Not My Finest Hour

Is it bad to give an eight-year-old you've never met the Evil Eye?

Backing up a bit: today was a parent-teacher conference.

Back it up a bit further: I am having a tough 2009. Yes, I'm totally lucky to have a job, a house, a husband, two fab kids, no known diseases et cetera, et cetera. Hundreds of thousands of Americans and perhaps millions of world citizens would sneer at my "troubles" and invite me to trade my woeful existence for a week in their refugee tent in the Sudan or their midnight vigils in the cancer ward. I know.

But I'm experiencing low levels of anxiety like I don't think I've ever felt before. Nothing major, no need to run for the Effexor. Constant nonethless, and contributing to a toxic build-up of blech that rises ever so slightly with each passing day.

It's partly living in America, where Fear seems to be the dues every member of this country pays faithfully in return for the "security" of living the American Dream. It's definitely the Recession; it's tough to enjoy your daily work when constantly worried that the outcome won't be enough to convince the people with the purse-strings that someone else's position should be on the chopping block instead of yours. And, of course, the Winter that keeps on giving causes my soul to shrivel ever so slightly with each passing day.

Add all of this to the fact that I've been under the weather for the past couple of days, and you might imagine that it was not the sunniest of individuals who went to a parent-teacher conference today. Fortunately, it was The Girl's - that's a pretty easy one. It went well because she's smart and funny and kind and talented and gracious and simply awesome, and afterwards I picked the kids up from their after-school art class and we got ready to head for home.

At The Girl's locker, she was putting on her jacket, when a group of girls came by and one of them taunted, "Hey girl-man, wanna join the Pig Club?"

(Oh lordy, here we go again - my blood is BOILING. Add massive adrenaline rush and skyrocketing blood pressure to the anxiety.)

The Girl wordlessly turned and buried her face into me so the others wouldn't see her crying. At that point, I knew that I was only capable of two options: say something or stare.

Well, I didn't trust myself to say something. I knew that in my state there was no way I could say something remotely helpful, and visions of phone calls from parents angry that I had freaked out on their precious Elizabeth Claire gave me the strength to keep my mouth closed.

So I stared. No, actually I Stared. In fact, you might even say I S-T-A-R-E-D. Stared that [CENSORED] down. I couldn't stop myself, even as I was thinking, "this is so immature - you are going to give this child nightmares about the crazy angry lady or, worse, your child will become known as the daughter of the crazy angry lady and everyone will hate her."

But in the face of such unprovoked pettiness, it was like I totally deflated. It was as much a stare of disbelief and defeat as anything else. My daughter did nothing to them. Absolutely nothing. Her only crime was to have a cute short haircut that looked a little worse for the wear at the end of the day in a school filled with snobby suburban girls who all have long hair and look exactly the same.

(Dammit - now I'm the one crying.)

Hearing that verbal assault brought me right back to my own elementary days. Awful days, some of them. The psychological torture that goes on in schools would crush the most well-adjusted adults. Children, with their lack of emotional armour and their burning desire to fit in, are like lambs being led to the slaughter.

It is one thing to experience it personally (seriously, I can't imagine why anyone tries to relive their school days. Mine were great all things considered, but you couldn't pay me to return to them). It is entirely another to witness your own child gutted by the casual cruelty of another and be forced to stand ineffectually by.

Because there's nothing I can do. I can't fight these battles for her. Sure, I could have said something if I'd had the emotional strength to do it positively. But I won't be there next time. Or the next.

I am not ready for this. I literally quake in fear at the thought of the next seven or eight years of parenting. Everything made sense when they were babies - eat, poop, sleep, play. Nothing couldn't be fixed with either a Mom Teddy or some chocolate milk in a sippy cup.

Growing up? There ain't a Mom Teddy in the world big enough for this one.

Worse, there isn't a Peitricia Mae big enough for this one. I know I'm going to fail, even before I start. I know I will not get this right - I'll try, and I'll (hopefully) do a decent job, but I cannot fix this world and its cruelty. Sometimes I don't think I can bear to watch.

Guess there's always staring.