The Mother-Heart Wound

I have a gaping hole in my heart, resultant of the past several months. I am unable to find the way to patch it up, to fix it, to make myself whole again. Ant fills my constant waking thoughts, and I am almost to the point where I cannot function properly. I am currently the mother who feels the needs to lash out indiscriminately because her back is against the wall, and yet, knowing that her back is against the wall, knows that she only has one chance at a coup de grace, and waffles on her plan of attack.

And I cannot tell you the grisly details of the story, in part, because it is not my story to tell.

Suffice to say, third grade has not gone well, and this week the death blow to the past six months was delivered. I now have the proof that my child has not been adequately taught, adequately cared for, or adequately assessed in the classroom.

I cycle through rage and frustration and bone-settling sadness within the course of an hour.

I sat down last night and wrote the letter—the letter of formal complaint—which is a five page, 2500+ tome. And yet, my enculturation and my heart battle one another and I cannot make myself officially turn the letter in.

Mind: What will they think of you? They must hate you already. They will end up hating your son. It will hurt him.

Heart: They are hurting him. Right now. They are hurting him in the worst way. And they will continue to hurt him unless I stop them now.

Mind: They are supposed to be professionals. Surely it is not as bad as you think it is.

Heart: Under the best of circumstances, it will be at least two years before we can rectify the damage, if at all!

Mind: Maybe it would just be best if you met with them again, instead of starting this snowball to rolling down the hill.

Heart: But I have met with them, again and again, and it makes no difference. It only gets worse and worse. Ant doesn’t understand it now, but he will, someday, and he will wonder why I didn’t stop it.

I sit on this letter, and I read it. And reread it. And waffle. And bring myself to the verge of tears.

In written words I can say the things my mouth will not spill out when I face them. The letter is mean. The letter demands answers. The letter wants justice. I was raised to be a good girl, a nice girl, and to not question authority. I am doing much more than that in this letter—I am demanding that the authority now follow my lead—that I become the one with the authority.

Damn, it’s so hard. Any fight for your child is hard, but for me, this is the hardest.

And I ask myself-- why didn’t they talk to me about the real problems? Why don’t they even acknowledge that I know my child better? Why do they think they can keep information from me and decide what is best for my son? What is wrong with me that people think that they can do this to the both of us?