In Threes

I don’t even know where to start….

They say bad things come in threes, right? Friday night, Me Too’s filling fell out. The Friday night before Golden Week vacation starts. Amazing timing. Luckily, she wasn’t in pain. Unluckily, there was a gaping hole in her molar.

Turns out our dentist was open on Saturday.

Can I get a witness?

But not until 10. So we spent several hours on Saturday waiting for the clock to turn to ten. We got an okay to come at 2. Not an appointment, mind you, but he would fit her in sometime in the afternoon.

Phew.

Me Too had a make-up swimming class that day at 11. We needed to leave around 1 to get to the dentist. The pool is fifteen minutes away by bike. Now I’m not great at math, but I’m thinking that we won’t have time to come home for lunch, mostly because nobody else will make lunch. And then something about Train A leaving Chicago and Train B leaving New York, meeting in the middle and a tree falling in a forest.

I suggest we eat at the restaurant there, but that suggestion was met with such violent eye-rolling that I changed it to “Okay, fine, I’ll go to the grocery store and pick something up.”

On the way to the store, I happen to come upon one of Me Too’s classmates from last year. She is crying and running, total panic mode. I stop her and talk to her for a minute, and it turns out she is lost. She was walking to the store with her dad and little sister. There are two ways to go from her house, and even though her daddy told her to stay with him, she ran off through the park. Then she couldn’t find him and just started running around.

I don’t know her phone number, but I knew her mom’s e-mail. I sent her a message and told her what had happened, and where we were. Then I called HRH, explained the situation, and asked him to call the grocery store.

And he was like, “What for?”

Dude, it’s simple. They were on the way to the store. Her dad hasn’t come back to look for her, so obviously he has gone there to look for her. And then HRH starts arguing with me about it. If he doesn’t want to call the grocery store, then fine. Fuck him. I start to e-mail her mom again to tell her we’re going to the store to look for her dad, when finally Dad shows up. It has been seven minutes by now. I would have been in a state of terror, but this dad was like, “Ah, there you are. What? You say you’ve been lost?”

Glad to know I’m not the only one married to a useless mo fo.

By this time, I have no more time to go to the store. So I rush home and pull together whatever I can find for lunch, get Me Too together, and head for the door when I notice that HRH is still in his pajamas.

W…t….f…

He promised Me Too he would go watch her swimming lesson. He’ll go later, he says.

Whatever.

And ten minutes later, he calls me
from the grocery store.

And yet, my phone did not explode and we are still married. It’s because I am a saint. Beatify me at your leisure.

Eventually the swimming lesson and the lunch brouhaha are completed. We get on the train. He wants to do some shopping while I take Littley to the dentist. Wonderful! Then he tries to get out of taking Me First with him. “Wouldn’t you rather go with mommy? Don’t they have nice books there?” etc etc ad effing nauseum. Not. Going. To. Happen. This dentist office is small. The waiting area is cramped. We are going without an appointment and have been warned it will be a long wait. And what am I supposed to do with him while she is being treated? Urgh.

But I take it in stride. Maybe it’s the one week of the month when I can do that.

The day ends up nicely, having tofu donuts at a kind of hip shop in Motomachi. They have one of one Dyson bladeless fans, so the kids are in ecstasy.

Later that evening, HRH yells at me to come to the bathroom. He shows me Me First’s back. “I tried to scrub it off,” he says. The boy is covered in a red rash from neck to toe. We’ve just seen a segment on the news about how German measles is going around. And he tried to scrub it off?

Yes, he’s been vaccinated. Yes, both times, on time. But it doesn’t do much good when so many other children don’t get their shots, too. There’s no high-thinking semi-scientific reasoning to it either here. Parents of boys think German measles isn’t a concern for them, not worth paying 80 poppers for to get a shot, anyway. So it continues to go around year after year after year. Maybe next year will be better. They finally made the shot free six years ago, so those in the grade below Me First may have higher vaccination levels.

Once again, fantastic timing. How do they DO this? It’s amazing, actually. I’m pretty sure I can schedule in our next sickness for the weekend before Marine Day, and then add another one to Obon in August.

Me First has a slight fever and is a little itchy, but other than that he is okay.

Happy Golden Week, everyone!

For Reals

I must have started at least ten posts in the past few days, only to end up interrupted. Not surprising, I guess, considering there have been two active children, with nothing productive to do, stuck inside for several days because of the rain and wind. The wind! I guess March didn’t get that note about leaving like a lamb, though April was clearly informed of the showers situation.

