That Time a Facebook Comment Made Me a Writer™

I did a thing.

I did a thing and that thing is I decided to stop wanting to be a writer and dreaming of being a writer and hoping to one day be a writer and just be a frickin’ writer.

No, I’m not quitting my day job (yet). I’m a cautious risk-taker. Yes. It’s a thing.

So here we are at the birth of this blog’s brand-new life. This isn’t my first (or even second) attempt at a blog. The frickin’ writer in me has been screaming and waving from the back row for actual years, but the earn-a-living-so-you-can-pay-the-bills me keeps telling her to sit down and shut up so that… well… I can earn a living and pay the damn bills! What I’m saying is… baby steps. Baby steps for a Baby Blog.

Let’s get something straight from Day One. Baby Blog and its Faithful Readers are just going to have to get used to the fact that Momma’s filter is as old as she is. Ragged. Threadbare. Fraying at the seams. While it will be The Entirely Authentic Musings of a Tired Teacher-Momma as advertised, that’s just fancy talk. If I’m being perfectly honest, the real purpose of this blog is to help the world stop producing Ass Holes.

Settle down, Karen. I'm definitely not talking to you. But let's face it. There are Ass Holes in the world, and lots of them. They came from somewhere, and unless some overly fertile and certifiably deranged couple is out there churning out Ass Holes left and right, we've got ourselves a problem.

I’ve been a momma diligently trying not to produce Ass Holes for going on nineteen years, and a single momma for twelve of those years. If I were to put my kids on Ass-Hole rating scales, they’d be a rock-solid Rarely. We have rules and curfews and responsibilities and chores, and sass is only tolerated when it makes Momma laugh. We say “I love you.” Often. We apologize. Often. We communicate. Always.

I’ve also been in public education for twenty-two years. Around 600 children ages 7-18 have looked to me for knowledge and guidance, encouragement and support. I’ve always felt that part of teaching is not only to teach the math and the reading and the science and the social studies, but also to be part of the Village that keeps kids from turning into Ass Holes. It hasn’t always been easy. Sometimes the Villagers have pitchforks. Torches, too. At times, I’ve felt the pressure of angry mobs demanding I burn at the stake. But I’ve remained steadfast. No Ass Holes allowed.

So if I’m such an expert on Not Ass Holes, why on a recent Facebook post about one of my own children’s bad habits did I get this comment?

“At what age do you start teaching your child how to not be an ass hole?”

Yep. The Villagers are restless. Cue the pitchforks and torches.

I know what you’re thinking. What did your daughter do? What forms of assholery were involved? How did you handle your friend’s comment? Were hair-pulling and/or prison shanks involved?

Before I get to all that, allow me to describe this child that has been mine to love for seventeen years. She is all the things you would expect a momma to say about her baby. Beautiful. Kind. Loving. Smart. Creative. Her Beatnik soul uses poetry and art and music to live her story. She’s not afraid to call out racism and prejudice and bias. She feels so much. Sometimes her feelings are so big that her brown eyes fill with tears and they slide down her cheeks and there really isn’t a specific reason except for those big, big feelings, and I worry. And then she reminds me that it’s okay to cry and not be strong for just a little bit because being strong all the time is really hard, and I know that her great big feelings are the very best part of her. But I still worry.

She is also forgetful and incredibly absent-minded. It’s a struggle on the daily to remember things like shoes and basketball bags and asthma meds. She’s messy. Like really, really messy. Everywhere. Always. If it hits the floor, that’s where it stays. Things that don’t hit the floor wind up in super weird places. Where is the logic? I don’t know. I once found a banana in a tub of shoes in her closet. I take that back. It wasn’t a banana. It was the corpse of a banana, which looked exactly like the umbilical cord that fell off her belly button when she was a baby. I’m not even close to lying.

So what did she do to earn her Ass Hole status on Facebook?

She threw trash behind her bed. And not for the first time. She does this - not Rarely, but Often, maybe even Always, if we’re gonna put this on the Ass Hole scale. Instead of getting out of her comfy bed and walking ten feet to the trash can, my beautiful, kind, loving, very smart child stuffs it between the wall and the bed frame, and then just goes on about her life as if this is normal behavior.

Look. I used to get a little crazy about this. My head used to spin around and I would get so riled up that I would storm into her room like a freakin’ paratrooper and start pulling crap out from under her bed, behind the dresser, inside the bowels of the closet or the hidden depths of her backpack, the whole time delivering witty, yet scathing commentary on her lack of organization and also basic hygiene. Tears were shed, but by God, that room got clean.

And it stayed that way.

For about a week.

It was a similar scenario in my classroom when I would see a desk that belonged on an episode of Hoarders (minus some of my more colorful commentary, of course). I would pull things out of the Black Hole in an attempt to “help” locate whatever crucial item had gone missing, all the while preaching about the importance of organization. Sometimes it didn’t take a week for the desk to be back to Black-Hole status.

The other day when I spied the trash behind her bed again, I couldn’t. I can’t. I don’t want to. Not anymore. That crazy (yet, witty) paratrooper-momma is not who I want to be.

So I left it. I walked out and shut the door without a single ounce of remorse or anger or anxiety because it’s her room and her life and if/when I have to call the exterminator, it will be her allowance that pays for it.

Organization is important. Cleanliness is important. For me. My children and my students are not clay for me to mold. They are human beings still learning what is important to them. One day they’ll get it. Or they won’t. The thing is, it’s not my problem. I make it my problem when I confuse “helping” with "controlling,” and then all of a sudden I’m in paratrooper-mode and people are crying and my blood pressure is threatening to tap out and nobody - NOBODY - is solving a damn thing.

Yes. Trash goes in the trash can. But the bottom line is it’s not my room or my desk, and I actually suffer zero consequences if they are not neat and organized. ZERO. I will continue to remind my children and my students that they might not get so frustrated at losing important things if they kept a neater area, but that’s a lesson that must be learned through experience. Sometimes lots and lots of experience. But their own experience. Not mine.

So what? Is she doomed to be a slob forever? Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t need to know. She’s seventeen. Before I blink, she will be on her own, figuring out the world for herself. This is her. This is my girl. With her Beatnik soul and big feelings and even bigger messes. This is her.

Besides, being a slob doesn’t make her an Ass Hole. It makes her human.

As parents, we have to pick our battles. That’s what I told my childless friend who left that comment on my Facebook post (no hair-pulling and/or prison shanks involved). We can’t fight every one.

So what battles am I willing to fight? What will I suit up for daily? It’s those little things that prepare my children and my students to actually not be Ass Holes. Looking a person in the eye when they speak. Being a good listener. Taking responsibility for your actions. Empathy. Kindness. Inclusion. These are the battles that matter. One day, my little Beatnik will be all grown up. Maybe she’ll still be throwing trash behind her bed. Likely she won’t. But if she is serving humanity well, does it really matter?

Welcome to my blog everyone. No Ass Holes allowed.