Goin' In (part 1)

"Hello.  Mrs. Wicke?  This is Mrs. Quayle, Griffin's teacher?  I just wanted to call to let you know that I had to take away both of his hand sanitizers because they were quite distracting to him..."

It is only the second day of school, and already I'm getting a call from his first grade teacher.  I'd focus more on the embarrassment of that situation if I could think anything other than, "Hand sanitizers?  Both?  What?"

"I tried to tell him that he was only to use them when he sneezed, or blew his nose, or...but he kept playing with it under his desk, so I took the one away, and then the next time I looked he had another..."

I still can't get past "hand sanitizers."  I'm not a hand sanitizer kind of mom, as my friends will tell you.  They are the germaphobes; I'm the mom who considers dirt a form of inoculation.  Besides, trying to keep Griffin clean is like trying to hold back the tide.  And now I have a teacher who can only surmise that I am the most germ-conscious mother in the room, for not only do I send one hand sanitizer but a back up--just in case!

"Anyway, I just wanted to let you know in case Griffin came home and said that I..."

"Mrs. Quayle, I'm so sorry.  I don't know where he got those in the first place.  I certainly didn't pack them for him.  And secondly, please feel free to take anything of his away from him at any time and keep it as long as you want."  In my estimation, Griffin's teacher needs free range...obviously.

The next time we talk, she informs me that Griffin is not finishing his work because he isn't staying on task, and I tell her that she is preaching to the choir; well, not in those words exactly.  "You know, Mrs. Quayle, we are dealing with these same issues at home.  He's not a bad kid, he just seems to be in a bad pocket right now."

"Oh, no," she quickly agrees, winning my heart.  "He's not mean or malicious about anything.  He just seems impulsive and highly social."

Impulsive and highly social.  It's a good description of my boy.  "Well, I appreciate that you can see the goodness in him, and I just want you know that you have our total support here at home.  We are working really hard on this end, too, and we're willing to do whatever you need."

I initiate the third conversation with a request that she do a daily behavior report for Griffin.  As a firm believer in bribery, I have a plan:  With good behavior at school he could earn points toward getting a lizard.  Crazy pets in exchange for compliance?  Any day of the week.  Especially when she further reports that she has a small collection of toys that he has smuggled into school.  I tell you, if it's not one thing it's another with this kid.

But the fourth conversation--oh, the fourth conversation!--is the worst.  I come home at noon to discover a message on my machine.  "Hi, Mrs. Wicke; this is Mrs. Quayle again.  We've had a couple of issues with Griffin today.  Uh, he bit a child at recess.  He denied it, but three other children said that he did.  I did look at the other child, and there were bite marks.  It didn't seem like a really hard bite, but it did draw blood.  Then when we were doing calendar time, I noticed he was playing with a pencil and when I asked him to please put it away he--" Beeeeeep.

The machine cuts her off, and I stand there in stunned silence.  Biting?  He has never bitten another kid in his life.  Even his sister, and, out of anyone, he should have bitten her a couple of times.  This is a whole new low.  And what was the rest of the story?  What horror could he inflict with a pencil?  Take the whole classroom hostage?  And what was I supposed to do?  Go get him?  Are they holding the little vampire in the office?  What?

I try to call the school back only to get a busy signal.  I wait.  I call again. Still busy.  Never one to exhibit much patience, I determine that I'm going to have to just go down there.  I call a friend who generously comes over to sit with baby while I head out the door.  As I drive the short distance to the school, I realize that I don't know what to expect, nor do I know what I'm going to do. 

All I know is that I have to do something.  I might be "the" mom of "that" child right now, but I am THE MOM.  I stand between him and the cliff he seems determined to throw himself off of.  But what's my next move?

That I don't know.  So I phone a friend:  I pray asking that I will know what to say or do to get through to this child.  Then I take a deep breath and suit up. 

'Cause I'm going in. 

(to be continued...)

p.s.  While I finished writing this this morning my baby covered himself and the kitchen table in maple syrup.