Long story short, it’s been a very hard week. HRH has been gone, which makes it easier in a lot of ways, but it is nice to occasionally have some adult conversation. There are only so many times one can converse enthusiastically about Wreck-It-Ralph, having only seen bits and pieces of it, just as there are only so many times one can feign interest in the biting power of the misunderstood crocodile. Apparently it feels like being crushed by a truck. (No, I don’t know how he knows that and I’d rather not find out.)

This morning, Me First had opening ceremony at school. He was supposed to leave at eight and come home at nine. But I signed up for a yoga course (once a week for three months,) and it starts today. They have babysitting for children over two but not yet school-aged (which is close-to-meaningless since the majority of children here start preschool at three years of age,) so Me Too was covered. Brother’s best friend was going to after-care today, so he was happy to sign up to stay until lunch time and then trotted off on his merry way this morning.

I needed this class this morning. Not for the exercise, really, but I needed a few minutes to myself. Me Too has been on spring break for three weeks already, Brother for two. We’ve been stuck inside a lot and they have been fighting fighting fighting and the days have been loooonnnnggg. The babysitting service had this long list of things I had to prepare (a rice ball was one of them, for goodness sake,) and that was kind of a pain, but I figured it was a small price to pay for my sanity. Or what’s left of it, anyway. So I got all that crud together and we were putting our shoes on when

Ding-dong!

Bam-bam.

Wiggle wiggle (of the doorknob.)

I only know one person who would do all of those things in such quick procession.

And sure enough, there he was. Me First had decided he didn’t want to go to after care. He was tired from standing in the schoolyard for an hour that morning.

I guess that was a good thing, because he would now have to sit in the lobby of the sports center for an hour. But now, of course, Me Too didn’t want to go to the babysitting room. She wanted to stay with her brother.

Sigh.

He would be fine by himself, but together? No way. They would be bouncing on the benches and someone was sure to bust their head open. Not to mention that there is no way I would be able to concentrate, much less relax, for an hour while they were in the lobby wreaking utter havoc and sustaining irreversible injury.

So I did what all good moms do.

I promised Me Too a cookie if she would go to the babysitting room.

Since preschool hasn’t started yet, there were several other “big” girls there as well, so they got out some puzzles and whatnot and she seemed to have a good time in spite of herself.

But, for reals, of course something like this would happen on the one day I had planned to do something for myself.

And I won’t get started on the child “care” system in place at Me First’s school that allows children to just blow it off when they feel like it.

Frowny face Frowny face Frowny face

(For some reason, Me Too is singing opera-style in the next room, about Wreck-It-Ralph, of course. Makes it kind of hard to concentrate, but it’s cute.)

Easter 2013

Maybe it comes with living in a foreign country, or being part of a minority religion, I don’t know, but I go out of my way to make holidays more traditional than I probably would if I were living in the states where I grew up. They say immigrant communities tend to be more traditional, don’t they? Maybe this is what they mean.

Thanksgiving is mostly food, and Christmas is easy enough (though expressing the Christ part can get kind of hairy,) but Easter is really, really a non-event here. They now have a parade at Tokyo Disneyland. Hoo-freaking-rah. That helps. Five years ago, no one knew anything about it.

Procuring the necessary goodies and plastic eggs takes forethought and preparation, which are not exactly my strong points. And Easter, with her date switching every year, has an unpleasant habit of sneaking up on me. But this year, I started a month ahead of time searching for some decent baskets. The ones we had from the Foreign Buyers Club were not meant to be used long term and have completely fallen apart. I found two great baskets at a hole-in-the-wall kind of wicker shop near the entrance to Motomachi. I may very well be the only living being to have wandered into that shop for thirty years. But the baskets are great.

HRH passes a foreign foods store on his way to work every day. After much nagging and prompting, I got him to actually go inside, where he found some chocolate rabbits. Score.

He then forgot to buy anything for White Day, and busted out the chocolate bunnies. I mean, really? I managed to convince her to put them in the fridge so they wouldn’t melt, and she eventually forgot about them.

After determining that HRH was useless in this effort, I headed out to another foreign foods store where I managed to find two kind of Easter candy and the last bag of plastic eggs. Enter a little help from Amazon, the hundred yen store, and I bring you Easter 2013.

The plan was to go to church this morning, but I had stupidly arranged for Me First’s desk to be delivered this morning. See what I mean about the sneaking up on me? If Easter was a set day of the year or at least on the calendar here, that wouldn’t have happened. Let me say that out loud one more time so I can believe it is someone else’s fault…. Okay done.

