PKSD: Pre-kindergarten Stress Disorder

Asher has his first cold of the season complete with the explosive mucus ejaculations only thought possible in Hollywood’s horror film special effects departments. Asher has a cold, and his first day of kindergarten is the day after tomorrow. I need this cold like a suited-up astronaut needs a yeast infection on the moon.

We’re already losing sleep about kindergarten. Ok, that would be the royal “WE” as in I am losing sleep about it. As described in many a previous post, my first born son is an anxious child, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I was in denial about my neuroses until I had a child who mirrored my every idiosyncrasy and forced me to recognize the nut-ball that I am. If you’re living in your own private Idaho convinced that you are self-aware and you’ve got it all together, I do not recommend parenthood. I don’t recommend parenthood to anyone, actually, but especially if you think you’re all that and a bag of chips.

In addition to the terror of going to a new school and having new teachers and meeting new kids, Asher is also going to be taking a bus. Asher has been obsessing about the bus since I casually mentioned it to him at the beginning of last year. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything, but my years in sales have taught me the impact of the slow sell. If I planted the seed early enough, we could water it, pull the weeds around it and allow the concept to blossom into a beautiful image of thaumaturgic transportation taking us to an extraordinary world of exploration and education. Not so much. He’s petrified.

I want to catapult myself to next month and avoid what might be the most traumatic weeks of motherhood, yet. I know that all of this will seem laughable one day. Kindergarten is literally child’s play next to all the hideous realities of adolescence. But I’m only 6 years into this parenting gig, and Asher is, well, only 6 years into being my kid. I’ll thank you not to add your comment if it happens to be “It doesn’t get any easier.” Why don’t you let me find out the hard way? I’m a first-born. We learn best this way.

“Um, Deborah. Asher is a first-born, too.” “Yeah?!? What’s your point, mutha-fucka?” “Well, if you could get past that anger that is so clearly serving to mask the irrational fear you feel about your son’s failure and ultimately your own failure as a mother, you’d see that he, too, needs to learn the hard way. Just let go, and let it all work out for itself. It’s possible that the hard way won’t be as hard as you think.”

“That’s your advice? Let go? Ignore the suffering that is eating away at my beautiful Asher? Turn my back on my sensitive, loving child who asks only that I protect him from undue pain?”

“Undue pain? He doesn’t want to get on the bus! Get him on the damn bus and be done with it, lady!!”

“Who asked you, anyway? Look, this blog is not a team effort. Shoo! And don’t let the widget hit you on the way out. That’s right, just click on a link and go stir up shit on someone else’s blog. Porco cane!!*”

*Porco cane literally means "pig dog", but Gabriella insists that it is a vulgar way of saying "damn it" and cringes every time I say it. So I say it often.

I do apologize for the schizophrenic moment typical of a stressed-out Gemini. I don’t know about you, but I feel much better. Breathe in. Breathe out. Get to Thursday. Get him on the bus.