hey, teachers, leave my kids alone

Before I get into my post, I have to say this. I'm at my office right now. (You know, the coffee shop) And by the way, I have not made it back here before now since my first announcement that it was my new office. It appears that volunteering at two different schools, running essential errands and giving the occasional helping hand to a friend really eats up those twelve hours a week I have to be here. Man, life is hard. But that's not the point. The point is I made a tiny comment on my blog last week or so about the coffee here being not quite warm enough. I have been getting coffee here for years so I didn't say it lightly. Darn it all if I didn't come in this morning and receive a cup of coffee so hot I cannot even drink it yet, not even with the cold cream added. It's spooky, I say. But I'll take hot coffee any way it comes to me.

Yesterday I got a phone call from the male little's team teacher. Of course the only reason she should be calling me is to tell me what a genius sixth grader he is, but from her tone and her actual words, it appears that is not exactly what this call is about. And apparently his genius will also not be the primary focus of the return phone call she is requesting this morning or the conference with me and his other team teacher next week.

I'm sorry, but I don't get phone calls like this. Did I fail to mention my littles are exceedingly brilliant and have the manners of Emily Post? Well, in my fantasy world they are and they do and I don't know what this teacher is trying to pull, but she's messing with my fantasy world. Who messes with the fantasy world of a middle aged woman going through both a divorce and and annulment. The only conclusion I can come to is that this must be a very rude teacher to do such a thing. And though I really don't want to be the one to have to, I will tell her. For her own good and all.

:::sigh::: Just one more thing to heap on the pile of mother guilt. I am convinced this phone call would never had occurred if I was not getting a divorce. I'm certain those cherubs of mine would have retained their perfection if I hadn't insisted on messing with them. So this begs the question, how much do I really love my kids?

When I became pregnant for the first time while in the process of getting divorced mere months after my marriage, I was shocked. Not shocked at the pregnancy, but with the father. For you see, by then I had found THE love of my life and was planning on living out my happily ever after scenario with him. There was a rather large lapse of proper communication with Mr. Love of My Life that led to a much too long date with Mr. Tequila. Still experiencing the rather large lapse of communication and cell phones not being the staple they are now back in the day, the very hung over me drove north 800 miles to be consoled by my impending-ex-husband. Consoled or something, I don't know what the hell I was doing there. I was young and stupid. By the time Mr. Love of My Life had called to track me down the next day I was pregnant.

At that point I decided I loved my child more than myself, more than life itself and nothing would ever change that hierarchy. I said a gut-wrenching, movie worthy goodbye to Mr. Love of My Life and did not divorce my husband. Instead I made a vow to devote my life to my baby and my subsequent children. Every ounce of my life would be about nurturing them, meeting their every need, making sure they knew I loved them more than anything in this world. I slept easy every night (not really, as I nursed through the night for nine years straight) but I was happy to be sleep deprived because I loved them more than sleep. I was not separated from my babies for years because I was sure no one could love them like me. I dutifully homeschooled them, kept them from sitters, read them every book on the shelves over and over, nursed them indefinitely. I swore they would never question my love or their place in my life. The very top of my list, that is where my children have always been.

And now, where are they now? If I think of me first, what does that say about how much I love them? If I get divorced and tear every shred of their idea of what home and safety and family means, what does that say about how much I love them? As I send my precious first born, who I gave every single love advantage to, away to therapy because he is so distraught and filled with anxiety over this divorce, what does that say about how much I love him? If I am getting phone calls for teacher conferences because his behavior indicates he no longer feels secure and loved completely, what does that say about the kind of mother I am versus the kind of mother I promised him I would be? Am I really not capable of loving my children more than myself? Could I only keep up the premise for a mere eleven years and then my true selfish nature came to surface? I swear I still feel just as in love with every single one of them as I ever have. How could I still feel so overflowing with love for them, how could I still feel so fiercely protective of their childhoods and their hearts and do something that is so blatantly going to change their lives forever in a way that no amount of therapy will smooth over?

What kind of mother am I? What kind of person? I've cried more than I care to admit this week. I've slept less than is healthy for me thinking about this thing called love and this title called mother.