Playground Survivor

Yesterday afternoon my 8 yo came home from school kicking the dust and looking like his chin was super glued to his chest. It didn't take a junior psychologist to figure out the guy had a rough day.

"Hey, kiddo how was your day?"

"Fine. Ok. Can I play my game cube?"

"Urm, hold up a minute. You look sad. What happened?"

"Nothing. Can I play my game cube?"

Hmm... thinks I. He wants to escape and doesn't seem keen to talk about it. Maybe I should try another approach. "Not, right now. How about having some popcorn with me?"

The conversation then turned to questions about homework and upcoming spelling tests. At which point he burst into tears when he realized that he had left his spelling list at school.

"This is the worst day EVER!"

I waited for it. It was building up...

"No one would play with me at recess. No one would let me play kickball. I asked both teams and they didn't want me because I'm not a good kicker. Then I forgot my spelling list and I'm never going to get to play my game cube EVER again."

There it was. All spewed forth at my feet. Much like a kid who eats nachos, cotton candy, pretzles, hotdogs, and chased it with rootbeer does just after getting off the tilt-a-wheel at the fair.

"Geez, that does sound like a bad day. No one played with you. That feels pretty bad."

There are times as a parent when you feel this ugly thing rise out of your chest. It's not pretty to admit. But on good days it only resembles you in the form of a big sister or older cousin who could go to school and with your hands on your hips tell those little snots not to pick on him or else. On bad days it looks like Sigourny Weaver.

On PMS days it looks like the Alien.

I always wished that I had a big sister or brother who would have done that for me. Someone who would have told Athena C. and Nicky A. that mean girls suck and I was a cool kid dammit. That I was still just as good as they were even if my parents couldn't afford to buy me cool clothes. That just because my dad was only a mechanic and not a doctor didn't mean I was less important. That they should let me play four square with them and talk in their cool circle.

Whew. Maybe time to sign up for that second round of therapy. Okay... okay... third round.

But then you realize that you are the grown up now. Beating up little kids is... uh... not an option. (Now, please do not think I'm harboring thoughts of hurting children. I'm not. This is all very tongue and cheek. So chill and get your finger off of the speed dial for child protective services.)

The ghosts of our childhood don't have to haunt our children. But they do pop up like a surprise seance and you feel like the new soccer mom medium. Watch out Patricia Arquette. I don't psh psh them away though. Those ghosts...err... experiences give you perspective and empathy... wise little buggers.

Not exactly what you tell an 8 yo who just wants to play kickball at recess. Instead of long lectures about the meaness of kids and how they don't know what they are missing and how in 10 years it won't matter. We spent some time brainstorming things that we could do to make it better.

Spelling List

• Never go back to school
• Mom homeschools son
• Mom calls the teacher and gets spelling list
• Mom calls and tells the teacher son can't take test tomorrow
• Son calls the teacher and tells her he needs the list.
• Son skips test and finds a job that doesn't require you to spell
• Son calls a friend from class and gets the list and reviews for test

Playground

• Never go back to school
• Mom homeschools son
• Stay inside and do extra homework instead of recess
• Mom goes to school and yells at kids
• Mom calls the teacher and tells her kids are picking on son
• Play with other friends on the playground
• Practice kicking the ball at home
• When they say you aren't a good kicker, respond by saying what you are good at. "I'm a good catcher though. I help get the other team out when it's their turn to kick."

He then decided that the best solutions were: calling a friend to get the spelling list and ended up inviting him over for a movie this weekend and maybe practicing some kickball in the backyard. I hugged my kiddo, told him how much I know it hurts to be left out, and how stinkin' proud I'm of him for coming up with ideas and making good choices.

His chin miraculously came unglued from his chest. He beamed.

"I am good at figuring out problems."

"Yes, you are."

When my husband walked in the door he found me being chased by an 8 yo, a 4 yo, a baby in a walker (don't send me hate mail over that) and a dog. We were taking turns kicking a rolled up sock and running around the kitchen table. When he asked what we were doing we told him training for playground survivor.