I had to wait a full 24 hours before writing this one, as the first draft after the incident would have been full of words that would make a sailor blush and Mama hide her eyes and cringe. Now, at least I can speak without stuttering, and view things a little bit clearer. Though with the clarity comes a dark boiling fury that wants to leap free – I’m just in control of it now, whereas yesterday… oh my.

I don’t write about my youngest, my 9 year old, here too often yet, as she’s technically not a teen, or even a tween, though when her issues or conversations should be included for a story, they are. She’s my baby, and I’m full aware – as I’ve mentioned before – that I’m completely doomed with her when puberty hits full force. Right now though, she’s still all knees and elbows and legs and arms that refuse to work in the same direction at the same time despite how much she wants them too. She’s sass, and attitude, and chatter and giggling, and frilly and girly and divaliciousness AND random tears for no reason at all (hello hormones!). She’s my drama queen, she – just like my older kids – is my life.

And when she hurts – I want to hurt someone back. I want to make it go away. I want to FIX it, and make it better. But as a mom, I know that I can’t lash out. I have to teach her how to deal with things on her own. I have to be the bigger mom, the better parent, the smarter adviser so that she grows up stronger then most, and definitely smarter then those who have the actual problem because their parents can’t be bothered with the job of raising civilized offspring.

Sometimes, it’s easy.
A lot of the time it’s hard as hell.
Yesterday, it was EXCRUCIATING.

The pup came home from school worried about her gym shoes – because the laces were frayed and she thought someone had done it on purpose to get back at her. She was worried about telling me, so told her auntie instead – and that’s when the full story emerged. It’s never just about the shoes.

There was an incident in her classroom, when the teacher had stepped in the hallway to deal with another problem. There were names called, and accusations thrown, and then the two boys who have been picking at my daughter for a month now (one of which we’ve had problems with before for a year or so), hit her below the belt. Not physically – this was far worse. These boys, 4th grade boys, told my daughter that her father never loved her, that he left because he didn’t care about her, that he never wanted her to begin with.

For those that don’t know, her father, my husband, died unexpectedly 3.5 years ago.

She couldn’t hold it in – she fought back, though with only words. The whole classroom erupted into screaming, and then she did what I had taught her. She turned and walked away, why these two little…. these two boys called her names. The teacher hurried back in – all this happened in mere moments – and got the classroom under control, and no one, not even my daughter, told her what had started the fight. She doesn’t want to be a tattletale, and she knew she should have walked away and gotten the teacher first. And when she discovered her shoelaces, and how destroyed they were – when they had not been that way earlier – she thought they had done it on purpose, and transferred all that worry into hoping I wouldn’t be mad about the shoelaces, even though I’ve told her time and time again that THINGS don’t matter, people do. She had to cling to something to transfer her worry to, something tangible since she knew that the boys were wrong, that they had lied, and that they had hurt her on purpose.

Of course her auntie told me, and we told the teacher, and let her know what really happened. I also assured the pup that I could fix the damn shoelaces – they weren’t a problem. The teacher had a class meeting this morning, and made sure to phrase things in such a way that there were no fingers pointing at the pup, that would make the boys act out against her again today, and we – the teacher and I – have an action plan of what to do should it start to escalate again.

The pup and I had another talk about walking away, about getting to a teacher if needed, and about words and stupid people don’t matter in the grand scheme of things because SHE knows the truth. Her daddy loved her more than life, I love her with the same intensity, and nothing anyone ever says could change that. The boys found a soft spot that would hurt her, and pushed.

I wish I knew how to teach her to protect her heart, while still keeping it as full and open as it always as been. I wish I could wrap her up and protect her from all the assholes of this world, no matter what age they might be. I want to keep her SAFE, and secure, yet still teach her to be as fiercely independent as she desires to be. I wish it didn’t hurt so badly when someone hurts my baby, and I wish I could strike back.

Instead, I can only do what I can do – hold her close, until she’s done letting me comfort her. Let go when she wants to walk on her own, yet hover close enough to catch her when she falls. Step back and let her fall when she thinks she’s ready too – so that I can pick her back up again, until she’s strong enough to pick herself up, dust herself off, and try once more.

I’m never sure if I’m doing enough, too much, not near enough. All I can do is try to help pad the soft spots, while keeping them open and free-flowing and strong.

Sometimes being the bigger, better parent sucks donkey balls.

Then, this morning, she reminded me just why we put ourselves through it, as she woke up happy and smiling and danced her way through her day on cloud nine. She even told me when she got home that for some reason, she was happier than ever today – and no one could tell that she had a problem yesterday because she was so happy and thrilled with life. For some reason, her day was just… good. No, today it was great. She doesn’t need to know why – it just was.

I think I know why. I think that her daddy held her up today, wrapped in his arms, wrapped in his love that was so big in life that it transcends death.

And I think she’ll be okay.