Mommy NTBFW

When Aria was diagnosed with leukemia, we had to leave behind the Montessori, along her first friendships. We couldn't afford to pay tuition when her attendance would be erratic so we started art classes, which she loves. Though, she would have love Street Cleaning Class, if it meant getting to leave the house.

We took advantage of our public school's free Pre-K program for kids with "special needs." Qualifying "needs" run the gamut from financial to developmental to physical... ding ding ding! Cancer is a winner.

Aria's personality, coupled with her cancer, has revealed one of her most impressive superpowers. She is: Adaptability Girl! She ran in those school doors Monday without looking back.

At pick-up a mere 2.5 hours later, she had wilted: pale, empty and droopy. Though now a seasoned 4-year-old, she lifted her arms toddler-style and said, "I'm sweepy,"  I happily hoisted all her 33 lb. of squishy perfection onto my hip.

We all know that chemotherapy tends to weary a person -- especially a 4-year-old person. And by "all" I mean "everyone except the 40-something Preschool Coordinator, who is fully aware of Aria's on-going chemo treatments.

She instructed me to put Aria down and make her walk, invoking the Royal We, as in, "We don't carry the children."

The sole message my brain could form: "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Historically, however, I wait until Week Two to swear at preschool teachers. I manageed to squeak out an apologetic, "She's exhausted."

In lieu of realizing her error, however, the Coordinator decided she did not quite agree that our excuse was acceptable, but that she was willing to let our violation slide this one time, benevolent leader that she was.

This is the part that pisses me off the most: I put Aria down.

I made my sick kid walk because an adult-who-should-have-known-way-better cited policy. The last time a preschool administrator inappropriately cited a policy to me, I explained why she didn't grasp the underlying point of her own policy, encouraged her to redirect her misplaced sense of authority, and then to have a nice day. That preschool director called me hostile, and she was right.

As a policy, I hate policy (unless I wrote it). I'm more of a "guideline" kind of gal. Most rules are written to CYA for the bureaucrats to deal with humans whose thought processes are...not thorough.

I understand there are many humans for whom that unfortunately applies, thus making policies crucial to group functionality. However, I am not one of those humans.

Back to CarryGate. Why didn't I woman up and explain the situation? Why did I retreat? Where was my mamabearness? So disappointing.

Sure, five seconds after I put Aria on her feet, I picked her back up. But it was five seconds too late for my pride. I'm the mom of a kid who has a fucking port installed in her chest. A kid who had to tell her first friend at her new school that no, she is not a boy and can't you see all my fuzzy hair that's grown back?

CarryGate was two days ago I'm still replaying it with a different ending, where I'm crisp, assertive, clever, and self-assuredly holding onto my wrecked 4-year-old. Had I countered the woman's misguided directive with a response more befitting my imaginary self-image as a bad ass, I might not be so feeling so wronged.

I know this sort of thing happens to everyone. I know this is my ego tugging at me. I know this preschool teacher a famed power-tripper. I am even aware that my self-censure is because, after 40 years, I'm still trying to unlearn the idea that aggression  is power and power is survival.

But, I still feel better when I say this: I look forward to the opportunity to redeem myself as a Mommy Not To Be Fucked With.