I walked into the building and the first thing that caught my eye were the lockers.

I was at a parent’s meeting for parents of incoming second graders. In our school district, kindergarten and first grade is in one building and second, third, fourth and fifth are in another. Next year, Hayden would be going to this school.

The principle began talking about the school. She was explaining the daily schedule and what we could expect but all I could think about were the lockers.

When I was in elementary school, only the fourth graders got to have lockers.

It was a huge deal.

Each year since third grade, the year when kids began to care about getting lockers,  kids would long for a locker. I mean, who wouldn’t want a locker. It was a metal box with a door on it that you could put stuff in. It was so much better than some silly hook.

But the best part of a locker was that you could hang pictures and stuff up inside on the door.

Many of the girls in my class hung pictures of cute boys but not me.

When I was in fourth grade, I was all about being grown up. I was 11 years old, I was in the double digits and that meant that I needed to act like a grown up.

I took care of my baby doll, dressing her each day before school and giving her her bottle, I focused on my studies to make sure I could get a good job and I put a lot of effort into practicing for my chosen career… being a singer/actress/dancer girl.

My locker was full of pictures of me performing. There were pictures of me in church choir, acting in my after school performance classes and pictures from my dance recitals.

I was so proud of my locker.

One afternoon, I walked down the hall after recess and I noticed my locker open with a couple of boys staring at my pictures.

“What are you doing?” I screamed at them horrified.

My screaming startled them and the slammed my locker closed. They just stood there smirking at me.

“What?” I seethed at them, hands on my hips. I was an ‘adult’ I didn’t have time for these children.

The boys looked at each other and began to laugh.

“You are Jenny Jazz!” they giggled at me. “Jenny Jazz! Jenny Jazz!”

In that moment, if I could have shot daggers out of my eyes, I would have.

Then I realized they were talking about my dance recital pictures. Oh those silly boys, what did they know? I was thinking of my future. I was going to be famous and someday they would be begging for my picture.

“Oh yeah,” I said.

And with that I did a quick step ball change, step ball change, hip check, hip check, turn and pose, jazz hands!

The boys, looked at me shocked that I had just danced at him.

But soon they couldn’t contain their laughter anymore and ran off down the hall.

“Boys are dumb,” I said to myself as I opened my locker to put my coat away, “I am never going to like boys.”

I smiled as my day dream faded away.

Then I realized all the other parents was half way down the hall. I stopped staring at the lockers, tried to focus on the present and hurried to catch up with them.

As I walked, two things hit me, we are entering grade school territory, a whole new ball game, and maybe Jenny Jazz should make a come back.

This post is part of Writer’s Workshop

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I like knowing things about people.

For example, when I am walking down the street, I want to know why a woman is angry texting on her phone. Is she talking to her teenage son who forgot to take out the trash or a lover she just discovered was cheating on her.

I want to know the reason behind my neighbors buying a new car one day and then putting their house up for sale the next. Did they win the lottery? Did they get new jobs? Or is this one last spending spree before the government comes and arrests them for unpaid taxes.

I want to know the reason behind the affair. I want to know who was cheating on who and how someone could do something like that.

Call me noisey. Call me a butt-in-ski but I just like to know.

I think that people are some of the most entertaining things out there. People never fail to amaze and shock me. I enjoy watching the events unfold and learning the hows and whys behind them.

I believe this is why I love blogging so much.

Blogging fills my need to know things about people. It is a non-stop 24/7 thing that gives me a glimpse into people’s lives.  Whether it be a look at what’s for dinner, pictures of children playing or the story behind an affair or divorce, I get the inside scoop.

Blogging and social media makes people brave. They become more transparent and put things out there to feel encouraged and supported.

Since social media is a powerful tool, brands want to use this tool in order to make connections with people. They are putting things out there about themsevles that we might not have known to foster relationships.

Now, I thought it would be fun to play a little game.

I am betting that you like to know things about people just as much as I do.

So I have gathered a child, myself and a major Brand to play… Two Realsies and a Whopper!

Watch the video. We are going to make three statements about ourselves, revealing something that we have never told anyone before.

Can you guess what the whopper is? Do you know what is true?

