THE ESSAY

‘I’m not gonna do that stupid grade thing!’, exclaimed my son.

Our discussion this morning, at the breakfast table, was about the bonus for the grades. I told him I was considering increasing the amount for ‘Bs’, as I thought the amount was too low to be an incentive. This idea coming briefly after considering eliminating the bonus altogether, at some point yesterday. He let me know that he would not be doing this for his kids. Though, I’m not sure he really meant that. Somehow, I believe he will.

We talked for a long time and I knew that he would be really late getting to school and would be marked ‘absent’. Again. However, it’s important to take the time to listen when our young people have something to tell us or show us. When they invite us into their world.

My older daughter texted me this morning, asking if she could come over during lunch. She mentioned that her sister was also coming along. I had to go to the office, but was able to finish what needed to be done before they arrived. They stayed in their brother’s room until school was out, catching up on homework. Last minute work, due before the second six-week grading period ends this week.

Saffron shared with me an essay she was working on and asked if I’d like to read it. I loved that she asked me and was delighted that she wanted to share the essay with me. It was on music and how it heals and helps during one’s difficult times. She talked about going to her first concert last month. To Grey Day. To see, among other bands, $uicideboy$.

The essay went on to talk about how their music has changed. How it has evolved after they became sober. She talked about how music helped her during her difficult times. Times such as when she felt abandoned after the divorce and in later years as she struggled with the aftermath. Of shuffling between two homes.

She remembered my having spent two weeks with her in Berlin during Halloween, whilst her father flew over for merely a week during Christmas and spent barely any time with her. Being sent to Germany at eight years of age to stay with Oma and to go to school, not knowing anybody her age and hardly knowing the language.

In the essay, she explained how she had to beg her father to spend time with her during the week he came over to introduce the ‘new woman’ in his life. I remember the heartbreaking Skype call with Saffron when she cried during that experience. She mentioned asking him not to find anyone until after she came home from Germany. Her pleas went unheard.

She talked about the broken household. How she hated having to go back and forth each week. Never having a real home. She assured me it wasn’t the fact that I didn’t have a house, like her father. She just wanted someplace to call home. Not to have to pack a bag to go to either parent’s house. Not to have to distinguish between ‘Mama’s clothes’ and ‘Papa’s clothes’. Something I also found absurd.

My son recalled not being allowed to bring over any clothes from my house, and I remember him sneaking a pair of tennis shoes I got him. He hid them in his backpack and put them on at school, knowing that they would be taken away if his stepmother saw them.

I understand the feeling of wanting a place to call home. Not some temporary place. Not a ‘rental’, as my places were often referred to by the other woman. As if having to rent a home is somehow bad. But I can relate to my daughter’s feelings as she expressed them in her assignment.

She let me know that they now have to ask to go to my place. To schedule the time, instead of simply going whenever they want. My son, too. He needs to arrange to go over to see his father. The children and I find that so ridiculous. ‘We’re not guests!’, they remarked.

The essay was not yet finished. My daughter still had more to say. But I am happy she felt that she could share her thoughts with me. And I am hopeful that my children will find a way to make things better for their own children as they reflect on what they would like to have been different.