Just not going is the central symptom that has landed Thing Two in this school for children "at risk for school failure." Just not going to school, just not getting on the bus, just not going to class, just not going to do a thing asked of him.
I got the news that he was not at school about halfway through the day. The school nurse let it slip during a perfunctory phone call about something else entirely. She wasn't even ratting him out; she was asking after him and the illness she assumed he must have.
This post has sat here for some number of weeks now. It went unfinished at the time I wrote it, like everything in my house and my life. If I were inviting you into my house you'd see the laundry baskets by the stairs, waiting to be folded, or go up or down stairs, and the mail mostly unopened, largely unread and nearly wholly unpaid, and the dishes in the sink to be washed and in the dishwasher to be put away, and the shoes spilling out of the living room closet.
And I would be ashamed. And make excuses.
But not so very ashamed, really, and my excuses would be bland and obviously unfelt.
Because my shame isn't for the mess, it's for the story behind it. It's hard to express heartfelt hausfrau angst over the laundry being out when I know it's out because my life is not charmingly unmanageable in the gently rueful way of other mothers of three.
There's no explaining it, really.
And I would be ashamed. And make excuses.
But not so very ashamed, really, and my excuses would be bland and obviously unfelt.
Because my shame isn't for the mess, it's for the story behind it. It's hard to express heartfelt hausfrau angst over the laundry being out when I know it's out because my life is not charmingly unmanageable in the gently rueful way of other mothers of three.
There's no explaining it, really.