Now spill the beans, tell me something that no one knows about you.

There’s a lot you don’t know about Go Daddy! Including all the tools they have for bloggers! Check out www.godaddy.com to learn more!

Join the conversation by telling something unknown about you for your chance to win 3 year Unlimited 4GH Hosting from Go Daddy!

This is a sponsored conversation written by me on behalf of Go Daddy. The opinions and text are all mine.

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I am pretty sure that any mom will tell you what a roller coaster ride motherhood is.

There are some of the highest highs and the lowest lows and then everything else in the middle all wrapped up into these little people who are parts of your soul walking outside your body.

We love them with every fiber of our being and one minute we can be surrounded by warm fuzzys and then next cold pricklys are pumping through our veins.

Because of this, children need a defense mechanism.

Like how puppies and kittens are so cute. They need to be so that we don’t throw them against the wall and stomp on their heads when they poop on the carpet for the millionth time, chew a brand new pair of $200 shoes or rip to shreds a couch that had been in the home for less than a week.

Children need that kind of power too.

Sure, children have cuteness but they need more since they are dealing with us moms who at times can be emotional messes.

Since it was just Mother’s Day, I thought that I could take my time getting ready. I wanted to take picking out my clothes and play around with a little extra make-up. I didn’t care that we were going any were special, those things just make me happy. Plus alone time in the bathroom when not rushed to bring someone here or there is a luxury, one I don’t often get.

Jeff being the wonderful husband he is, helped with this matter by sending all the children outside.

The house was quiet and I was alone in the bathroom, happily playing with eye liner and false eye lashes.

Then Jeff made a fatal error… he decided to take this opportunity to answer the call of nature. He grabbed his iPhone and retreated to his bathroom.

Oh, silly man. He does not realize that the children know. They know instantly when the ‘gaurd’ is away from mommy.

And they will come running.

Now why the children don’t go to the bathroom to ask Daddy things, I will never know. Me being busy in the bathroom has never stopped them but Daddy busy in the bathroom, God forbid, the children inturput him in there.

“Mom, can I have a snack?”

“Mom, can the snack be Gogurt?”

“Mom, I can get it myself?”

Mom, he wants a Gogurt too.”

“Mom, can she have a Gogurt?”

“Mom, can I have a strawberry one?”

“Mom, can I have a berry one?”

“Mom, can it have Sponge Bob on it?”

“Mom, I don’t want Squidword. Sponge Bob, mom. Sponge Bob!”

“Mom, I can open it.”

“Mom, I need scissors.”

“Mom, can you open it?

“Mom, some fell on the floor?”

“Mom, can I lick it off the floor?”

“Mom!”

Suddenly these little people surround me with a thousand requests running in and out of the bathroom just as I have begun the delicate operation of attaching false eye lashes to my face.

But then as if they can see my stress level rising, the roller coast getting ready to reach it’s climax, they go in and defuse the situation.

No mommy head exploding here.

They use their God give ‘defense mechanism’ and do the one thing that makes it all better.

“Mommy… you’d are the best. And the prettiest! Happy Mofther’s Day!”

*sigh*

And once again the warm fuzzy feeling is back and I am putty in their hands.

Sure, one of my eye lids is glued shut, there is a child trying to shut a chair in the fridge and yogurt is all over the floor.

I just don’t care.

Well, I care,  just not enough to go bat shit crazy on them.

Because there is no way to melt a mommy faster than to tell her she is loved and pretty.

Saying she is pretty helps… a lot.

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“Oh mom….” I cried into the phone.

“Jenny. What?!” my mom said sounding alarmed since she was at work and I ambushed her with my tears.

I am not usually a crier. Sure, I cry over sappy movies but that is usually because there is wine involved and wine makes me all emotional.

It was just that in that moment, I was overflowing with so much emotion that it was just literally leaking out of me in the form of tears.

My morning had started off like any other. I was pulled from my sleep by an annoying alarm and a boy asking if he could watch TV. This meant it was time to get everyone up and ready for school.

I dragged myself through the morning routine feeling very hungover even though no alcohol passed my lips the night before and got the family ready. I then plopped myself back into bed to catch a few more hours of sleep before Hayden’s Mother’s Day Tea at school.