We made Easter eggs yesterday, and I put the hot cross buns in the oven last night. It took a while since my oven is so small, I could only bake four at a time. And then?

Come on! We can eat more than that! Next year, I think I’ll just let them make the crosses with a chocolate pen instead of doing it the old fashioned way. Cause that is what we all need on Easter, right? MORE chocolate. My kids are prostrate on the floor now after over indulging.

I guess that’s how you learn, though.

Happy Easter, everyone!

Watch Me Jinx It

Tomorrow is the first day in months that I don’t need to get up early.

And I’m pretty sure I just jinxed myself.

HRH isn’t home yet (it’s almost 11,) so I’ve spent my alone time very productively. I boiled eggs for dyeing tomorrow. I made dough for hot cross buns on Sunday. I finished watching Wife Swap and Super Nanny episodes that I started ages ago. Yeppers, all very worthy activities.

Both kids are on spring break now, and I guess I don’t have to tell you that getting anything done around the house, or at the grocery store, or at the bank, or at the post office, is suddenly about a million times more challenging than it was a week ago. But mostly it’s the house stuff that’s hard.

Cause, you know, I just don’t want to do it.

This morning, the children were playing this really weird (possibly Easter Bunny inspired) game where Me Too was a rabbit and Me First was the hunter. His weapon of choice was a trap, made from a pair of swimming goggles. They have a removable nose strap, which he took out and promptly lost, so now instead of being sports equipment the goggles are a long piece of rubber with an eyepiece attached to each end.

I mean, really, what more could a boy ask for?

He spent a good portion of the morning hiding under the covers with one hand on one eyepiece, the other eyepiece sticking out from the futon and yelling, “Baby Bunnnnyyyy! I smell carrot cookies!”
At which point Me Too comes hopping in the room, steals the cookies and wrestles with the hunter for a bit, but inevitably gets away and hops back to her room.

On one particular round of this game, she couldn’t get her door opened, pesky round doorknob, (All the other doors have either lever-like handles or are sliding fusuma doors,) so she yelled to me for help. I had my hands elbow-deep in the dishes, so I told her to try again. She walked back to the living room, hopped down the hallway again, and then managed to get the door open herself.

“Never mind!” she called.

Of course by telling her to try again, I hadn’t meant the hopping start part…. I had a good internal laugh over that. I guess she thought she needed to build up speed to turn the doorknob….

So with all this rabbit business going on, I couldn’t put the futons away, which meant I couldn’t really get started on everything else I needed to do today, but how often do you get to have a rabbit hunt in your house, right?

We spent the morning at Park A, ate lunch and did the shopping, came home to rest and snack, and then spent the afternoon at Park B. Park B is bordered on one side by a line of cherry trees that are in full blossom now. When the breeze picks up, the pale pink petals are blown about like a delicate pink snowstorm. The children, big and small, squeal with delight, cover their heads with their hands while a pink whirlwind swirls around them, then pick pink petals from their hair and clothes. Today they gathered petals into buckets and shovels and cups and thermoses, throwing them at each other and pretending to run away when the throwing came their way. Me Too had his pockets full of them when he came home.

Of course the picking of petals from the ground and throwing them about resulted in lots of non-petal specimens in hair and everywhere, so everyone had to have a good scrub down before bed tonight.

But it was a nice afternoon, with surprisingly little quarreling. What a nice change from The Usual.

It’s nice to have the kids when they are at their best, not too tired or too hungry or too stressed or too. ..Too.

That’s one of the sad things about when they start school. The time that they are at home is not a time when they have their best face on. It is the time that they have to. Have to get ready, have to brush their teeth, have to leave on time, have to do homework, have to eat dinner, have to take a bath, have to go to bed. And I hate what all this having to turns me into, the Master of the Clock.

A history teacher mentioned to me once that one of the big changes brought about by the industrial revolution was how it enslaved mankind to the clock. Before then, I guess most people were their own master. You got up when you needed to, and finished when you were done. What a hard transition that must have been, and how utterly illogical it must have seemed.

The idea of freedom from The Clock has intrigued me for a long time. But perhaps we modern cavemen are even worse off because we are also enslaved to The Mobile Phone.

But that’s enough waxing poetic for today. ‘Night, everyone.

Face to Face

Me First came home in tears again today.

