Exasperating and Preposterous

A Mother Vents

Dear Sophie,

I’m a mother of three and lately I’ve encountered difficulties in getting along with the mothers of my kids’ classmates. For instance, here’s a problem I’ve recently encountered:

I was giving a murder mystery birthday party for my ten-year-old son, Brady. I wrote the script, assigned the characters, and sent it out to the boys in his class, requesting an RSVP because I’d need to revise it if someone couldn’t come. All the kids and moms were on board, except one mother, Amelia, who didn’t respond. Mildly annoyed, I called her.

“He won’t be coming,” she said in a tight, mean voice—and then she ended the call.

Amelia’s son is a good-looking kid and so I had given him the role of the handsome, yet fatuous, movie star. I intended for him to be the comic relief. She and I have always gotten along and I was dismayed that I had somehow hurt her feelings.

I redialed her and she didn’t answer, so I texted her—

Amelia, I don’t know why you’re upset. This was meant to be a lighthearted party activity. Please let me know what I’ve done wrong so I can resolve the problem.

She called me immediately.

“You’ve got Ryan playing someone stupid when you know damn well that he’s struggling in school. How could you do such a nasty thing?”

I adjusted mentally. I had no idea. My son makes good grades and that’s pretty much all I pay attention to. He doesn’t share information about the intellect of his classmates. I feel awful that I inadvertently caused pain for Amelia and her son.

“I had no idea,” I told her. “I feel terrible that I made such a misstep. I meant no harm and I can easily rewrite the role. Could he come then?”

“What part of struggling do you not understand?” She was still miffed.

“Struggling is a nonspecific word.”

“He won’t be coming and reading aloud at your little party.”

Once again, she abruptly ended the call.

I went in search of Brady. He and Gabe, his younger brother, were playing a game in their bedroom where, from the upper bunk bed, they’re tossing ping-pong balls into the whirling ceiling fan.

“Brady, is Ryan having trouble in school?”

“Whoa!” he exclaimed as one of the balls went flying and bouncing around the room.

“Brady? Ryan?”

“Ryan can barely read. But he’s really good at soccer.”

To make amends, I sent flowers with a note of apology to Amelia. It’s all I could think to do.

The party went well. I rewrote the story, omitting Ryan and giving the comic relief lines to the doctor, and the reading was a success, with a prize going to the boy who solved the mystery.

But later, during kickball at the park across the street, I noticed one of the boys, Lee, sitting beneath a tree by himself, and so, leaving my husband, Pete, in charge of the game, I went to check on him.

As I grew closer, I saw that he was crying. He’d removed his shirt and, head bowed, was concentrating on his hands while, nearby, the other boys were cheering, running, and having a great time.

“Lee? What are you doing? What’s going on?”

He shook his head and, weeping, continued with whatever it was he was doing. I sat on the ground next to him. A button had come off his shirt. There was a tiny piece of thread poking from the fabric and he was desperately trying to re-attach the button. Impossible.

“Losing a button happens all the time,” I told him. “It’s an easy fix.”

“My mom will be so mad.”

He lifted his face, his eyes pleading and terrified. He was, at that moment, a pitiable, helpless puppy. His stark anxiety made me want to cry, too. And yes, I was being judgmental, but honestly, what kind of mother makes her son afraid because a button fell off? An abusive one?

I didn’t know his mother, Kay, very well—none of us moms do. She’s pretty and drives a nice car, but she puts up walls, has no sense of humor, and doesn’t volunteer when help is requested.

“Lee?” I asked. “Are you okay at home? Do you feel safe?”

Ignoring the question, he went back to poking the button at the fabric. I looked toward the kickball game. Pete had things under control.

“Give it to me,” I said. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

He handed the problem over. I hurried back to the house and sewed the button back on. I admit to feeling resentful. I was hosting a party for twelve little boys, and that kid should’ve been able to tuck the button into his pocket and continue playing with his friends. I returned his shirt, but later, when his mother came to pick him up, I pulled her aside.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, making a point of checking the time on her phone.

“Lee cried because a button came off his shirt. I sewed it back on.”

“Thank you.” Her tone, impatient.

“I’m discussing your child, who was crying because of a stupid button. Where is to you have to be?”

“Anywhere but here.” Why the hostility? She eyed the boys, who were racing from tree to tree in the front yard. “Lee! Let’s go.”

He broke away, ran to his mother, and left.

Sophie, I ask you—was this normal behavior? Should I be afraid for that little boy? Maybe Kay was having a bad day. On the other hand, he wouldn’t have been so afraid if this were a one-off thing. Does she punish him every time life happens? He’s a sweet child and I will carry the image of him crying over a button for a long time.

And here’s another other mother-related incident, also party-related, that has me peeved:

Belinda asked me at the beginning of the school year if I could pick up her daughter, Faith, from school in the afternoons. As her little boy attended another school that got out at the same time, I understood that there was a conflict and was happy to help. They live just up the street, and her daughter remained with us until Belinda came to fetch her, which was usually only ten minutes later. This favor was a mild inconvenience to me, but a huge help to her.

But then last week, I found my daughter, Lillian, crying in her room. Lillian is seven years old, our youngest. While Brady and Gabe are explorers and obsessed with balls, Lillian is all about being liked and needing positive feedback. I find her concern about what others think to be worrisome, but I hang on to the belief that there’ll come a time when she learns to go her own way without fretting about how others view her.

