All Fighting Is Dirty

Recently, I decided that the time has come to remove my children from their extremely small, private, faith-based school.  The reasons why and how I came to this decision are a topic for another blog post.  But, suffice it to say, it was not a decision I came to easily.

One of the many reasons I preferred private school was because I felt the small size of the school kept my kids safer than if they were one of the masses in the public domain.  You see, my son, Quinn, is a bit of a peanut.  A whole lot of charm, intelligence, and wit is packed into his 12 year old, 63 lb., 4’5” frame.  But, the reality is, charm, wit, and adorable dimples will only carry him so far.  Eventually, some dumb jock is going to look at Quinn and see nothing more than an easy target to prove his “masculinity”.  I had hoped to keep Quinn at his parochial school until he grew bigger.  Only he hasn’t grown or gained anything in over two years, and we’ve run out of time.

So I am teaching Quinn how to fight.

Well, actually, since there are just some things Moms shouldn’t teach their sons, I am making arrangements for a former soldier turned law enforcement friend of mine to teach him for me.  Although Peter is a sweet, loving, caring, good man -- a brawler he is not.  And the sad fact is I have been in more fist fights than Quinn’s father, so he’s not my primero uno choice either.

I don’t want the so-called self-defense courses they teach locally.  I’m sure they’re fine and dandy, but that’s not what I have in mind.  And as much as Quinn really enjoyed his tae kwon do classes, I felt it looked more like aggressive dancing than self-protection, so that’s not going to work either.  Pretty just isn’t going to cut it.

See -- all fighting is dirty.

My brother taught me that a long, long time ago.  There’s no such thing as a clean fight when it comes to the playground.  It’s about being able to walk away with all your teeth and your pride intact... the rest doesn’t really matter so much.

I was lucky to have a brother to teach me: Try to walk away.  If you can’t walk away, run.  If you can’t run away, strike hard and fast and don’t stop until they’re down on the ground and then get the hell out of there.  Go for the eyes, throat, or knees.  It only takes minimal strength to rip someone’s ear off.  If it’s a guy, grab their balls, squeeze, and twist.  If it’s a girl, wrap their hair around your fist and yank with all your might.  An elbow to the back of the neck can knock someone out (I actually used that move on a drunken pursuer in college. The guy face-planted in the middle of the street.  I took off my heels and ran like the wind -- shocked that it actually worked.)

Now before all my liberal pacifist friends get all fired up that I’m advocating violence -- let me be VERY clear... I am not.

However, one only needs to spend a few moments perusing the headlines to see, we have a bullying epidemic.  Kids are being tortured by other kids in new and shocking ways all the time.  Suicides are rampant and our kids are in crisis.  No matter how many parents are teaching their kids that violence isn’t the answer, there are still some that are teaching them (through thought or deed) that it is.  And those sadistic assholes have some pretty easy pickings out there.  I refuse to let my kid be one of them.

I don’t trust the administration and the establishment within our education system to protect my child.  I have yet to find a school that enforces their alleged anti-bullying plan effectively.  I’ve seen friends struggle to get their school to address obvious issues.  With elementary schoolers committing suicide, I don’t think calling the bullying issue an education plague is an exaggeration.  It’s brutal out there.  I should know.

You see... once... a long, long time ago... I was a bit of a peanut myself.  I was 5’2” tall when I graduated high school, and still didn’t quite hit 100 lbs on the scale.  I was a nonconformist, a bit of a loner, didn’t hang with the “right” crowd.  I had a target on me too. A group of girl jocks liked to gather behind me every. single. day. as I walked the halls; calling me names and kicking my feet out from under me.  My parents had complained multiple times to no avail -- these were the winning girls basketball team members and I was a smartass little loner -- who do you think mattered more?

One day, as I endured my five minute hell-walk between classes, as the biggest girl kicked me one too many times, something inside me just snapped.  Like a feral animal backed into a corner, I turned.  I can still remember how this nearly 6 foot tall girl’s eyes widened as she looked down at 5 foot tall me.  Something instinctual must have clued her in. Uh-oh.  I whirled, arms outstretched, my hands around her throat and ran her backwards across the hall straight into the lockers.  As the jaws of her posse of followers dropped, she squeaked out (my hands were squeezing with all their might -- a squeak was all she could get out), “What is your PROBLEM?!?”  As I throttled her with every ounce of my being, I repeatedly banged her head back against the locker, “I think (crash) you are (crash) a BITCH (crash).  THAT’S (crash) my problem (crash).  Any (crash) questions?"  As I let her go and she stumbled to her friends, she exclaimed, “Jesus. You’re CRAZY!”

Crazy I may have been, but no one ever bothered me again.

