I'm sad, I hate you, I love you

Maisie's school strings teacher snapped at her yesterday--called her disorganized because, well, she went to violin lesson without her violin. (In her defense: it was the first in-school violin class, and a lot of kids didn't even have their violins yet, so none of the other kids going from her class were carrying instruments. Hers was in her locker; she just ran and got it. Is it really that big a deal?) I happen to know that the kid is extremely organized. She came home in tears; said she didn't want to be in the orchestra, though she's been dying to be in the orchestra for the last two years. A lot of emotion for what seemed like a small thing. So I called the teacher, and he called me back this morning around 7. I told him she was upset and asked what happened (though I already knew; I just wanted him to know that when she's upset, I'm going to be calling to check in about it.) He denied calling her disorganized; disorganized isn't a word Maisie would dream up. I was pleased to see him noting that it's not a useful approach on the first day of class, but I couldn't figure out what happened to trigger such bad feelings in her. I found myself blinking back tears, telling him that she's always loved music, and it's important to me that she continue to love it. He had nothing to say; his youth was showing. Do people without kids get it? Do they know that when you hurt somebody's child, the parent feels a boot heel on their own heart?

Then Liam decides he doesn't want to go to school. "You let Maisie have goof-off days last year. I want one today." "Not in the first month of school," I tell him, still drained from the orchestra teacher conversation. And so Liam gets pissy. His shoes bother him. His underwear is itchy. He doesn't want to carry his backpack. He doesn't want me at the bus stop. Little fucker--I wanted to haul him by the ear. We walk down the driveway on opposite sides, both of us looking away from the other. We wait at the bus stop ten feet apart. I know he'll eventually give--I know he'll shuffle over and nudge me, and that'll be the sign that the door is open again. But I'm imagining the bus stopping and him storming on without nudging me, and then crying on the bus because then it's too late for us to make up. And who's the adult here anyway? I'm wiping away tears--I don't want him to see. Finally, the nudge. I pick him up and he hugs me. "I hate it when you're mad at me," I whisper. "I hate it, too," he says. Then quick, distracting praise about the clothes he picked out today, and off he goes. "Love you, Mom," tossed over his shoulder.

I tell you, parenting is not for sissies.