It’s more of the same, stupid gaijin, hit, punch, blah blah blah.

And it’s getting old.

Today, I had a chance to talk to Classic Bully face-to-face. Like I’ve said before, this kid has problems. He probably wouldn’t be in a regular class without help (or medication) in the US, and he certainly wouldn’t be left unattended for half the day to terrorize the neighborhood. But at his core, I don’t think he’s a bad seed.

And he seems to respect me, the only person in the neighborhood who doesn’t just avoid him.

Today I walked up to him, and I asked him if he was friends with my son. He said yes. Then I told him that friends don’t make their friends feel bad. When he hits and punches Me First, it hurts. When he calls him a foreigner or stupid foreigner or whatever, that hurts, too. So stop. I told him if he didn’t stop, I wouldn’t let him play with Me First.

He said he’d tried to apologize after he kicked Me First, but he ran away. But he seemed surprised about the name calling stuff, and he apologized.

To me.

(>_<)

Close, so close… He really just doesn't get it.

Poor guy is kinda starting to grow on me. I know what it's like, trying to navigate in society when you don't quite understand the rules.

But still.

I'm not really supposed to talk to the Other Kid face-to-face like that. The school wants to be involved in all the back and forth.

But, like I said, sometimes I don't "get" their rules, and other times it's useful to pretend you don't.

Proud

I don’t brag much. Maybe that is part and parcel with having lived in Japan for the past thirteen years. The negative is easier to share here.

But, I have to share, last night my kids made me really proud.

I can’t remember how much I’ve written about the kids’ karate class. Me First started when he was four-and-a-half. And he has hated, let me see if I can figure this right….pretty much every single minute of it.

We started out without putting too much thought into it. A friend was enrolling her child, would we like to come along for the trial lesson? HRH thought it was a good idea; I thought I could use an hour when someone else was in charge, so I went along, even though I wasn’t convinced that teaching my child how to kick and punch was a very good idea. For the Earth. For the rest of mankind.

But karate, at least the Shokutan class we go to, is not mainly about hitting and punching other people at all. The first six months were all sitting up straight, answering when called (without using the Japanese equivalent of “yeah,”) and mastering the tricky art of addressing your sensei in the polite form when he is talking to you in a condescending form. And there was lots of hitting and punching and kicking, at the appropriate time, in the appropriate way, and never at other people.

Me First never wanted to go. I dragged him, kicking and screaming, for two-and-a-half years. He wanted to quit. I wanted to quit. But HRH thought it was good for him.

Easy to say, right? But I was the one taking him every week.

This spring, I won’t gloss over it, I was sick of it. We skipped a lot. I considered forgoing the 1000 yen ($10) deposit on the belt and just never showing up again. We went back to the US for several weeks in the summer, and it was great to have a break.

But when we came back, Me Too said that she wanted to try karate. Suddenly, I caught my second wind. I knew what we were getting into this time, and I could see how a shy little girl could benefit from yelling “Ei!” in class a hundred times every week. I was worried about the tests, but that was six months down the road.

It was a lot easier to overrule Me First’s objections when the other child wanted to go. So we started going regularly again.

In October, there was a test. And Me First wasn’t invited. I mean, this was the obvious result of having missed more than we attended for six months. There was no point in taking the test if he had no chance of passing, right? But Me First was crushed. And he wanted to quit again.

！(◎_◎;)

Since then, bar sickness and snow, we have gone every week. Some weeks I’ve had to force him to go. It hasn’t been pretty or fun for either of us.

But last month, Me Too reached a turning point. They were practicing for the test, and each level had to perform their kata for the whole class. (The kata is almost like a kind of dance. A series of kicks, punches, and turns is performed in a particular order.) And Me First couldn’t do it. He goofs around in class, no one was surprised. But he was embarrassed. And he cried.

I talked to the teacher about how we could practice at home. And we have been practicing, though there are many days when he doesn’t want to. (I’ve seen the kata so much I could probably teach it myself now.)

Last night, the white belts were up first. The children have to sit still and quiet while they wait for their turn. Then the children are called up in groups of three or four. A teacher barks instructions at them, and they are supposed to perform the moves they have been told. This is kind of hard for a kid. Punch three times, last time you yell. (This is called ki-ai. I don’t know how karate circles in English speaking countries explain it, but in Japan ki-ai means putting your all into something, doing it from the heart.) Step forward with your right leg, now do Move A as you step back, repeat it three times. This kind of thing is hard for a five-year-old.

