I’m a bit pessimistic. When I was very young, I fell in love with Eeyore from the Winnie-the-Pooh books by A.A. Milne. I longed to visit Eeyore’s continually collapsing stick house in his own little neighborhood of the Hundred Acre Wood – marked on the book’s map as “Eeyore’s Gloomy Place: Rather Boggy and Sad.” My mom made me a stuffed Eeyore doll that I cherish to this day – he is made of gray corduroy, with a black felt mane, and he even has a tail that buttons on and off because, as every good Eeyore fan knows, he is always losing his tail. I’m not sure why I fell hook, line and sinker for that gloomy gray donkey, but I really did. I think part of me felt like I could cheer him up and part of me related to him.
My tendency toward pessimism, coupled with a penchant for exaggeration, often leads me to extrapolate alarming outcomes based on just a little bit of bad news. For example, after performing somewhat poorly on the math portion of a college entrance exam, I became convinced I would fail out of college. Friends and family members pointed out that I had performed quite well in math classes throughout my K-12 years. That fact did not assuage my fear; I really believed a terrible outcome would come to pass. I envisioned myself failed out of college, unemployable and living in my parents’ basement. What actually happened is this: I took a remedial math course my first semester of college, just to brush up, and was so bored I thought I would die. The next semester, I completed the required college level algebra course with no problems. In fact, I worked so hard, in an effort to prevent near certain disaster, that by the time the final exam rolled around, I could have scored only 18% on the test and still passed the class. My habit of letting a tiny bit of bad news or a potential setback lead me into temporary despair and far-flung conclusions has continued in my adult life. Somewhere along the line, my co-workers even nicknamed me (affectionately, I think) Rain Cloud Ronda.
So, you can imagine my reaction when I received a “Sorry, your son is on the wait list” call from a kindergarten this week. I laid awake for most of the night riding the Mommy Worry Train – the express version that goes straight from here to panic with no stops in between. My mind raced . . .
Oh no, that’s one less option. What if he doesn’t get into any other schools? What if he ends up going to public school? The classes are huge . . . the system is too rigid . . . it won’t be a fit for him . . . he’ll end up hating school . . . he’ll be bored . . . he won’t try . . . he’ll get negative feedback . . . he’ll develop poor self-esteem. Oh my god, what if he drops out?!
At some point, my irrational rollercoaster did a hairpin turn from fear to anger . . .
How could they possibly reject Chester? He’s sweet and smart and adorable! What is wrong with them? How could they not see what a wonderful addition he would be to their school?
I should confess. I didn’t really want Chester to go to this particular school anyway. We only applied because many of the neighborhood kids go there, it has a good reputation and we simply wanted to have as many options as possible. It’s a Catholic school and we are not Catholic, which I’m pretty sure is why Chester didn’t get in. The school clearly states on their application materials that first priority is given to in-parish children, next they accept out-of-parish Catholic children, and finally, if there are any places left, they will consider heathen children like mine. When I filled out the application, this policy seemed fairly rational, but now, as far as I’m concerned, it just goes to show that the whole operation is as self-righteous and judgmental as I’ve always suspected.
Hmmm . . . could they have rejected Chester because of me? That’s it! I’m sure the administrators, teachers and volunteer parents sensed the unholy nature of poor Chester’s mommy during his visit day. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone with such a “Bride of Hell’s Angel” look that day? Perhaps my beloved, battered motorcycle boots and favorite armful of studded bracelets turned them off? I knew it! I should have worn something more . . . oh, I don’t know, more . . . religious looking. What would that have been? Turtleneck sweater? Puffed sleeves? Unflattering mid-calf skirt?
I’m reminded of a favorite family story, recounting what my father said to his teacher as he was dropped off for kindergarten many years ago. Then five years old, my born-rebellious dad declared, “I don’t want to go to your goddamn school!” Well said, Dad; well said.
What’s the old saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?” Well, let me tell you, a woman scorned has got NOTHING on a mom who feels like her kid has been slighted. I’ve never been much of a grudge holder, but I married into a grudge holding family. The Billerbecks take grudges to a whole new level. They don’t hold them against each other or about nitpicky matters, but they are an intensely loyal bunch, and if they feel that one of their own has been wronged, they will never get past it. I’ve admired their loyalty over the years, but have never felt a grudge so deeply in my core . . . until now.
Upon hearing the news of Chester’s Catholic school rejection, my husband figured out how much money his parents put into the Catholic system over the years – a staggering total of 58 years of tuition, not to mention Sunday donations, gifts for new church windows and athletic programs, contributions to various fund raisers, and money spent on overpriced Notre Dame gear and tickets. My brother-in-law even set up a scholarship endowment at a Catholic college. We are currently looking into having that pulled. Of course I’m being facetious at this point, but I AM holding a grudge. I won’t be buying trees from the school’s Christmas tree fundraiser again, nor will I buy chocolate or magazines or whatever the neighborhood kids who attend that school are selling in the future – at least not for a couple of weeks.
I know deep down, on a rational, more optimistic level that these terrible things I predict in my dramatically pessimistic moments aren’t likely to happen. I have a solid track record of being proven dead wrong every time I feel this way, but it doesn’t seem to prevent me from keeping it up. I worry about passing this tendency, this quirk, this neurotic behavior – call it what you will – along to my son. For the most part, Chester’s personality seems to be a small, boy version of mine. In fact, he’s a little carbon copy in most instances. The good news is he seems to have a natural optimistic streak that I do not.
The other night, as I was seething over the rejection phone call, Chester was watching one of his favorite animated films – “How to Train Your Dragon.” At the end of the movie, the main character loses one of his feet in a heroic battle with a gigantic and very mean dragon. Chester watched intently as the character attempted to walk on his new Viking-style prosthetic foot. He said, “Losing your foot would be really bad, right Mommy?” “Yes, Chester, it would be bad, but it is something that people overcome.” (See, I’ve got a little optimism in me.) He thought for a while and then said, “You know what the really fun part would be?” I responded, “No, what would be fun about losing your foot?” He smiled and said, very proudly, “You wouldn’t have to trim your toenails anymore!” Now that’s what I call looking on the bright side!
Kindergarten isn’t going to get Chester out of having his toenails trimmed, but with optimism like that, I’m sure he’ll find a way to cope. Now that I’ve had some time to stew and an opportunity to vent, I’m feeling a little more optimistic myself. I’m taking a cue from Chester and looking on the bright side. He’s a good kid. He’s got parents that care. He’s probably going to be fine wherever he ends up for kindergarten. And besides, we didn’t want him to go to that goddamn school anyway.
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