Wild@Heart:But that's a conversation for another night. Sweet dreams, trouble.
And then—nothing. He just leaves me lying there in my bed with my pulse running wild and my skin on fire and my whole body screamingcome back here and finish this!
I’m vibrating like a tuning fork.
The absolute, calculated, devastating audacity of that man.
I could finish what he started myself, but no. I want to sit in the need.Feel it.Because it has been so goddamn long since I'd feltanythingclose to this that even the frustration is delicious.
I roll over, press my face into the pillow, and laugh…the breathless, giddy, slightly unhinged laugh of a woman who just got ruined by a text exchange from an online mystery man and loved every second of it.
Monday comes and brings Simon's latest masterpiece of adolescent destruction with it.
His science teacher, Mr. Hansen, calls me during my lunch break. I'm eating a sad yogurt at my desk and mentally rehearsing this afternoon's lesson on fractions when my phone rings with his school's number.
My stomach drops. It’s never good when the middle school calls you during the day.
Simon talked back in class—not just a little under-the-breath mutter, but a full-volume "this is stupid bullshit and I don't care" that stopped the room.
His grades are slipping. He didn't turn in two assignments last week. And when Mr. Hansen pulled him aside to talk about it, he said he didn't need anyone lecturing him about his behavior…that he’s just expressing himself.
Apparently, my twelve-year-old doesn’t need anyone to be concerned about his education or his well-being. He can't operate a can opener, but he's got opinions about pedagogical boundaries. He can’t figure out how to put his dirty clothes in the hamper. But sure, kid, you've got the whole self-governance thing figured out.
I handle the call with my teacher persona—calmly, professionally, and collaboratively. Yes, I'll talk to him. Yes, we'll come up with a plan. Yes, I appreciate you letting me know.
Then I hang up, walk to my car during my remaining four minutes of lunch, get in the driver's seat, and scream.
I parked close to the surrounding forest. People will think it’s a moose.
I don't cry. I'm close, but I don't.
It's not just the behavior that’s bothering me, it's what's underneath it. Simon is angry, and he's been angry since the divorce, even though it's been years. He directs it at me since I'm safe. I'm the one who stayed put in Deepwood so he could continue in the same school with his friends. His dad moved to a different town, which meansI'mthe one who gets the shrapnel.I know this. I understand the psychology. I've read the parenting books and talked to his school counselor and done everything I'm supposed to do.
Maybe he needs more help. Therapy?
But even knowing why your kid is hurting doesn't make it hurt less when he pushes you away. Understanding the anger doesn't cushion the bruise.
I give myself another couple of minutes. Then I fix my face, go back inside, and teach fractions to my students despite my heart sitting in my stomach.
That night, after the inevitable fight with Simon when I told him he was grounded for what he did in science class, he went to his room and slammed the door, meaning he’s not coming out until morning—I curl up in bed and open my phone.
Cursive&Caffeine:Bad day. My kid got in trouble at school again. Talking back, not turning in work. His teacher called and I handled it like a rational adult and then sat in my car and screamed into my steering wheel. Mom of the year over here.
His response comes fast.
Wild@Heart:First of all, you ARE mom of the year. You handled it, you let off steam, and you're still standing. That counts.
Wild@Heart:Second of all—and I say this with the deepest respect for your son—being twelve is basically a psychological disorder. You wake up every morning furious at the concept of existence. Your body's doing things nobody warned you about. School feels like prison. Your parentsare the enemy…sometimes for reasons you can't articulate because your hormones are going nuts.
I snort.
Wild@Heart:I remember being twelve. I was terrible. I told my mom I hated her cooking once and she didn't speak to me for two days. Her cooking is INCREDIBLE, by the way, and I still feel guilty about it.
I'm smiling now.
Wild@Heart:I also told my teacher her class was “boring as hell” to her face, in front of everyone. I thought I was so edgy. In reality, I was a scared kid who didn't know what to do with all his feelings, so he just…lobbed them at whoever was closest.
The smile fades into something that aches.
