Mom school

There are some lessons I think should be taught in a special school for moms. Because, quite frankly, some of this on-the-job-training sucks.

Monday was supposed to be a special day for Sam and Steve. Father-son bonding time. They had the whole day planned and had been talking about it for weeks (mostly to help alleviate the fear of the pediatrician Sam would be seeing at 4:30 Monday afternoon). Steve was going to pick Sam up before naptime. Sam had specific instructions not to eat lunch, because Steve would take him out to McDonalds. Just the two of them. Then they would hang out during the early part of the afternoon and head to the pediatrician in time for Sam's appointment (where he was going to get ONE shot).

Then Isaac got sick and decisions were made and plans had to change.

Instead of the day that he was looking forward to, Sam had to spend the morning saying goodbye to the dog, the early afternoon listening to a crying mommy, lunchtime eating lunch with both somewhat shell-shocked parents, the middle of the afternoon listening to his father cuss as he installed the flooring transition strip between the living room and what will some day be the dining room, the later afternoon at the pediatrician getting THREE shots, dinnertime visiting the McDonalds playland with the incessant buzzing from the lights that drove us all mad and, I believe, eventually pushed us over the edge so that we all went home with surly attitudes.

So I, being the completely enlightened mommy with more than my share of experience seeing Sam's childhood reactions to shock and mourning, expected some grief behaviors. But this is more than even I can take.

Monday afternoon, during the transition strip install, Sam took a potty break during which he started bawling hysterically about a balloon he had lost THE DAY BEFORE during our trip to the metroparks for grandma's birthday. He was seriously inconsolable.

Tuesday at daycare he apparently refused to let go of his stuffed anteater (which has, ironically enough, the same coloring and fluffy texture as Isaac's fur).

Last night, while looking at some old photos on the computer screen saver, he starts crying and shouting that he doesn't want to be five anymore...he wants to be three...because being five is STUPID! He said he missed his race car bike helmet from when he was three (that he has outgrown and can no longer safely wear). Steve suspects he saw Isaac in the photos too.

During last night's freakout, I just held onto him and snuggled him and told him how sorry I was that he has had to say goodbye to so many important things during his short life...how I knew it was so unfair and that I wished I could make it all better.

I didn't sleep much last night thinking about how I'm supposed to handle all this. And the best I can come up with is that there should be some sort of mommy school that should teach this stuff. No wonder kids end up screwed up. How the hell am I supposed to figure this all out on my own? Practicing law is a hell of a lot less complicated and I had to go to school for three YEARS in order to do it. I'm not equipped for this!

I'm off to search for a race car bike helmet for my five-year-old. The least I can do is try to fix the things I actually CAN fix. Right?