I wasn't going to write about this. Not yet, at least. Then my friend Kelly from Excitement on the Side wrote a great post on Angelina Jolie's decision to have a double mastectomy and I was certain  that I didn't need to write about it. I had nothing to add. She did a great job.  Then I began reading the comments. And tweets and general ass hat-ery on Facebook.  Like this....

 I would like to say a GIANT "FUCK YOU!" to all those posted above. AND THIS IS WHY...

I've had a doctor look me in the eye and say, "It's cancer" 

It's just as fucked up as you think it would be. There is a moment, scratch that, hours where there is nothing but white noise. Fog. No ability to hear or even see. There is an echo in your brain that keeps saying, "You are going to die". There is a nothingness that consumes you. A quiet. I can't even describe it right. It is its own void. A vacuum. Your face is frozen. Your voice isn't actually your voice. Your movements are purely functional. There is no real sound. You are going to die. 

My doctor held me by the shoulders. "Let me call someone for you", she said. Silence. Blank. Just blank.

"I'll just go to my mom", I finally said. "I'll go to my mom. It's ok. She's home. I know she's home", I said. And my doctor took her phone number down to be sure that I reached her. She lived just ten minutes away. She asked me to call her before I left. 

"Mom? <silence> Something bad, mom. I want to come over. OK? I'm coming over right now. Ok? Mama?"

I left out of the back door of the office. My doctor hugged me, so tight,  and promised that she was going to guide me through kicking this Cancer out of my body. She kept saying that I could "do this" that it was "early" and that I would "beat it". 

I thought to myself, 'I am going to die". Over and over again.

She opened the back door of the office. My keys in my hands felt like bricks. My feet, numb. My eyes, so blurry.  I remember thinking that this must be the way all women leave this office when they are told they have cancer or that they have miscarried or some other horrifying news. "This is the easy way out. So that no one sees the pain", I thought to myself. No one knows this kind of fear. It goes out the back door. 

I reached my car. I turned the keys. It hit me. My mom! I have to get to her!

I drove straight to her. I had no idea that there was anything else that I could do. I needed her. I needed her to tell me that I wasn't going to die. I will never forget the feeling of her words whispered in my ear as I sobbed into her breast. 

"You are NOT going to die. You. Are. Not. I swear to you, my love. You will NOT"  

Her words  saved me. I said to her in a voice almost inaudible, "Mommy, I am so scared. I don't want to die. Mommy, I'm so scared." 

"You will not. You won't."

She held me in her arms for so long. I never wanted her to let me go. I felt safe. I felt like she could take away the word. Cancer. Fucking CANCER. She could destroy it. She is my mama. She can take this away. Please, mama, take this away. 

I was 30 but I felt like I was 9. Her arms created a bubble of protection that is only possible from a mother to her child. And in that moment I trusted her. It was easy. She made me believe. She made me believe that I wasn't going to die.

Before my final surgery, I knew that this was "it". If they couldn't get the cancer, my dreams of being a mother naturally were over. Because the next surgery would mean a radical hysterectomy. My anxiety had me in a vice grip. I was suffocating the morning I walked into the hospital. I could not breath. I lay in the bed with my brave face on and my mom came to me. She held my hand and said to me, "They will get it. They will." 

I wasn't so sure. My brothers were there. My dad. My grandparents and my godmother. All there to tell me that it was going to be ok. All I could think was "What if I die. What if it's too late? Oh my God, am I dying and I just don't know it yet?"   

They hugged me and held me and joked with me and smiled at me and kissed me and promised me that no matter what, we would kick this Cancer's ass. I wanted to believe. Then I was under. When I came to, the anxiety came flying back with amazing speed. There was no forgetting. Not even in an anesthesia haze. 

I was to wait for 2-5 days for the results. 

