Late summer picnic by the river

It’s not easy being a mother. There are some things I can count on, like the warm swelling feeling in my chest when I sneak into his room at night to listen to him sleep, and the urge to climb in close to him and hold him tight. The need to kiss him and to breathe his sweet smell in. To touch his hair.

I can count on feeling guilty about every tough decision I’ve had to make along the way, and worrying, still, if I’ve made the right ones. I can count on never being quite sure about that. But also, the newer feeling that I’m noticing, of thinking that perhaps he’s turning out pretty good, and that I can allow myself to feel proud, to relax a little and worry less.

I can’t always count on having the support I would like from others around me. And though I may doubt myself at times, I can’t always count on having their trust that, in the end, I will make the right choice and do what is best for Rubin (which obviously includes doing what is best for me too). I would like a little more trust. A little more faith in me.

And then, when I have made a decision–the right one, the best one–I would like to have their support. Not sulking and passive-aggressive displays of childishness. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only adult around here. Alone.

Why does everyone want to make me over, according to their version of what I should be? A dutiful daughter, a loving partner, a reliable friend? What do these things even mean. I am just me. You should know me by now. Understand me. Accept me. The way I am.

When you place these confines on me, I feel constricted, crushed. A little less able to soar. Unable to paint or create, and cut off from my source of happiness. I want to cut loose and be free again. Completely.

This week, I decided to remove the Facebook syndication of my blog. It doesn’t seem appropriate anymore, to flaunt it there, in front of the people that have access to my Facebook profile. They’re not necessarily the ones who would have chosen to read it if they’d stumbled across it on the web.

And I find it a bit creepy when I discover that someone very close to me has been reading it, but not letting on that they’ve been reading it. And that they don’t really like me doing this–writing about deep personal things that matter a lot to me.

Well, you put your stuff out in the public domain, you’ve got to expect that people will read it. But why read and not say anything? Just quietly simmer away about it? I am sorry if I’ve caused them distress, and I don’t want to do that anymore.

You know, Facebook was originally created with fairly sinister intentions. The college boys wanted to ‘rate’ the pretty girls, and share their comments about them. It was to be a book of hot faces, that they could scrawl their lascivious wit all over, only on the web. Hey ho.

Six years later, you’ve got the perfect tool for lurkers and creeps to look in on your life, if you lay it out there for all to see. And I’m less and less inclined to now.

But I’ll still lay it out here, for now. I don’t really have that much to hide.

I’m hurting today. Not about this stuff. But bearing the brunt of a man’s bad mood. Because he doesn’t agree with the decision I’ve made about sending Rubin to school.

We’ve spent the best part of the last year considering what to do about this, and I’ve thought about it for considerably longer. To school or not to school? That is the question. We’ve visited all the alternatives within an unreasonable 25 mile radius. Steiner Schools, Montessori Schools, Small Schools. We’ve met with some local Home Educators, and read up about autonomous education and human scale education, and Summerhill, and Dartington, and Froebel.

I do feel that children start school too early in this country–we have one of the youngest school starting ages in the world. Rubin doesn’t turn 5 until the end of March, and he will by no means be the youngest in his class (some having only just turned 4). Six would be a better age. But, he goes to nursery, and he loves it, and now, as all his friends are going on to ‘big school’, he wants to go too. Desperately wants to go.

The first two years in school are heavily play-based, with very little emphasis on formal learning. At least, that is what I’m led to believe. Though I suspect there is much less freedom for kids to play and explore and choose what they want to do than he is used to having in nursery. Sure, he will have to wear a uniform. Yes, he will have to use formal names with the teachers and staff, instead of the comfortable informality of first names that he is used to at nursery. And if I could happily keep him in nursery for two more years I would.

But he wants to move on, and learn new things, and make new friends. And I feel it would be too cruel to keep him in nursery with kids that will be that much younger than him. It’s natural to want to keep up with your peers.

I have assured Dear Partner that if I feel school is detrimental to him in anyway, that he is not thriving and benefiting from being there, I will reconsider the options. I am not against homeschooling at all, but we are not very sociable people, and he is an only child–he should have a chance to make new friends and broaden his horizons.

So how long will I have to endure the silent treatment at home? I know it might seem inappropriate to you for me to write about this, but I really struggle at times like this to maintain my balance and equilibrium. I’m only asking for some love and support. A little bit of trust. Respect.

At times like this, I do wonder if I’d be better off being on my own. I will never know the answer to that one. Alone, I will always be wishing for someone to share my life with. But in togetherness, I am often wishing for solitude. Unanimity. Space. That is one thing I can count on. That, and my aching, restless heart.

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