Back to Lillian’s crying. She was hurt because Faith was having a birthday party and she hadn’t been invited. My first reaction was disbelief—I mean, really, what the hell? There must’ve been a mix-up. I called Belinda.

“Lillian’s upset because she wasn’t invited to Faith’s party,” I said.

“I’m sorry about that, but I couldn’t invite everyone. It’s Faith’s party, so I let her choose, and she doesn’t really like Lillian.”

I was stunned. Was I missing something? Didn’t she owe me?

“But I’ve been helping you out for months.”

“And I appreciate that, but one thing doesn’t really have anything to do with the other.”

“You think not? Find other arrangements for picking up Faith after school. I’m done.”

And, livid, I ended the call.

That was a month ago and I’m still furious. But the vexations of motherhood never cease—soon another tricky situation dominated.

As the fastest runner on the track team, my son, Gabe, was told that he was going to advance to the older boys’ team. This is unprecedented, which makes it a big deal. Another boy, Elliot, who’s not quite as fast, was told that he, also, was to move up. Of course, this thrilled the boys because who doesn’t like to be told that they’re outstanding?

But then the coach who’d told them that they were going to be promoted resigned and a new coach took charge—and this new coach said no to the advancement: the boys would stay with their age group. Gabe was disappointed, but I told him that sometimes these things happen and that the new coach was in charge. Gabe accepted the situation and all was well until we heard that Elliot’s mother, Viv, had contacted the coach and insisted that Elliot be moved up as previously promised. I called her.

“What is your thinking?” I asked her.

“Elliot was told that he was going to be on the older boys’ team. He was proud and he told everybody. After that, it would be humiliating for him not to be advanced. And he’d look like a liar.”

There are so many growing-up lessons to be learned here—obey the coach; don’t brag; don’t count on things that haven’t happened yet.

Unless it’s unavoidably necessary, I am not a mother who fights her children’s battles. This silly track situation was not a battle I’d intended to fight; but when Viv made it an issue, I too, had to step in because it’d be unfair for Elliot, who’s not as fast as Gabe, to advance to the older team without Gabe moving up, too. So I called the coach and became an interfering mom. I had no choice.

Meanwhile, one of my volunteer duties is to read out the words for the spelling test in Brady’s class once a month. It’s a simple task. I say the word and the kids spell it on paper.

On the most recent test, when I said the word “progression,” I saw Dane lean across the aisle and look at Sandy’s paper. As monitor, it was my job to nip this, so I simply said, “Dane, eyes on your own paper.”

His mother, Maisy, is a fervent Baptist who tells anyone within hearing range about how much she loves Jesus. She’s condescending about it, as though she’s the only Christian in this Texas town that has more churches than gas stations. It satisfied my dark side that Dane cheated. On the other hand, he’s just a little boy being a little boy. I gave it no more thought.

However, that evening, I got a call from Maisy accusing me of lying when I called her son out.

“He would never cheat!” she insisted. “I don’t know why you lied, but you embarrassed him in front of the whole class.”

“Oh dear,” I replied. “Well, I’m sure he won’t do it again.”

“And you’re still lying! I want you to apologize to him!”

Bewildered and irked, I rudely terminated the call. The next morning I got a call from Mr. Standish, the teacher.

“What’s this about Dane cheating?” he asked.

“He looked at his neighbor’s paper. I told him not to. There wasn’t any more to it than that and all this fuss is making it a bigger deal than it is.”

“His mother has threatened to have me fired for allowing an unqualified person to give the test. She’s demanding that we both apologize.”

“That’s never going to happen.”

“We need to come together on this. Wouldn’t it be easier to give her what she wants?”

“Perjuring myself to help someone support a lie isn’t something I’m willing to do. Ask Sandy what happened. She was the one whose paper he was copying.”

“I’m not doubting that he did what you accused him of. I’m simply saying that the expedient thing would be to give the woman what she wants.”

“An even more expedient thing would be to ignore her.”

On that uneasy note, we say our good-byes.

Sophie, this situation hasn’t been resolved, and I feel that this mother is going to cause big trouble.

Thank you for letting me vent. After all this that I’ve shared, my question is—What’s wrong with these women? Or is there something wrong with me?

Thanks,

Righteously Confounded

The next day, sooner than expected, Sophie’s response is in the Here’s What You Do column of the Caprock Chronicle.

Dear Righteous,

This is the longest, most detailed email I’ve ever received. Thank you for your effort.

The most worrisome situation you’ve described is the boy and his button. My advice there is to inform the teacher so he can keep an eye out for signs of abuse.

As to the other circumstances, isn’t it amazing that every person on this planet has different notions and behavior patterns originating from their own unique set of experiences and traits? There’s no way you can ever know what’s going on in someone else’s head; and expecting others to feel the same way you feel, or to react the same way you react, is unreasonable. Take a deep breath, say a quick prayer for patience, and continue to move forward in the best way you can.

Best wishes,

Sophie

Telling Mr. Standish about Lee being panicked because of a button is a good idea. However, while Sophie’s musings about how we’re all different is true, it isn’t helpful.

And now look; showing up in my inbox is a summons to appear before the school board to explain my minor reprimand concerning Dane’s cheating.

Sophie may find the diverse and unpredictable behavior of her fellow humans to be amazing, but from my perspective, the way others conduct themselves is exasperating and preposterous.