I was lucky. SO FUCKING LUCKY. I came through. They got it. I wept so many tears. Releasing the throat gripping fear. Rejoicing the margins but unable still to wrap my head around the fact that they found fucking CANCER in my body. Unsure that they were right when they said it was gone. What if they were wrong? What if they missed something? Happy that I could still carry children. Unsure that I would. Praying that I really could. Knowing that if any ONE of the tests (every 90 days) came back even slightly off, the next surgery meant the end of my dreams for motherhood the way I wanted. Not because my doctor would force me to have a hysterectomy, but because I wanted to live and to have peace of mind. That was the next step. Take my legs, arms, a kidney and my breasts. Take my uterus and my hair, Dye my skin purple. Whatever it takes. Just do it. JUST TAKE THE CANCER RISK AWAY. Away from me. From my LIFE. 

So I come to this post, with some anger and sadness over the bullshit I have read on these here internets about Angelina Jolie's  decision to have a double mastectomy because she carried the BRCA 2 gene. And I am more than incensed at those of you waxing like you know what you would do in that situation.  Making some kind of joke about it or pretending you know what it's like. Let me tell you from someone who knows what it is like to hear "You have cancer" from a doctor that they trust. The only thing you are thinking is "get it out" and "do what you have to do" That's it. If it means you take my boobs, my uterus and my legs, then do it. They are things. They are not all of me. 

To those so willing to joke at her expense or to judge her for some imagined slight against the common woman, please listen up. You most definitely DO NOT know shit unless you have been in her shoes. Or mine. I live every day knowing (waiting?), for the day I will have to say goodbye to my uterus and ovaries. I will say goodbye to them without a thought or regret because I want to be here. I want to live. I want my children to not have to bury their mama before her time. I want to live this life with my beloved husband for as long as I can. I want to be here. And I suspect that is all that Angelina wants, too. Not because she is a celebrity and wants publicity but because she is a woman and a mother and a wife and she wants to live her life and be here for her children. I get that. And if you do not get that and are busy judging her (or me) for "mutilating" her body, well then I say to you that I sincerely hope you are never in the position to have to make that decision. I really do. Because it would mean that your life is on the line. I wish that on no one. Not even assholes on the internet. 

Please let go of your positions. Let go of your opinions and ideas and assumptions. Stop  arguing the decision that Angelina Jolie made for her body. I promise you that you  just. do . not. know. 

And I hope you never do. I really do. 

I've been a bit lazy in the way of blogging this week. Forgive me. I am sore and am painfully aware of muscles I had no idea existed thanks to my the ruthless commands of a totally hot trainer that I didn't want to disappoint. I mean I was sore before he made me plank and do crazy things yesterday morning but that's a whole other post. 

Going back through my phone for #iPPP pictures I noticed that in the last few weeks, I have made some big decisions about my health. I have a new attitude and resolve. But my kids could care less that mama's legs feel like wet noodles or that picking them up feels like someone is stabbing at my arms with a heated screwdriver. Nope. They are continuing on with their little lives oblivious to my pain and my plans. Little egoists. But I forgive them their childish ways. I mean there's a video at the end of this post where Plum tells me she loves me. So it's all gold. I'm easy to win over even when my body feels like I was trampled by bulls. 

Here's what's been happening the least few weeks on the Pants Ranch. First I got screened. Because of my history of cervical cancer, I have to go every year. Other ladies can go longer between appointments. No matter your category, pretty please go get your paps, ladies. They saved my life. 

I hate waiting for results, as you can imagine, so we took the kids to bounce house heaven. You think this is a blurry picture. I would argue that this is just what he looks like as he runs by. He makes me tired just watching him. 

A few days later, still waiting on the status of my girly parts and contemplating big changes in my life, I had a moment with my kids. It was the moment. The moment when things became so much clearer. They just sat with me. As though they knew I needed it. I had to capture a picture of it. It was the moment I decided to care for myself. We were still and quiet and everything just opened. 

A few minutes later Woody and Buzz turned on the TV and came to plead their case for watching Kipper the Dog. 
Just a normal day. 