But Me Too did it. She’s done better in class, mind you, but in spite of the shyness and the nerves she must have felt, she answered when they called her name, she walked to the middle of the gym and stood there in front of everyone, and she did a good job. A few minutes after her group went, another white belt burst out in tears; the pressure was more than he could take.

It’s a lot to ask of a kid, and I wondered if it was pushing Me Too too hard. But she rose to the occasion. Hopefully standing up in front of her class and introducing herself won’t seem so hard after this.

A loooonnnnggg (almost ninety minute) wait later, and it was finally Me First’s turn.

And he nailed it.

Proud doesn’t begin to describe how good it felt.

Dear Japan

Dear Old People of Japan,

In case you have not noticed, my children are not animals in a zoo. They are not on display. It is NOT okay for you to take pictures of my children without my permission. Full fucking stop.

Even if we are out in public. If it is a St. Patrick’s Day event. Even if you think they are cute or you are harmless. Even if it is a day then ends in -y in a year with four digits.

So stop doing it.

And, for chrissake, stop taking my picture when I am telling you to stop taking theirs.

Sincerely,
HamakkoMommy

Stupid Has No Limits

Let me interrupt the bullying fiasco to bring you yet another story starring Fucking Stupid and Irresponsible.

MIL strikes again. Or fails to strike. Allow me to explain.

Me First spent all morning drawing an imaginary dinosaur. He wanted to give it to several different people, but alas, only had time to draw one picture. He asked me to make some copies at the convenience store. Okay, I agreed, even though I had a bunch of other stuff to do.

Moms are nice like that.

When he got home, Me First was so pleased with the copies that he decided he wanted to make even MORE.

21st century kid overly impressed with 20th century technology, right? God forbid the kid ever discovers carbon paper. Actually that would probably make an excellent Christmas present.

Anyway. It was no longer only Nice Mommy at home. Me Too had also come home, and she refused to walk to the convenience store to make copies. Fair enough. She’s dressed like Belle from Beauty and the Beast. That means she would have to go out wearing sparkly yellow high heels, of course, which would make a normally ten minute walk into a drawn-out trip to hell and back.

No, thank you.

Me First said he wanted to go by himself. Let me see now….eight-year-old crossing busy street to go to the convenience store and then proceed to use a copying machine you have to pay for…. No pigs visible from our window, so….

I told him he could call his grandparents and ask if he could make some copies over there. They have a printer/scanner that you can make copies on.

Twenty minutes later, he still wasn’t home. I looked out the window and saw his head bobbing up and down nearby, so I went back in. Ten more minutes. WTF, right? I went downstairs to call him, but there was no answer.

Then I saw something blowing in the breeze.

It was the dinosaur drawing, with my phone number on it.

Dear god almighty.

Then I notice there is another one taped to the streetlight. Then another and another and another.

I finally find The Boy, and explain that we don’t tape random pictures in public places, much less on people’s mailboxes and shit, without permission. We also do not write mommy’s phone number on said pictures.

Then I see that he doesn’t have a roll of tape, but several feet of it.

He wouldn’t have gone to that much trouble on his own.

Fucking MIL. She sent him out of the house with tens of flyers and several feet of tape? Surely even she could see that this would not be a good idea, right?

After pulling all (I hope) of the posters down, I called her. I wanted to tell her that there was one more on her door, and to please take it down, but before I had a chance she launched into a
大丈夫、大丈夫。

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I was watching from my window and I saw where he put the pictures. Plus it’s a windy day so they’ll just blow away.”

I was frustrated, but not I’m angry.

“You didn’t try to stop him? Did you notice he wrote my phone number on there?”

“His handwriting is so bad….it’s not like anyone could read it.”

So you didn’t think it was worth teaching the child that we don’t plaster people’s personal info all over the neighborhood without their permission. Gotcha.

Somehow I managed to get off the phone without my head exploding. Though the explosion may still happen; it’s too soon to tell.

Poor Me First apologized over and over, even though I explained to him that he is not the person I am angry at.

This kind of shit is the reason I can’t trust my in-laws to help out with the kids. Sometimes misguided individuals make comments like, “You’re lucky to have help close by!” and I just think

。・°°・(＞_＜)・°°・。

Anticlimaxes, Twists, and Turns

Those of you who have been through something like this probably already know what happened this afternoon. Me First didn’t give the notebook to the teacher. He said he was worried that the other boys would get in trouble.

