I was stretched out, hammer in hand, nails in mouth, sweat dripping down my face, my tiptoes precariously close to the edge of the footstool stringing fairy lights around the 2020 version of my daughter’s “classroom” because nothing exemplifies hallowed halls of learning like a string of lights named after a magical woodland creature.
Considering that a good portion of the life that she has known for the past 11 years has been completely upended I was determined to give her a warm, inviting personalized space for virtual learning…you know, because I am a warm and inviting mother.
I informed my husband about my plans for the magical classroom transformation the night before it was going down. He said, “Are you doing this by yourself or are you going to let Conley help?”
When I replied that I was going to let her help, he grinned, shook his head and said, “I wonder which one of you will call me in tears first?”
I dismissed my husband – the cynic. He was implying that just because my daughter and I have vastly different tastes and work styles that we couldn’t come together for a beautiful show of pandemic decorating solidarity. Just like Jon Snow, he knows nothing.
Except that he does.
We actually made it through the decorating without getting into any major disagreements despite my firm belief that she could have thrown away about 78 percent more items than she did, but as she told me, “Hoarders gotta hoard, mom!”
It was after we were finished when I scooted right up to the ledge of full blown “when I was your age” meltdown. When the lights were strung and the art was hung, we stepped back, wiped our brows and admired our joint efforts.
It was then that Conley made her fatal error. She looked at the other part of the room that we converted into a home gym at the beginning of our, as we call it, losing season, and asked if we just planned on keeping all of the gym equipment in there with her. Thinking that she was afraid that I would start using it during her zoom calls, I said, “Well, yes, but I won’t start pedaling away on the bike or break out down dog when you’re in science.”
She informed me that she wasn’t worried about that, but just wanted “her whole room back”.
“What do you mean YOUR whole room back?”
“Well, this used to be my toy room and art studio and then you took over most of it with the gym equipment and now I only have this small space that I also have to use for my classroom…and, I just don’t think that is fair!”
“Did you just say that you don’t think it isn’t fair that at eleven years old you no longer have a TOY room…and, umm, did you use the words ‘ART STUDIO’? ‘Cause I want to make completely sure that you have chosen to die on the hill of fairness and art studio before I continue.
And, that folks, is when my husband got simultaneous tearful calls from the women in his life.
I try to not bring up my childhood as a comparison to my daughter’s because that is something that is actually not fair. And, as I’ve told her when I’ve seen her face crumble into worry when she has heard bits and pieces of how I was raised, I would do it all a million times over to be where I am today.
But, come on!
I am 32 years removed and it makes my chest tight to think about navigating this type of situation when I was in sixth grade. School was my daily escape. There would have been no fairy lights or colorful art displays. I most likely would have bounced around to different relatives’ houses for a wifi hotspot. I would be crippled with anxiety that my parents would pawn my school issued laptop.
And, I know that there are kids out there facing this same kind of stress right now. I am beyond thankful that our biggest obstacle is making sure a string of lights is even. My first instinct was to blow up at my child and tell her exactly how great she has it. But, I calmed down…with a little help from my personal Jon Snow.
It is the parenting paradox that I often face…having a deep seated desire to give my daughter the exact opposite type of childhood than what I experienced while never wanting her to take her upbringing for granted. It’s an intricate dance.
Therefore, I pivoted from the “are you freaking kidding me with this load of entitled crap?” step and reminded her that despite the world being a swirling dumpster fire right now that we are, in fact, extremely fortunate. I gave her some good-natured hell about the fact that she had an “art studio” in the first place and reminded her that she uses the gym equipment she was so irritated about on a very regular basis…as I’m sure anyone who follows her on the ‘gram knows. I also reminded her that she should be down on her knees thankful that she simply has an opportunity for an education – because so many kids, especially girls, don’t.
I admitted that what we are facing right now is a huge adjustment: that this is not at all how I wanted her to start middle school. I have my own set of irritations and “not fairs” about how we got here, but that isn’t the most important aspect of this right now. Right now I am glad that my daughter is safe and healthy. I am glad that their are public school educators, whom are woefully underpaid during the best of times, have put so much time and effort into making sure that all our children have a fair shake.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