More time went by. A week, actually, and I am still waiting to hear from the doc. I can think of no better thing to do than go to the Mother-Son dance at Pants' school. I think he looks pretty damn excited. Don't you? 

A few minutes before the phone rang, I took this picture. A picture of my beautiful girl with the sun coming through the windows as though it shined just for her. 

Exhale. All clear. I can breathe again. Seven years now. I spent a few minutes crying happy tears with myself as is my tradition when I get the all clear. Then it was time to get outside and live. It's finally spring. Our windows are finally open. The sun is shining. And good gravy if I didn't get Plum on video saying she loved me. 

"You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming" ~Pablo Neruda 

September 9, 2012
"So here is where I try and force myself out of the gate. By laying my heart here. And also my brain. I need to introduce the two of them since they seem to work on opposite schedules and rarely mingle. My heart wants health. My brain tells me I can't possibly get there. It tells me to give up. To not even try because I will fail. My brain lies and tells me that I'm just fine the way that I am. It says that the cookies on the counter will make me feel better. It tells me that my back injury will be aggravated if I exercise. My heart wants badly to beat the shit out of my brain." ~ Me (from my post Motivation.) 

It's been seven months. I never got those new shoes. I tried for a few weeks to feel out an exercise plan and new diet plan. Then a flood of excuses came. Hurting back. Sick kids. The holidays. Winter. Blah blah blah. Yap yap yap. Mama didn't get very far. But you know what they say (who are they?) , keep on keeping on, try try again, don't quit, nobody likes a quitter and all that jazz.

Yesterday I went to a gym to look around. 

There is something incredibly scary about gyms for a girl like me. It's what has kept me from ever stepping into them. The mean girl on the inside starts to whisper in my ear that I'm going to embarrass myself. That people will make fun of me as I sweat and jiggle on the equipment. She's an asshole, that girl in my head. She says that I will fail. I don't like her. So I held her in a headlock yesterday and forced myself into the car and across town to check out the gym. She almost gave me a panic attack in the parking lot. She tried to make me turn around. She made me shake. She encouraged me to hit Burger King for breakfast instead. But I held her tight and turned off her volume. I didn't listen.

Instead, I walked in. 

And something kind of crazy happened as I sat across the table from the dreamiest personal trainer you have ever seen. I wasn't intimidated by him. Mostly. I mean, there will always be a twinge of fear. That shit has been building up for 37 years. I'm not gonna get rid of it overnight. But  as I sat there talking to him about what having back to back babies and years of not caring for myself did to my body, he didn't look disgusted. He didn't even look like he was pretending not be disgusted because it was his job. Nope. Instead he looked... excited. Excited for me. When he said that he was excited to get started I actually believed him. 

And that gave me the ovaries to hand over my card and sign the hell up. Despite the fact that I wanted to vomit on the table. I drop-kicked the asshole voice inside my head. And she went away. Her voice replaced by the amazing voices of those that support me. I have women in my life who have my back and inspire me. They are who I heard in my head. They said, "You can do this. This will feel good. Do it. Do it. Do it."

So I was sitting there watching Plum flirt with the trainer when it hit me like a freight train and I felt like Jimmy freaking Dugan, man. 

I joined a damn gym, you guys. And I mean business. No more excuses. I'm gonna win. It's new. I'm still scared but I'm getting out of my own way. I going to do it scared. I am excited and might shart myself all at the same time. But that's what locker room showers are for right? 


Anyway, I gotta go.  I'm off to the store to finally buy those shoes.

I have a memory from my childhood that is awful. I inhaled chlorine into my lungs became very sick, struggled to breathe and was rushed to Children's Hospital. Here is my memory of it. 