(~_~;)

That’s turning the other cheek and praying for your enemy all in one fell swoop, isn’t it? And this child has hardly ever set foot in a church. How did I do such a good job there? That’s children for you, isn’t it? We spend a good portion of our adult lives re-learning what comes to them naturally.

Anyway.

I had a talk with him, kind of similar to the cheating talk, actually, that when we let children get away with bullying behavior, they never learn that it is wrong. That leads to adult bullies, which leads to a)jail or b)a life without friends or love (I left out the other obvious result, c)a life of wealth and success unachievable by normal means.) We talked a little bit about why people become bullies, that they were bullied themselves or that they never learned aggressive behavior was wrong when they were small. Me Too very accurately pointed out a boy in her class who is on the verge of becoming one. Ouch. (She is right on, too.)

So, I think we had talked him into understanding why he had to tell the teacher.

He had a friend over this afternoon, and they spent a (weirdly) quiet afternoon playing with legos. Really, this kid needs to come over every day! I got so much work done while he was here. As soon as he left, Me Too awoke from her guest-induced lethargy and immediately destroyed the block creation they had been working on. Grrr. Luckily, I had dinner ready to distract them.

Then the phone rang.

I knew who it was before he announced himself. Not too many retirement age men call me. (Jiji prefers to have his wife call and yell at the phone over her shoulder.)

Apparently, someone else has notified the school on Me First’s behalf.

(I don’t know if it was Sparkly Mom or not.)

But, man, that has got things moving. Tomorrow, Me First’s teacher along with a couple of others are going to sit down with him and try to get to the bottom of exactly what is happening. The teacher came to me with the name of another child other than the usual suspects, so I suppose it will all come out. They want me to talk to him tonight and tell him that this will happen and that it’s okay to tell the truth.

It’s kind of easier for me this way, as now the school is in a 申し訳ない (apologetic) position to start with. I guess I need to keep on them to make sure the problem gets addressed properly.

Funny how that turned out.

Where’s the Devil?

We all know where the devil is, of course. In the details.

So what I have managed to get out of Me First in the past couple of days (and it hasn’t been easy) is this:

A) Three boys are kicking, punching, hitting him etc., when the teacher is not looking.

This may be hard to understand if you are in a country where kids are even remotely supervised, but kids here are left to their own devices a lot: break time between classes, when the class is moving to music class or English class, during lunch clean-up, etc.

B) Me First tried to tell the teacher on one occasion. His response was that he didn’t see what happened, he had the boys give their version of events (in front of each other) and apologize to each other. Me First didn’t tell me because he was made to feel that he was wrong (by apologizing.) After that he felt that the teacher wouldn’t listen. He is afraid the other boys will get him back if he tells.

I also have felt the teacher minimized my concerns on several occasions. (Does anyone else remember the ruler incident?)

C) Me First is not the only boy being hit or kicked, though he said he “gets it the most.”

D) At least one of the other boys is taunting him by calling him “gaikokujin” and “America-jin” in a mean way.

That last one is kind of the clincher for me. Hitting, kicking, stupid stuff like that? Boys do that shit. It isn’t nice to talk about, but they do. But the name calling and picking on someone who is “different” crosses another line, doesn’t it?

I heard this boy say this to Me First at the beginning of the year. (This kid has poor social skills, I think I think I mentioned before. Even 2nd graders should no better than to do stuff like that in front of the other kid’s mom, right?) Me First seemed to handle it well, explained calmly that he wasn’t actually “gaikokujin.” The other boy seemed to get bored and walked off. Me First didn’t get that the other boy was trying to be mean to him, so I let it slide. Perhaps I shouldn’t have.

Anyway, sorry to keep going round and round like this. I’m still trying to get my head around it, and steal myself against what I expect to be another minimizing reaction from the teacher. An absolute disgust tears through me when I think that this little boy, who I gave birth to and nursed and cuddled, have fretted over and laughed with, who has given me great joy and more than a few gray hairs, that other children think this boy is an object for their ridicule and abuse. And right now, just thinking about his teacher makes me feel sick to my stomach. He taught for 34 years. How many other children did he ignore?

But I’m being dramatic.

It doesn’t help matters that I feel like I’m being set up, again, to play the role of Hysterical Angry Foreign Woman, aka Kaya What’s-her-name and just about any other foreign woman on TV here. Even the “half-talent,” even the old ones, like Helen What’s-her-name who are over sixty and have never lived anywhere else, are presented that way.

Maybe I can work it in my favor.

(Sigh.)

Night, loves.