The night before had been amazing and late like driving till wee hours of the morning late. It was the performance of the Northwestern Indiana Listen to Your Mother. This experience of being on stage, telling my story, listening to people laugh and respond to me, was something that I will not soon forget. It was exhilarating, a pure emotional high. I loved every moment of being on stage and I know one thing for sure… I must do it again.

I pulled the covers up to my chin and waited for sleep to come.

The sleep was deep and dreamless, perfect to recharge my exhausted body.

I smiled when I woke up and then looked to the clock.

“HOLY SHIT!!!” I screamed when I saw the time.

10:08am.

I had to be in Hayden’s classroom at 10:15am.

I threw back the covers and ran to the kitchen to start the coffee maker and then ran back to my room to get dressed and try to make myself look less like a hooker sporting black eye liner smudges on her face because she partied the night away and more like a respectable mom.

Thank God, ‘bedhead’ is stylish because there was no time to do anything to my hair.

I grabbed a cup of coffee, threw ice cubes in it and slammed it down. Then out the door, I ran.

10:23am

While driving to school, the only thing running through my head was the mantra, “Hayden I’m coming. I’m coming. Don’t be sad, dear boy. Please don’t be sad.”

The guilt in that moment was overwhelming. Hayden was so excited for this tea. He had been talking to me about it for weeks and had questioned me many times making sure that I was really coming.

“Mommy!” Hayden ran to me with a big smile on his face when he saw me enter his classroom. “You are so late.”

I squeezed my boy tight and kissed his head, “I am so sorry buddie, I slept too long.”

He smiled at me and pulled me to his desk. I sat down as Hayden ran to get me a glass of punch and a cookie. He was so proud to be serving me a snack. He then pulled a book out from his desk.

“Read it, mom. I made it for you,” he said.

“Moms Wear Many Hats…” I began reading.

Soon it was time for the show to begin and all the moms were ushered into the school gym. The kids all lined up and began to sing songs about families and moms. The words were silly but sweet and I couldn’t help but smile.

As I watched Hayden sometimes sing and sometimes play with the wall next to him or the dress of the little girl standing in front of him, I thought of the six flower pots I had at home on my kitchen window sill from the triplets (one from each kid from preschool and daycare). They had been so excited to present me with these flowers, telling me weeks in advance that they had planted them.

A smile spread across my face and suddenly, I felt hot tears running down my cheaks.

It was all just too much.

“It’s nothing, really. Everything is fine,” I sniffled into the phone.

“Good. I was worried when you were crying,” my mom said. “Why are you crying?”

“I am just so happy,” I said. ”I just have the best kids in the world!”

The greeting card companies tell us that Mother’s Day is a day to show your mom that you love her. Well, on this day…. this mom feels pretty darn loved.

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“Ew! Gross! What is that?” Claire asked as she slid her chair back from the table.

I rolled my eyes.

“Oh yum!” Hayden said in his best kiss up voice, “It’s meatloaf.”

I am pretty sure the cure all for a grey, cold day is comfort food and on that night, a nice turkey meatloaf with cheesy bacon mashed potatoes was about as comforting as it gets for me.

“This is what is for dinner,” I said to a sulking Claire. “You can either eat it or you can wait until morning for breakfast. ”

Then I walked to the kitchen and returned to the table with something that I new would sweeten the deal. I placed a pan of hot home made rolls on the table.

“And if you want a roll, you need to eat meatloaf first!” I said sitting down in my chair while thinking to myself, “So there. You wanna whine about dinner, I am going to play dirty.”

There was a collective sigh from all the kids as they grabbed their forks and poked at dinner.

“Mommy,” Quinn began, “What is meatloaf made of?”

“Well this meatloaf is made of turkey but meatloaf can be made from beef or chicken or any meat as long as it’s ground up,” Jeff answered.

“Or vegetables or Tofu,” Hayden added with a smile.

I smiled and nodded as the table once again fell silent while people chewed or pretended to chew.

“Mommy,” Quinn began again, “Could meatloaf be made from squirrels?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said.

“What about ducks?” Quinn asked

“Um, I suppose,” I said.