I was 3 or 4 years old and playing with my cousins at my great-aunt's house. She had a very cool in-ground pool. My memories of that day were of my second cousins and how cool they were. I remember the sun shining on them as they sun bathed. They were gorgeous teenage girls and I wanted them to be my sisters. After eating fruit salad, potato salad and a grilled hot dog off a thick paper plate, I ran off with my brothers into an immense yard. While we were goofing around, we discovered a shed. Naturally we went inside to check it out. There was a bucket that was covered with a piece of burlap sack. I lifted the fabric and my brothers asked me what I had found. I reached in and pulled out a white hockey puck and placed it to my nose to smell it. The rest of my memory goes like this: I can't breathe. Hospital lights. This puppet. I smell the pool. Something is on my face. My mom. Yellowish walls and crisp hospital bed sheets. I see my legs. The end. 

But guess what? 

It didn't happen that way. It happened. Just not that way. The entire lead up to the trauma is completely fabricated. But dudes, it's is how I "remember" it going down. It was just recently that I asked my mom about it and she told me what really happened.

There was no shed. No yard. No burlap sack.  It happened inside my grandma's house, not my great-aunt's house. The only true parts of the "memory" are at the very end starting from when I couldn't breathe. The hockey puck was chlorine for  my grandma's above ground pool. I didn't just smell it. I inhaled it. My lips turned blue and I was struggling to breathe with chlorine in my lungs. I was rushed to the hospital and the rest of my recollection is true. Even the creepy puppet.

Uh...my memory wasn't real. That is insane pants.

So naturally, I've been obsessively thinking about memory and childhood. Then I started  thinking about the day that Mr. Pants was swarmed by hornets and how that horrifying memory might just show up to him someday. I know he will retain the physical memory of it because a tiny body doesn't forget 22 hornet stings. But I wondered if he will actually remember what happened versus building a memory based on our re-telling of that day or by merging several memories together. Or maybe my memory about that day will morph into something else since this is apparently a problem for me. I mean, when I'm 70 will I be telling the story about how he was attacked by bears in a swimming pool? Who knows? 

To comfort myself or to find out if I was crazy, I did a little research and I found that children under three are physically incapable of forming long term memories. Which is awesome to know. Also, more importantly,  creating false memories is normal. Phew! You cancheck out some fun facts here. And if this is up your alley like it is mine, follow the linked sources too. It will blow your mind.  Blow. Your. Mind. As in, freak your freak. Fascinating stuff.

 

Have you ever discovered that you have a false memory? 

I have an unhealthy fear of spiders. It's too much. I get that. I have a pretty good idea where it came from too....

My dad is a gentle and loving person. It's even possible that he is an accidental Buddhist. Because he cannot kill any of God's sacred creatures. Ask me how I know. How do I know? Oh, thanks for asking! I remember it like it was yesterday but it was 32-ish years ago. It might have been a dark and stormy night, but probably not. Whatever. 

I screamed and screamed. "DAAAD- DAY!! HALP!!!" and I saw his shadowy man frame enter my room. He was going to save me. He was going to kill the fuck out of this spider! My hero!

Whoa, wait...what are you doing, daddy?

"I'll just let him go back to his home. He's lost"

And with that, my dad picked up the spider like it was no big thing (Like.It.Was.No.Big.Thing.) and gently placed him out of my bedroom window like it was a newborn baby. You know, under the screen that had been loose for years? The one that pops off when you look at it sideways? That one. That night I lay in bed waiting for that spider to exact its revenge on me whilst I slept. And I'm pretty sure this is when my fear was stapled into my brain. Stapled.

Thankfully my dad doesn't read this blog because I would hate for him to feel bad. He can't help his gentle ways. Honestly his gentle ways are what made him a great dad (with this one exception, of course). I mean, you know how they say that you marry your dad? It's crazy true. But I digress...

So I am horror movie a-scared of spiders. It hurts to even write the word but I need to explain why my boob is throbbing and bleeding right now. Oh yeah, dudes, I said bleeding. And it's because I am a terrible mother. Do you remember when I left my children to the mercy of that baby skunk? Not my finest moment.

