Boy, Don’t Cry

Usually when I am stuck for a topic to write about I look to desperation and despair to inspire some mellifluous words to weep up onto the page. This leaves some readers shaking their head at my level of exposure.  But as I have said before, I try to suck you in with my vulnerability, leaving you empathetic and feeling better about your own life.  What can I say?  I’m a giver.

It’s Monday as the date above suggests and I, like others, prefer Saturdays to Mondays.  Although, there is something about the beginning of a week that appeals to me.  It provides the opportunity to set the agenda for the week, both emotional (oh Jeezus, here we go) and the functional, as I have mentioned we try to equate our social responsibilities to other, more pragmatic responsibilities thus leaving us both financial and morally bankrupt.

This week’s goodies include:

• The basic: Swimming tonight for the boys.
• The neato:  Tomorrow night, S is going to see Hillary Swank talk about something, probably how to look manly and attractive at the same time.  (Actually keynote at a fundraiser for the Baycrest’s Women’s Brain Health Research Fund, but that sure murdered the light hearted joke).
• The exercise:  Basketball on Wednesday for me.
• The community: 190^th troop cubs on Wednesday for Hud.  High waisted pant wearing men unite!
• The crazy – Charity function for S. on Thursday.  Both are invited but I am deferring to protect both my liver and our pocketbook.
• Friday mad dash to the cottage.

So there is the functional and typical agenda.  What about the emotional agenda you may be thinking but secretly dreading?  Why am I having a conversation with my readers?  Is also making you feel uncomfortable?

Actually don’t know how I feel today.  Worried about my eldest son mostly.  Feel like we are unsystematically creating a little pain filled monster. That all his way-too-soon angst will manifest into something more nefarious, more permanent.  He is so concerned about how he is perceived and lacks an iota of confidence that before too long some thug will lead him down a path of notoriety.  Not today at nine years old, but tomorrow at 12, or maybe the next day at 15.  And I don’t know how to curb it.  I love him ferociously but feel inept to deal with the anxiety I have surely bequeathed upon him like some sort of inner cheek biting curse.

I portray myself as strong but real, allowing faults to be apparent, that is ok to fuck up every once in awhile, trying to let the air out of the overinflated balloon a little.  I dance and sing and clown in malls, not giving a shit what Yorkdale Shore think of me, displaying my own acts of random (yet oddly false) confidence.

I preach integrity and honesty, about the value of giving back to, and being part of a community, to be charitable and forgiving of others, how the harder things are, the more rewarding the accomplishments will be.

Yet all he wants is to play video games that reward acts of violence and watch The Hangover 2 and can’t understand why I won’t let him even though other kids can.

I want to attach myself to his torso and berate any playground cool kid that makes fun of the way he throws a football.  I want to sit next to him in class and wink 14 times when the answer is 14.  I want to race him to the 50 cent pop can machine at the fire hall and tell him everything really will be ok.  I want to lie next to him in bed and listen to his gentle, peaceful snore.

It’s still early I keep telling him and myself, that it’s only been seven weeks since the dramatic change of schools and I am underestimating both the impact and the effect.  I know I have to let go a little bit each day, month, year to allow the confidence to grow, trusting all the value based stuff I have been yakking will eventually sink in.

It still feels like I am running out of time.