us, that he will have homework on weekends. Weekends are his free time and he deserves to have time off.
If a twelve-year-old was looking for a way to make me lose my shit, telling me that he deserves free time is probably the way to do it.
"Why do you deserve time off?"
"Because I work hard."
"No. No you don't. That is a damn lie. You do not work hard."
"I work hard at school."
"I love you, but that isn't true. You do not work hard at school. You miss turning in assignments, you turn in work late, and your grades are mediocre."
I want to point out that I haven't had a vacation, that I worked six days this week, and that my one day off is being interrupted by a bratty tween who can't just shut up and get along with his sister for one morning.
I do tell him that any work he does at school isn't for someone else: it's for him. That we want him to have the skills necessary to be a very independent and happy adult.
All of this is true. I worry that he'll be one of those beta-males who plays video games all day and picks girlfriends based on who will do his laundry and make food for him. I worry that he will be 30 and wondering why he doesn't seem to have a purpose in life. And I worry about him being selfish and not caring about others.
Much melodrama follows. He asks why we don't just throw him into the street. He says he guesses we would like to see him murdered. There is screaming. There is crying.
At some point, he decides to completely stop talking to us, which is a minor blessing, because at least I can finish this Netflix documentary I have been trying to watch all day.
By evening he has calmed down. He kept asking if he could have his computer and iPad back, but otherwise, he was fairly calm.
6:00 A.M. came early. Today was the first day I was responsible for getting all four kids out the door. I felt like a real grown-up.
The seven-year-old is wearing cat ears and carrying about 20 lbs of gear in her backpack, despite having no homework. I get her on the bus, dress Monkey and Ape, and then all four men head out for the day. The soundtrack is Joan Jett's "I Love Rock and Roll." (The Monkey now insists on hearing this every morning commute. "Play the rock and roll, Dad!")
I drop the younger two at daycare and then it's just me and the twelve-year-old.
"Are you excited?"
"Yeah."
"Are you nervous."
"Not really."
"Are you tired?"
"Yeah. I had trouble sleeping."
I could never sleep the night before school started.
I'm trying to figure the best route to the school (which I've never been to), and I have a bit of trouble finding it. (I have a notoriously bad sense of direction.) They've given really confusing directions for parent drop-off (Where is the car sign they said they gave us? Did we get one?), including an admonition to not text and drive (thanks, Mom).
I find the place and see three teachers standing out front, directing us. I pull up and one of them comes out to greet us.
"Good morning, Jackson. We're so happy to see you." She smiles, a genuine "good teacher" smile.
I get out of the car and introduce myself. She shakes my hand.
"Let me get a picture. You mom will kill me if I don't."
He strikes the pose and smiles dutifully, lunch bag in hand, back-pack strapped to his body, resembling the thousands of other children who've posed for Facebook posts already this school year.
The place makes me smile. It feels like a good place. I just know he is going to be happy and successful here. I can feel my eyes starting to water.
I want to hug him and tell him I love him, but we aren't quite there yet, at least not in public. Instead I tell him I hope he has a great day and give him a really awkward "coach pat" on the shoulder.
I want to keep this feeling, too, this assurance that yes, for once, I know we are doing the right thing for this child.
I think it's going to be a great year.