Also not my finest moment? Seeing a spider in the bed while nursing Plum to sleep tonight. Plum, who is cutting molars and really into nursing right now. Plum who was trying to sleep like an angel. Plum who missed her nap and was so tired and needed the comfort of her mama to soothe her into a delicious teething pain-free sleep. Plum who tried desperately to hang on while her mother lost her sham-a-lama-ding-dong mind. Poor Plum.

She didn't deserve the screaming mom that jumped and ran from the room. She tried to hang on. She tried really freeg-balls hard. So hard that, well, I already told you in the post title. So that is why I am icing my nipple down as I type. 

Boo to me, dudes.

Boo. To. Me. And my bullshit fear of spiders. Fa-gargle.

You probably missed it yesterday if you read the Pearl. You were probably distracted by the smooshy sweetness of Pants zonked out with his dad. But if you have an eagle-eye, you might have seen it. There in the crook of his arm...the bottle.

Dun-Dun-DUN! { Cymbal crash!}

If you saw it, I hope you didn't judge. I know that it's possible that some did. And I'm ok with that. It's hard not to judge sometimes. I get it. There are rules, right? Rules that people who haven't met my kid or yours have written into forty-two thousand parenting books. One of those rules is that three-year-olds shouldn't still have a bottle. And if they do, even though they shouldn't,  it better not be chocolate milk in there.
 
Meh. I've never been a rule follower. I mean, it's not whiskey. I'd draw the line at whiskey.

I could explain why he still uses his "bubba" but I'm not going to. Trust me, I am tempted. Because I am not immune from feeling bummed out by judgment. But I'm more stubborn than that (Note to self: That is why the kids are stubborn!).  So I'm not explaining. Beyond shrugging my shoulders and saying that he still needs it. Someday he won't. That's all. See, I think it doesn't matter why. There could be a reason that would make people understand or not. None of that matters because I'm just not worried about it.

There are probably 20-30 (thousand?) things we do here at the Pants Ranch that I sometimes feel the knee-jerk reaction to explain. But I've made the decision to not do that anymore. It's not easy to do because of the whole culture of parenting judgment that seems to have so many of us by the nuts. But I vowed a while back to end my judgment of other parents. And it has been kind of awesome letting go of that negativity.

So now  I am working hard on not giving a damn what others think about things like the bottle (Dun-Dun-D... oh forget it). Now I am working on my fear of judgment. We do things differently than many. And many people do things similar to us. Blah blah blah. I am throwing out the need to explain for fear of judgment. I am kicking it to the curb. Our three-year-old still uses a bottle. The end.  

Do you ever feel the need to defend your parenting choices? Have you felt judged for your parenting? Have you handed out that judgment to others?

It's been on my mind a lot this week. 2013 is brand new and it brings with it those promises we all love to make to ourselves. I've started to think about my body. Just like I do every single year at this time. I think about how I want to treat it better and be healthier. How I want to be nicer to myself when I'm inside of my head chatting away. These are good things, of course. But then something inevitably happens. I start to lament the things I haven't already done and the ways I wish I could be different than who I am physically. 

It started this morning in record time. As I squeezed in a new pair of PJ pants after Plum wiped some boogers on the ones I was wearing. It didn't go well. They were more than snug. More than just a little tight. And I started down the road of self-destruction. Why can't you get your shit together? You are gross. You are fat. LOOK at you.  

But then, before I could even peel the pants back off, I was out of that shame spiral. I was on to more important things. I throat punched that mean girl in my head. I told her to back the fuck off. And I nursed my child who had just fallen down and needed comfort. I nursed her with the very body I had just been shaming. And as I looked at my perfect child and held her as she quieted, her hand gently patting the stretched and marked belly I grew her in, I began hoping for her. Wishing and dreaming for her that she will love her own body.

My Darling Girl,

Your body is a gift. Your body does and will continue to do amazing things. And I want you to believe that. I am desperate for you to know that.

My body made you. That's kind of the most amazing thing, isn't it?