“What about anteaters?” Quinn asked.

“Sure…” I said sensing a pattern here, “Guys, meatloaf could be made from any kind of animal meat as long as it’s ground up.”

“What about wolves?” Jake asked.

“Really?!” I said, “Wolves?”

Jake nodded his head and looked at me expectantly.

“I guess there are people who eat wolves and they might want to make them into meatloaf  but you’d have to made sure that didn’t eat you first,” I finally answered.

With that the table feel quiet.

I looked around and every one eating and noticed Claire fidgeting in her chair, her eyes as big as saucers. Her cheeks were stuffed full of food like a chipmunk gathering food for winter and I knew she was going to blow.

“Run!” I screamed, “Run to the bathroom. Don’t you dare throw up on this table.”

Claire dashed off her chair and soon the oh so pleasant sounds of vomit hitting water could be heard from the bathroom.

I again rolled my eyes, “How many people can say that they make meatloaf so good it causes their children to throw up?” I thought.

Soon the drama of Claire’s malfunction was over and people were once again eating.

“Come on guys, hurry up,” I said, “We have baths to take and Hayden you have homework to do. Everyone needs to finish their vegetables and take two more bites of meatloaf.”

The table exploded with a collective, “Aw Mom!” but after a stern look from Dad, bites were placed in mouths.

“Mommy,” Claire hesitantly began, “Could meatloaf be made from people?”

I looked over at her not sure how to answer.

“Yes, Claire!” Quinn pipped in, “but they would have to be ground up first.”

“Oh yeah, and before that you’d have to beat them in the head with a stick,” she added. “And stab them with a knife.”

“People meatloaf, that might be really yummy but only if you grind them up,” Jake stated.

I sat there a little bit horrified and a little bit curious as to where this was coming from and I listened to my sweet young triplets discussing the ins and outs of making people into meatloaf.

I then came to two conclusions.

First, maybe it might be time to consider a vegetarian lifestyle because children and cannibalism just don’t got together.

And second, from now on… I am sleeping with some kind of weapon under my pillow because there is no way I am going to let my children try out this theory and make me into a mommy meatloaf.

*Let it be known that we don’t encourage cannibalism in our children and after this lovely conversation the children were schooled in the fact that we don’t eat people unless in extreme survival situations. Also, because people don’t taste very good.

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“We are all writer’s and we just finished our dress rehearsal for our show, Listen to Your Mother,” she explained to the server taking our order.

The rest of the woman around the table smiled and nodded and began talking about the show and what it was but I was taken into my own thoughts.

“We are all writer’s….” she had said and she had included me in that general statement.

Am I am a writer?

I have never considered myself a writer. I just think of myself more as someone who writes. I consider myself a blogger but not really a writer.

I don’t know what actually makes a person a writer… going to school for writing, getting paid to write, authoring books? Is that how someone becomes a writer?”

Writing has been something that I enjoy. It has helped me cope with stress in my life. I wrote in a journal every single day during my pregnancy with the triplets. If I hadn’t of done that, I don’t think I would have stayed sane. It helped be cope with the pain and betrayal I felt after Loretta died.

Writing gives me clarity and release.

In grade school, my favorite thing to do was go to the writing table. I loved pulling pictures from the basket and making up stories about each one. A picture of a lake turned into a story of a princess lost at sea. A picture of a cow because a story of a farmer getting sprayed in the face with milk because his hands were cold.

I remember being chosen to participate in something called Young Authors. During the year, our class worked on stories, illustrated them and then made them into books. Then the teachers picked 5 of the best and those kids were taken to a local college were we got to spend an afternoon with an author and learn all about writing books.

Two years in a row, my books were chosen.

To this day, I still remember sitting in that audience listening to the author speak and being in awe. Maybe someday, I could write a book?

I don’t know if I still have that dream a writing a book. Don’t get me wrong, I very much enjoy writing. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t write.

But does that make me a writer?

Maybe.

There is one other person in this house that has recently found writing….

Hayden.

His school folders are full of stories that he has written and his teacher will often write, “Star Writer” across each paper.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say that this makes me beam with pride. I mean what parent doesn’t want their child to love something they love.

