Another Fucking Blog Post

I’m working on an entry that I want to post in the worst way.  It’s a tribute to Gabriel’s volunteer Braille Coach.  The magnitude of this man’s generosity ripples through my son’s life in a way that he will have no scope of until he’s much older. For now all he knows is that he has the best Braille teacher ever, ‘his’ Edwin.  

I’m slightly humbled in the face of capturing the story of Edwin’s entrance into our lives.  Not only has he become a strong, male role model in the little dude’s life, but he’s also become someone I’m honored to call my cherished friend.  

I’ve been agonizing and overworking and now I find myself left with a puddle of beautiful words that have somehow lost their meaning.  I had a case of circumstantial writer’s block but was determined to post that story.

And then, last week, circumstances changed and I got really pissed off. 

My Jeresy flared-up and wanted to write a scathing, F-bomb filled post slandering my foes.  All thoughts of goodness flew out of my head (as they tend to when one is presented with more sensational emotions).

At first, I said to myself, “Self…don’t do it.  There is enough hate and profanity in the world and you should strive to put more good out there than bad.”

Then I reconsidered and said to my mirror, “Fuck. That. Shit.  I’m 50 shades of pissed off right now and part of being a writer is being honest.  Plus, who am I to leave the knock of inspiration unanswered? You should totally write that post and see if you can use the F-word no less than 27 times as various parts of speech.  Make it Eminem level offensive."

Then my 12 year old self rose her gawky head and threw in her charming two cents:  'I triple dog dare you'.

The dreaded triple dog dare.  

I would have lost all the street cred I’ve amassed with myself if I didn’t do it.  So here we go….hold the fuck on.  This post is not for the faint of fucking heart.

Last week, I had three back to back incidents where my child was treated poorly because of his blindness.  I’m so fucking pissed off right the now just thinking about how fucking pissed off I was when these incidents fucking took place.  Come back with me, to one seriously fucket up week.

Sunday

Gabriel was in the creepy-germ infested playhouse cavorting with some kids his own age in our local McDonalds.  I was standing at the bottom watching his shadow skitter through the tubes when some big kids (10 year olds or better) joined the foray.  These children were riding the sugar dragon and swaggered into the playroom with all the arrogance of fledgling street gang members.  

I felt apprehension on my child’s behalf but didn’t call him down because while I can’t protect him forever, at this stage of the game I can best teach him how to deal with little, fucking douche bag thugs.  I was also hopeful that it would be ok.

It fucking wasn’t.

Not only did these little fuckers alienate my child, they openly mocked him.    

Thank my stars, he didn’t really get it.  He thought they were all playing.  He didn’t realize that he that he was chillin’ at the tubular top of a plastic encased rendition of ‘The Lord of the Flies’ cast in the role of Piggy.

As it’s both illegal and immoral to beat the fucking stuffing out of children these days, I whistled him down with the promise of nuggets and a toy. He was clueless but I was fucking vibrating with anger.  I told myself to get a grip and let it the fuck go.  I did. 

Ehhh….sorta.

Tuesday

Gabriel and I found ourselves parched while out in the world so we decided to seek hydration at a local quickie-mart.  He chose a purple Gatorade and I went for an overpriced, chemical laced coffee drink.  We were laughing about something as we placed our drinks on the counter and the cashier barley noticed us…until she did.

Upon receipt of my change, she acknowledged Little Dude and I with a glance that turned into a lingering stare and climaxed into this perfect fucking stranger shrieking at the top of her voice, “Oh, my God!!  What’s wrong with him??”

I leapt over the counter and introduced myself to her with a flying tackle.  My elbow was precariously placed in the hollow of her throat as I asked her to repeat her fucking question while looking me straight-the-fuck in my eyes.

No, I didn’t.  Fucking social protocol and assault laws.

I looked her into shifty, rodentesque,  mud colored irises and said, “Absolutely nothing.”

Walking out of the store, with a child who was outwardly unaffected (he was processing it though), I decided that passive aggression was suddenly my best friend.  

I got my phone and told all my local friends that a boycott of that particular store was immediately needed because the ferret faced proprietor had been mean to Gabriel.   

All of their replies of boycott affirmation were comforting but one was absolutely priceless:  ‘She’s fucked. That store smells like my dos’s ass anyway.  I never go there but now I’ll never go there double. Want me to picket out front?’

My response to the incident may have been pretty fucking petty, but I’m ok with that.

Friday

Gabriel and I were in the pharmacy waiting for his next installment of never fucking ending eye drops.  I was making him laugh by assigning names to the chairs in the waiting room.  He was sitting in Oswald and I was draped across Alexander when it happened.

A young man put on a Halloween fright mask and startled his dad with it.  The guy actually jumped - it was pretty fucking funny.  When the Father recovered he pointed his son in the direction of the Little Dude.  I suppose he thought it would be funny to witness a 7 year old being frightened.

They both tried to get my child’s attention to the point that it was just sad all around.  I said, “He can’t see you guys.”  

They ignored me and continued to try and catch my little guy's eye.  That's hard when it's plastic, unless you're speaking literally and I have specifically instructed Gabriel not to play 'Toss the Eye'.

I fucking said it louder.

The Father finally looked closely and said, “Oh, noooo!  Poor thing!” and then tried to give my child a hug.

What the fuck??

 

I was at the fucking end of my rationality at this point, People.

I intercepted him - literally pushed him back, said “No! He’s not a poor thing!” and leveled him with my best Ice Princess stare.  Without breaking eye contact I grabbed my child’s hand and dragged him into another part of the store to check out hair dye.  

We’d  just about finished talking about the difference between Chestnut Brown and Auburn when Mr. Poor Thing approached us and apologized.

He was by far the kindest of all recent offenders and somehow that made him the worst one.  The children were rude, fucking little degenerates, Ferret-face was a stupid, fucking asshat but this man…..he was sorry.  

Sorry for my son.  

All he could fathom was a life in the dark.  He hadn’t noticed that my boy navigates the store like he can see it.  He didn’t hear my son’s impressive vocabulary.  He didn’t appreciate how happy and comfortable my blind kid is in a world that he can’t see.  His pity had blinded him.  

Poor fucking thing.

It’s a cruel world.  It’s hard to be the blind kid.  It’s also hard to be the fat kid, the small kid, the big kid, the slow kid, the kid with Autism, the smart kid, the kid with buck teeth and acne and the kid who always randomly smells like onions for some reason.

It’s also hard to be a parent to kids who don’t quite fit in.  In a world where bullying runs rampant and people are obsessed with the most superficial aspects of the world, so many of our kids feel like round pegs trying to be square holed.  And the sad, hard, fucking truth is all we can do is give them a strong enough foundation of love and security to weather the wear of the world. We can't shield them forever, we have to teach them to protect themselves.

I mostly ignored the bad behavior of others last week and I suppose that’s the best you can do.  If all bad behavior was ignored maybe it would just give up and slink away.  Until then, I walked away a little stronger and made myself a promise: I will never let the negative behavior of others affect me more than inspiring a vilely-worded blog post.  

Last week fucking sucked, but I shook it off.  Because that’s what you have to do with the bad stuff.  You have to shake it off, one time, real fucking hard.  You can’t absorb it, especially when you have a child to consider. My son, unknowingly, looks to me to show him how to interact with other people.  I will not fail him by letting anyone drag me down to their level of douchebaggery.

It helps to focus on the good things.  Like Gabriel’s Braille coach, who will be mildly horrified by the language in this publication.  

Sorry, Edwin. I’m from New Jersey.  What the fuck can I say?