It's from pacing. And trying REALLY hard to keep my mouth shut. I called my mom, my teacher friend's answering system and CG's machine. But God sent this letter to my house on a Saturday to give me time to get my shit together.
It's going to take until Monday morning.
THIS IS A SMALL PLACE TO LIVE. If you are ten years or older? There is a 50% chance one of my parents was your (pick one or more):
Driver's ed teacher
Superintendent of Education
Scholar Bowl coach
Chairman of the county board of education, or...
FLOOR MOPPER...AMBULANCE RIDER (when I was ten, my sister eight and my little brother two, my dad the coach took us to a football game and a player was injured and my dad got in the ambulance and went to the hospital with the injured boy and.............LEFT HIS KIDS. Us. At the stadium. When all the lights went dark? We started walking down streets and knocked on the first door with a light on and because...THIS IS BUMFUZZLE?...it was one of my dad's best friend's mom's house. And she called my mother.)
The point of all this? Me. The Mom. The woman who gave up her potential university teaching position and body and mind to raise kids? I got a letter today from...the board of education.
I am supposed to appear before a judge Tuesday morning to explain my child's unexplained absences. Because, apparently, in PUBLIC SCHOOL, you can't miss a day without a written excuse. Because the state doesn't get money. And they DON'T CARE how many blood hours you and your family have put into the workings of public school systems and it doesn't MATTER that we are talking about three days for a brown recluse bite and three days for the crud.
THERE HAS TO BE A WRITTEN EXCUSE. From me. The Mom. Who hasn't (severely) screwed up with her kids in almost 30 years. The woman who worries about EVERYTHING and who had a TracFone in her seven-year-old's pocket every time we went to an event with more than 50 people. Because you never know where the psychos and whackos are hanging out.
I know. It's beauracracy. It's the wheels that turn. It's reality. But it's ME. And you didn't call and you didn't send a letter and you want me to be WHERE? Tuesday?
Monday? That judge was in kindergarten and 12 years of school with The Big Boy, and my dad was his principal in jr high and his teacher in high school and served on the tourism board with him and...oh, yeah. Boy Scouts and baseball. And, my mother's student aide married him and my...I quit.
But come Monday? If they ever send me a letter like this again, I will put my kids RIGHT back into private school.
Because THIS is what is wrong with the world today. This and excessive packaging on Kellogg Corn flakes and the TOTAL incongruity that is the wheel and all that shit people throw out on the side of the road.
Me. Me. The Woman With No Life because she spent hers on her kids.
I don't think so.
I'll finish this when I get...composed. Or out of jail.
I will throw in here that this is the school system that...last week? Used its finances and resources and administrative talent and hardware and software and brain power and time and oh yeah! YOUR tax dollars. To do a skills assessment test on The Nice Kid and sent me a printed report to inform me...I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP...that my child should be a puppeteer. A puppeteer. Number one spot on the form. Top of the list. Puppeteer. WONDER HOW MUCH TIME AND MONEY THAT TOOK?
Apparently, there are benefits here I'm unaware of.