Virgil Goes to War

As I sit here, sipping my Mimosa and reflecting on the past year without Dante, it occurs to me that it's time for a change. He has a good father in Kentucky, who has longed for him to come and stay. But things haven't quite worked out the way I hoped they would. For the first six months or so, it was great. While I missed Dante tremendously, he was doing just fine. He had a great second grade teacher, he was fully involved in extracurricular stuff. Eventually, I would call at night and no one would be home--they'd be off doing fun stuff. Sometimes I'd go several days without talking to him. He was happy.

I threw myself into a bunch of work. I was nearly crazy those first few months without him. It's hard to believe he's been gone nearly two years. I did everything I could to keep myself occupied, to the point where I can barely keep up now. Every time I called, everyone would tell me how great he was doing. At least through the second grade, he seemed to be doing great. But when he hit the third grade, things changed.

I blame part of that on a crappy teacher who has long since needed to retire. But there was something else at work. Dante's grades started dropping dramatically. He started getting into a lot of trouble at school--most of the stuff I thought was pretty petty, myself, considering the reaction from the school. But the surprising part was, his new family didn't seem to care. I would freak out over bad grades, they just shrugged. Parent/Teacher conferences were either unattended or attended by my mother, who has a psychotic need to present the best possible face to the world, regardless of the true situation. His grades kept getting worse and worse. There was an incident where some kid busted his nose on the playground; Dante came home with his shirt covered in blood. Nobody bothered to call the school, and the school didn't bother sending a note home. When I drove seven hours to set up a special meeting with his teacher, she acted like it wasn't her problem; I made sure to clear that up for her--but why is it I have to drive seven hours to bring this to someone's attention?

Recently, Dante's been in tears on the phone with me. "I miss you," is all he says. Once he was nearly inconsolable because he dreamed I was in a car wreck and died. "But it could happen!" He kept saying over and over again. And I assured him that even though that was true for anybody, I did lots of things to stay safe while in a car. When I talk to his father about Dante complaining about Kentucky and saying he wants to move back, he tells me "Oh, I think it's just because he misses you." In the background (when he stays at my mom's house), I can hear Mom saying when he weeps on the phone to me, "Grow up! Stop that! It's just your mother."

It's just your mother. It's just because he misses you.

While mine isn't going to win any lifetime awards for mothering, I'd like to think I meant a whole lot more than "just" a mother. When in the hell did "just" missing your mother qualify as a bottom of the ladder excuse? What else could be more important to a kid his age? I realized that for the entire third grade year Dante just finished, I've been placated and lied to by the people who are supposed to be doing things in his best interests. I've been sold a bill of goods that says a mom isn't really all that important in a kid's life, that her work and what she stands for doesn't amount to much.

But Momma drove 7 hours to bitch out the teacher--and ask for the first time "OK, you told me everything he did wrong; so what does he do right?"

Moms, if they are any account at all, champion the strength in their kid and support the weakness. Things got noticeably easier on Dante for a while after I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with his teacher, about the bullying, about her policy of turning work in, a whole lot of things.

Moms let their sons bury their heads in their laps and bawl their eyes out, if that's what it takes, rather than telling them to "man up" or that they won't get anything from Dairy Queen if they don't stop crying.

Moms demand accountablity from everyone involved in their sons' lives.

Moms soften the shortcomings of their sons. Instead of bitching in front of him "His coach says he just plays around on the baseball team," Moms reply with a shrug, "It's not major league baseball. What else is there to do, but play--nobody can hit it out of the infield anyway." (Dante plays right outfield.)

When their sons score a medal for being the best reader out of their entire class and yet get an F in language arts, Moms raise their eyebrows. They get really, really interested. Especially when those around their sons claim they have no idea how that could happen--nor did they bother to ask the teacher.

Moms go to bat for their kids.

Moms step in and say "Wait a minute. This.stops.now."

Moms are the brick wall that older, should-be wiser people run into when the kids are treated like crap or expected to act like adults when they're only 9 years old.

Moms are made of iron. Kids know that. Other people learn that quickly when bad things happen to the kids.

Moms take charge.

Moms get things done.

Moms go to war for their kids.



This chaos and nonsense and nonsupport that has been hidden from me for a year stops and it stops now. Everyone else apart from me won't like it. There will be a million and one excuses, most of them blamed on my child, about why I should just look away and let them keep running things. It's a testament to how fearful of my reaction they are that they would hide such things from me in the first place. I'm sure there will be a lot of resistance.

But I don't go to war over just any old thing (contrary to what those around me might think). I have very few lines in the sand. This is one of them.

Dante is coming home. Because Virgil is going to war.

-- Virgil