Hayden’s stories are short and sweet but I love the glimps into his thoughts that they give me.

“Hayden, I am so proud of all the writing that you are doing at school,” I say one afternoon. “You are doing such a good job.”

Hayden give me a bashful smile and hugs my leg.

“Did you know that I when I your age, I liked writing in school?” I add.

Hayden looks up at me as I tell him all about the stories that I have written and how now, writing is a big part of my life and something that I still like to do.

“Mom,” Hayden begins as I wait anxiously for him to tell me that he too loves writing and maybe someday wants to become an author so that I could live out my dreams through him, “You know what I am really proud of?”

“What?” I say to quickly causing Hayden to give me a ‘mom are you going to go crazy’ look.

“I am really proud of the fact that I have a mom…” he says.

“Yes, yes here is comes. He is proud that I write. He wants to be a writer too” I think to myself barely able to stand still.

“…. who has brought in the most snacks over the school year. That makes me the most proud.” He states with a smile.

He hugs my leg again.

“What?” I ask very confused.

“It makes me so proud that my mom has given the most snacks to my class,” Hayden says.

He smiles at me again and then turns to go play.

I want to call after him and discuss this more. I want to make him watch me write so he can see my joy and we can share it together but I let him go.

Besides, there are three other children, sure they make scribbles now but maybe those scribbles could turn into words and who knows…

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Dancing makes me happy.

Ever since I was a little girl, I always loved to dance.

I was even deemed ‘Jenny Jazz’ by some boys in my 4th grade class. They did it to make me feel bad but I embraced the name and tried to live up to it.

If there is a beat, I just gotta move.

If I am in the car, I gotta shake my money makers.

If the day has been bad, nothing will make me feel better faster than pumpin’ some jams and having a dance party in my kitchen.

So when I heard there were a bunch of bloggers out there doing a ‘Blogger Dance’…. well, it was only natural for me to join right in.

Bloggers Dance will be happening all summer long on the first Monday of the month.

You can follow all the fun on Twitter with the hash tag #BloggersDance

I encourage you to join in.

Give you kids a video camera, put on some awesome tunes and dance away.

If you can’t see the video, click here.

Music for this video by Karmin. Find them on Twitter and Youtube.

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My husband and I have a healthy appetite for bumping uglys, naked twister, riding the baloney pony… sex.

Now we are not going at it 24/7 like when we were first married but we still do enjoy it.

That being said, to keep things interesting, we have a drawer.

I am guessing that most people have a drawer, a box or a closet full of things that help make sex a little more fun.

And yes, in case you are wondering, our drawer has been found by our children.

Back when the triplets were 2, the three of them stumbled upon our drawer when I was in the laundry room. I wasn’t aware that they could reach that high so the thought never occurred to me to move it.

So you can imagine my horror and surprise when I walked into my bedroom and found three small children jumping on my bed each one holding a ‘buzzing rocket’.

The children giggled with glee as each rocket rev’d up it’s motor. I wanted to throw up and never have sex again.

Lesson learned. Or I wish I could say that. After a mishap like that, a smart person would have probably moved all the items or installed a lock but I am not the person.

There have been more close calls over the years which means, I just add a little more money to the kid’s therapy fund.

All in all the drawer has always been nice to me, well more than nice, but recent events have made me wonder if things in the drawer should change.

Jeff and I were cuddling together when he said, “How about I give you a massage?”

I nodded, knowing full well what his intentions were.

The massage was good but soon dry hands were not good enough so Jeff got up and went to the drawer for something that would help lubricate the situation.

I smiled and closed my eyes…. this was getting good and soon Jeff began to focus his efforts on the lower half of my body.

The pleasure was rising through my body but I noticed a smell.

The smell was familiar but I couldn’t place it. I forced my brain to focus but Jeff’s efforts made it really difficult. I put the weird smell out of my head and began to once again focus on the magic about to happen.

Jeff flipped me over. I wanted it and just as he was about to make me a very happy women, he screamed ”Oh shit!” and stopped.

“What? Are you done already?” I asked breathless.

Jeff scowled at me.

“I think I totally grabbed my after-shave instead of the massage oil,” he said bringing his hands closer to his nose. “Yup, I did.”

