I meet five women on Mondays for coffee and chatting about the love of writing. And it's one loving circle of encouragement. I think perhaps I'm to write a story. About Son #2. It's real. And raw. You may not think so highly of me but I'm okay with that. The Beginning:
I hated caller ID. I learned to pray “…help me, Lord” before I even looked at who was calling. It was such a relief when it wasn’t from the school district. I have my son’s permission to tell our story.
No one knew the anger that bubbled inside of me. No one knew how it only erupted when my sons pushed my buttons. The 6 pm glass of wine was much too appealing. Burying myself under the covers sounded heavenly. Running away from parenting was a consideration. And afterward I’d closet myself far from the family in tears, begging God for forgiveness, mercy, and help!
Where to begin? How about when he was in daycare? As young as three years old, our son was an angry soul. I recall once driving down the street, glancing over at my little cherub and the vitriol out of his mouth shocked me so I had to stop the car.
In pre-K, the teacher called me to a corner and with a very solemn face proceeded to prophesy over his future. “He’s not ready for kindergarten. I’d hold him back if I were you. Are you having problems at home? Is there a lot of anger in your house? Something is just not right with your son…”
And so the story begins. I didn’t pay heed to that teacher and placed him in first grade. I simply could not deal with him more than I had to. I was one of those parents who hoped another’s influence would change him.