Quinn is a pacifist by nature.  He’s good humored, makes friends easily, and is comfortable enough in his own skin that verbal insults don’t bother him much.  Call him a dork and he’ll respond, “Dorks rule the world!”  Call him small and he’ll exclaim, “The best things come in small packages.”  He’s smart enough that he can hold his own in a war of words.  But when some meathead jagoff mothereffer decides that fists beat words just like rock beats scissors... my kid will be ready for him.  I fully intend for him to have the ability to strike fast, and hard, and get out with all the teeth we’ve spent a fortune straightening intact.

And if he doesn’t -- I’d watch out for his sister.  She’s tougher than anyone I’ve ever met.

Badge of Courage

When Claire was first diagnosed, the one thing that was guaranteed to make me cry (in my secret moments of weakness) was the thought of having to shave her head for surgery.  Not that Claire has the most glorious locks known to womankind but -- it's my baby's hair and the thought of seeing her little bald head in the middle of winter was upsetting.

It was one of the first things we discussed when we talked about her diagnosis and what everything meant.  I figured the details of the brain surgery would be difficult for her to comprehend but losing her hair? This I knew would be something she'd understand.

To soften the blow, I told my little fashionista that we'd be buying lots of cool hats. "But school doesn't allow hats, Mama."

"Oh honey. They will make an exception for you," thinking they'd damn sure better or there'd be some Mama Bear hell to pay.

Claire's best friend Gianna's dad is Claire's hair stylist. He also is a wig designer.  He promised to make Claire a super fabulous pink and purple sparkly wig.

Ultimately, we found out just prior to surgery that Dr. Skarli didn't intend to shave her whole head, just part of it.  I was relieved.  When we told Claire, I expected her to be relieved as well. Instead she was... vaguely disappointed.

I couldn't figure it out. I became concerned she didn't understand. Since Claire's diagnosis, I'm overly concerned (completely without cause) about her cognitive abilities.  She still acts and thinks like the same old Claire -- which is to say occasionally flighty and often airheaded.  Instead of simply remembering she is, after all, my daughter, I become worried there's some underlying brain issue that is causing her brain fart.

It's not.

She was disappointed because she was really looking forward to that sparkly pink and purple wig.  She wanted those hats. This is a child who enjoys the idea of accessories.

~~~

When they brought us into recovery to see her, after she spoke and identified who we were, along with a few math facts and vocabulary translations just to assure us that her brain was functioning fine, I checked out her hair.  It... wasn't bad.  Half shaved on the one side.  A bit punk-rocker.  Claire could work with that look.

They saved her hair for us. More precious than her first haircut.

The day after surgery, Princess Pickle demanded a mirror.  She wanted to check things out.  She turned this way and that, examining all angles.  I watched closely, expecting some kind of pre-tween angst. Maybe some tears.

Nothing.

Instead she kind of smirked. Said, "Hunh." And that was that.

We talked about balancing it out and shaving the other side.  That met with a determined "No!"  Mr. Scott (still one of her most favorite people) suggested a look similar to the lead singer of the 80s band Bow Wow Wow. "Nope."  She wanted to leave well enough alone.

The day after we came home from the hospital, I took Claire on a mini-shopping excursion.  We'd been told that any wig was a bad idea for her (holds in heat, traps bacteria against her huge incision) but hats were okay.  So hat shopping we went.  We picked out $87 worth of hats -- something our bank account could ill-afford but, honestly? The child was home mere days after a six hour long brain surgery -- I'll buy her the $50 sparkly silver sequin bedazzled beret.

For Claire's first truly public excursion with her peers, I was nervous.  I got her all dressed up, fixed her hair (we still have to braid it away from her incision site) and put her matching new purple hat on her.  Off we went to the rehearsal for her school's Christmas program.

When her classmates realized she was there, there were quite a few exclamations of "Claire!" and a smattering of applause. I admit, I got a little choked up.  I looked down at Claire as her friends rushed to hug her.  She was grinning at everyone and promptly whipped off her hat.

I wanted to grab it and shove it back on her head. I expected gasps. I expected people to draw back. I expected Claire to get her feelings hurt. But I looked down and she was still grinning ear to ear.  No one gasped. No one drew back.  The boys all looked like they couldn't get close enough -- peering at her frankenscar with absolute fascination.

We've been out in public quite a few times now, including two community theater performances that Claire did without any head covering on, in front of full audiences.  She met with audience members before and after the shows.  But it didn't dawn on me until tonight when our landlord stopped over to fix our broken water heater, and we were discussing Claire's medical ordeal.  Claire had been in the living room, we were in the kitchen. All of a sudden she comes prancing -- literally prancing -- into the kitchen, strikes a pose, and shows off both incision and hairdo.  It did not dawn on me until that moment,

She's proud of this.  She's not embarrassed or ashamed or feeling the need to hide things under a fancy hat. She's comfortable enough in her own skin (and hair) to show it off to the world.

Here's my scar. I'm not embarrassed.  I'm a survivor.

Yes you are, baby. Yes you are.