I sat up and looked at him.

“I am so sorry,” Jeff said.

I tried to answer but suddenly the only thing that I could do was laugh and wish for a wash cloth.

“What are you doing?” Jeff asked as I got up from the bed and quickly walked to the bathroom.

“Well, I am going to clean up and then give my man-gina  a shave.”

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About this time of year, I begin to long for it.

I get so sick and tired of taking my clothes off and being blinded by white.

I just want a little tanish glow.

Not much, I don’t want to look like old leather but like I was traipsing around in the tropics with my lover.

For years, I have tried to joke about my whiteness saying that I like a fluorescent light tan but the truth is, I secretly long for tan skin.

How bad could it be if I went to the tanning salon… just a couple times?

I find someone to watch the kids while my guilty conscious lectures me,”You know you are going to look like one of those scary old woman with wrinkled leathery skin. And let’s not forget about skin cancer!”

“Shhh, I will only go a couple of time and for like 5 minutes. You know that any longer and I will turn into Larry the Lobster. Just let me have this… without the guilt.”

The sitter comes over and I’m set to leave but suddenly my children who have ignored me all day decided now is when they need me, they need my attention… desperately.

There is crying and leg holding and begging me to stay, “Don’t leave us mommy! Don’t!”

I roll my eyes and my conscious once again lays on the guilt, “See, they don’t want you to die. All this for a tan?!

I hush her violently in my head, kiss the children and drive off.

I pull into the parking lot and walk into the tanning salon. The smell of sunscreen and alcohol hit’s me square in the face, “Just like I remember it from my pre-prom tanning days as a teen.” I say to myself.

A bleached blond too tan girl looks up from her magazine as I come up to the counter.

We look at each other.

I wait for her to speak to me and welcome me to this salon but she just stares at me. “Ever heard of poliet costumer service?” I ask in my head then sigh and say aloud, “Hi. I would like to go tanning please?”

Her teenage angst bores into my soul and I suddenly feel  small and nervous. She takes my money and then gives me a half smile as she leads me back to a room.

“You know she is going to tweet about you and your tanning inexperience, right?” my conscious snarls at me.

I shake my head as the girl says, ”I suggest you go no more 5 to 7 minutes… this being your first time and all. You don’t want to burn.”

With that she slams the door and the little room made of paper thin walls shakes and threatens to fall down.

I turn the racoon eyed goggles I was given over in my hand, “Now what?”

The room is small and smells like a sweaty neon sunscreen factory but the posters on the walls of half naked overly tan men and women make me think of a sex factory where sunscreen was used as the lube. I wonder to myself if there is a hidden camera where they are making voyeur porn? That would just be icing on the cake.

It’s all very werid.

I undress.

“Nake or not naked?” I pounder. “Do I really want my naked butt in the same spot where someone else’s naked butt was? Think of the sweat?”

I shudder. I am starting to wonder if this was such a good idea.

I turn the dial to 5 minutes, to 7 minutes to 5 minutes to 7 minutes and then finally settle on 6 minutes.

“Well, here goes!” I say aloud.

I lay down, push my goggles over my eyes and pull the cover down. The machine clicks on and I am suddenly bathed in warn glowing light.

“So this is what it’s like to be in a coffin,” my mind says. “I wonder if vampires slept in one of these babies if they’d blow up?”

I giggle to myself as the bed gets warmer.

I curse myself for not bring music. What am I supposed to do while laying here, think about how much butt sweat is mixing right now with mine?

“Man, it’s hot!”

I giggle nervously.

“I think you ass is burning and also the shoulders, the elbows and ….”

I shift my weight around to relieve the hot areas.

“Holy hell! When will this thing end?”

I try to count the minutes off in my head.

“Dumbass! You should have only gone for 5 minutes.”

My breathing quickens.

“Shut up! It’s too hot to argue with you.”

I feel the sweat roll down my back and begin to wonder if anyone every burned up and died in a tanning bed.

“I want out! Oh my God! I am stuck here in this hot raditaion buring coffin. It’s burning my skin off! LET ME OUT!!!!!” I panic.

CLICK

The timer clicks off and the lights instantly dim.