I pray that I can foster in you a love for the body that I grew in mine. Because there will be times when you aren't so sure. Times when it's hard to love yourself and yep, the Target fitting room might be one of those places. I want to build you up and teach you how to love your body so that you can handle those moments with grace, and maybe a little humor. And walk tall right on out of there. Chin to the sky. Letting it roll off. Knowing that it's not you. That it's a piece of clothing that didn't work. And that it has no power over you and will never inform you of your beauty.

I promise you that I will work hard every single day to speak kindly to myself. Not just in front of you, but also when you are not there. Because I intend to believe in me, too.  Baby girl, my whole life I have struggled to love my body. To accept it and care for it without shame. But there is something in me today, in this moment, that says to stop. Stop being cruel to myself. Stop wasting time by wishing and not doing. Stop beating myself down. Just stop so that I can start somewhere else. Anywhere. Just start.

You are watching me. You are learning from me. 

I promise to try and rid my language of words that could wound you without my intention and to help you to process those words coming from others. I hope to teach you that you are beautiful. Inside and out. Because you are, my sweet girl. You just are.

It's that simple and that complicated, all at once.

You are perfect just the way you are.

Love, Mama

  And so today I say to myself, You are beautiful. You are divine. LOOK at you. You are amazing.
What kind words will you say to yourself today?

My heart hurts and I know yours does too. I know in my bones that you ache the same way that I do for the mommies and daddies and families of the precious babies killed at Sandy Hook Elementary School. You are stuck, like I am, on the horrifying moments at the end of their precious lives. Hoping beyond hope that they were not scared and that right now as I type this, they are in a better and more beautiful place than this hard and cold and uncivilized world.  You want to hold their parents and tell them that it will be ok. But you know in your skin that it is not. That it cannot be ok. You want to take some portion of the their pain and absorb it for them. You want to scream into the air "WHY!?!?!? Why babies? Who fucking does this???" But there is nothing we can do. Nothing can change the horror that blew up our news feeds yesterday. Nothing can be done to fix it. It is done. And the pain rippled through the entire nation.

Last night I tucked my hearts into bed. I sang them songs and we said our nightly blessing. I spent a really long time just looking at them and touching them and kissing them until they became annoyed with me. I stepped away from all electronics yesterday because my urge was to play with and just be with my children. And for yesterday, for me, it was all I could do. It was how I could help. But that was yesterday. And now here I am, they are still sleeping this morning and I need to write out my heart. Now I need to talk about what we can do. How can we heal? How can we stop this from happening ever again?  And why haven't we figured this out yet?

I've written about this before. Because yesterday is not the first day that children have been killed in their schools. And it takes my breath away to say it out loud, but it won't be the last.

Friends, it won't be the last. So what do we do? How do we stop the next mass killing? If we knew that we would have done it, right?

The White House issued a statement yesterday  along the lines of "today isn't the day to talk about gun control" and while I have deep respect for our President and rallied for him all year to be re-elected, I disagree. Strongly. To me, it is the exact right time to talk about what can be done to prevent babies from being killed in their schools by raging lunitics. Don't get me wrong, I'm not syaing that gun control will fix everything. There are factors and factors and more factors and questions and answers and what ifs and strategies and policies and basic human unpredicatability all sitting at the table on this one. But at the head of that table sits a mentally ill person with weapons. Specifically guns. And that guy,  is the guy that walked into Sandy Hook school yesterday and into the movie theater in Aurora and onto the Virginia Tech campus and in that MacDonalds in California and that cafeteria in Texas and into Columbine High School and the NY imigration office. And on and on and on. We have to start with THAT GUY because he is the problem.

So we have to talk about guns. We just have to. We need to put aside our bullshit positions on the far left and far right and meet at the table. We have to make the representatives of our government sit down at the freaking table. What kind of people are we that we see these things happening over and over again but resign oursleves to not talking about guns because well, wait, what are the reasons?

We have to start. And we have to start because we have all had enough.

I'm not saying it's possible to end violence, although I have some ideas on that too, but I am saying that we can end children being murdered in their schools. We start by opening our front door and stepping out. We start by picking up the phone and calling our senators and representatives in Congress. We start by reaching out and connecting with people who are hurting. We start by genuinely giving a shit about our neighbors and their kids. We start by being present enough in our own life to be present in the lives of others too. We start by demanding the government to hear us. We start by supporting agencies that reach out to the sick and mentally ill.

We start with these things and then we don't STOP.  That is the key. We are angry now. We are horrified and sick to our stomachs over what happened yesterday. We are tearful and raw and we want to DO something. But we cannot stop doing them. We cannot forget to keep working the problem even when the news cycle has moved on.

So here are some ideas. Places to start. Places to place your energy or your money. I have contacted my representatives through email. I will call them today. I will also use this blog regularly to discuss and advocate that we never leave the table. Instead of gifts for me and the husband, we will be giving money to organizations that can help. That's what I have so far for us.

Now what about you?

Below there are agencies that need your money or your time or your influence. There are people to call and letters to write. There are things to do. We can change lives and heal broken hearts. And while none of us are big enough to do it alone, we are big enough to change one life. We can help. And we are big enough to spur our government into action. No more sitting back. We cannot sit back anymore. 

Let's change the world. One person at a time.

Join up.

Call or visit these programs, sites or agencies and see where they need help.

My meeting with his teacher was at 4:15. I was so nervous; I got into some nice jeans (read: clean), put on a sweater and some sassy black boots. I showered, too.

I'm fifteen minutes early so I take a look around. The school is so sweetly small. And that's because it is for miniature people. I stop in the library. It's the cutest library you've ever seen.

I look at the artwork on the walls. I find Mr. Pants' pumpkin hanging among the patch. I get a bit weepy about it.

So I head to the ladies room to freshen up. And I am too tall for it. It's all too adorable.

Making my way back to begin our conference, I am eager to talk about my kid. There is a question nagging at me but I'm afraid to ask it. I received his progress report last week. It basically said he is smart as a whip. It also said he is quiet. Now a lot of people have quiet kids. It's a very natural and normal way to be. There is nothing wrong with it. But my kid is not quiet.  Not by anyone's definition of the word. I read that part over and over. "He keeps to himself". "He's observant and quiet". "Always well behaved". And I panicked. That's not my kid.  My kid is loud and insane. Laughs in guffaws and yell talks. He is demanding and assertive to a fault. But it seems he doesn't rule the pre-school kingdom yet. And a part of me is freaking out while the other half is saying be calm. He's adjusting still. That's when the question came to me. And it never left.

His teacher Mrs. K has a bubbly personality. I like her. She tells me all about the routine of the class. She explained the surprise piece of candy in his back pack the other day. She told me that Mr. Pants is becoming more and more comfortable in class. Not talking very much, but still. He is doing well. She tells me that she doesn't push him to interact with other kids because she thinks that will send him backwards. I agree. She goes on and on and I begin to tune it all out. Because that question is trying to jump out of my mouth and I don't know if I want the answer yet.

She finishes talking. She seems to genuinely like my kid and that makes me happy. She asks if I have any questions. I pause. "Do, um.." I begin trying to think of something else to ask but I have nothing. I start to fumble for my words to stall but they come anyway. "Do they, um, the other kids..." Gulp. I'm trying not to tear up. "Do they like him? Are they nice to him?" and a tear broke through but I kept it in the eye. I felt stupid. I'm such an emotional blob sometimes and I didn't want to do this here. I look down and shuffle the papers in front of me as a diversion. She smiles and says, "I know why that worries you. Yes, they do. He keeps to himself but there is a little girl named K that always eats lunch with him. She's older and she kind of took to him early on and helps him to transition. It's very sweet. And W loves to run with him on the playground. They run laps the whole time. It's so funny. They just laugh and laugh." I thank her and get up to leave.

When I get to my car, I let the tears come. Relief. I head home to my kid who has two friends. Two whole friends. And I cry happy tears about it all the way home.