I throw back the lid and hop out.

“Holy hell that was horrible!! Let’s not ever do that again.”

I dance around trying to cool off my burning skin.

“Pasty white and proud forever!”

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He gets off the bus looking defeated. And some days the tears stream down his face before he is off the first step.

My heart breaks.

“Mom why are they so mean to me?” Hayden cries his face buried in my neck. “I don’t eat trash off the floor, I don’t!”

His little body just sobs in my arms as the bus pulls away, “God! I hate the bus.” I say under my breath.

Hayden wears his heart on his sleeve, wants to please everyone and can be overbearing at times. But really all he wants is someone to be his friend.

Isn’t that all any of us want?

He doesn’t understand someone not letting him sit with them. He would never say no to a person. He doesn’t get the fun in calling someone names.

Last year, we dealt with a girl who pushed Hayden around and made him do things that were far too mature for a 5 year old. This year, there is a 5th grader who verbally taunts and teases him.

As a parent, I really struggle with what to do.

My first instinct is to swoop in and save him. I want to pull Hayden off that bus and sometimes even out of school but is that the right choice… teaching him to run from his problems?

I want Hayden to learn to stand up for himself, to be strong and not take any-one’s shit. I don’t want him to think, “Oh mom will deal with my problems for me.”

Jeff and I have instructed Hayden that when someone is not being nice to him, physically or with words, he needs to ask them to stop. If they don’t stop then he needs to go and find an adult to help him. If they still don’t stop and the adult doesn’t help, then Hayden is to fight back.

Hayden doesn’t have a competitive or confrontational bone in his body so it is the fighting back part that he struggles with.

Unfortunately, Hayden’s bus driver thinks that he is just a little tattle tale. I have watched her roll her eyes at his issues with this older boys and tell him that she is sure, “they didn’t mean it”. The one adult on that bus who is supposed to protect my child is not doing anything.

Hold me back, I will rip her face off.

But can I really blame her? She is in charge of driving a bus full of sometimes 20 or more children. If she takes her eyes off the road to deal with every child’s complaint how can that be safe?

I have an internal battle in my head. One side says that I should run to the school and scream and yell that my son is being mistreated. Someone needs to do something about this. The other said says, again what is that teaching Hayden in the long run? So far, this is nothing more than some kid telling Hayden he can’t sit with him and that he eats trash.

But is that how is starts for those kids who end up taking their lives because the pain and suffering of bullying is so bad?

Hayden doesn’t know the name of this kid so I have not talked to the school. I have talked with the bus driver and she will “watch the situation more carefully.” What he decided to do was to give Hayden a break from the bus for a couple of weeks and in that time, Jeff and I have started to teach our son the art of comebacks and sarcasm.

“Hayden, if that boy says that you eat trash,” I begin with Jeff looking on, “instead of insisting that you don’t, you need to think of a comeback.”

Hayden looks at me confused.

“You need say something like… ‘oh yeah, you like to lick money butts’” Jeff says.

Hayden giggles.

“Or say, ‘you smell like monkey farts’” I add.

Hayden giggles some more.

“See, those are comebacks.” Jeff explains, “They are not true of this boy but they are silly things that you can say that will hopefully make him and others laugh so that what he is saying about you not so funny any more. Do you think you can do that?”

Hayden nods.

I give him a big hug and suggest that we practice.

Soon Hayden Jeff and I are all laughing about monkey farts and I smile in Hayden’s laughter. This is how he should always be.

We tell him good night and in my heart, I say a prayer that this is the right thing to do.

A few days later, I get my answer.

Hayden runs up to me. ”Mom. Mom. Mom.” he says with a huge grin on his face as he hugs me.

“What?” I look at him with excited anticipation.

“I got to use my comebacks today,” he says with a huge smile, “And you know that they worked. I told that  boy his butt smelled like monkey farts and everyone laughed and he stopped being mean to me. I did it mom!”

I pulled my son into my arms and hugs him like I was trying to pull him back into me. At that moment, my heart was so full of his joy it could have burst.

“Mom, you’re hurting me.” Hayden said as he wiggled out of my embrace.

And even though ever fiber of my being didn’t want to, I let him go.

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