Amid waiting for my second round of test results, trying to force myself to work on this project that's overdue, handling invoicing and shipping issues for a client of my other business (yes, there's been a lot happening that I haven't told anyone much about) and discovering that I don't like cinnamon flavoured candy, the last thing I expected today was a call from my husband about our daughter getting into trouble at school.
Th blood test results have come back with the same result as before, so now there's no putting it down to faulty lab equipment or fluke: It's official - the diagnosis is hypothyroidism and, according to my doctor, there's no natural remedy, no dietary solution, no getting around it. I've been given a script for thyroid hormones and a referral to get a thyroid scan as soon as I can, to eliminate the possibility that there's anything more sinister underlying the issue.
On the plus side, says the doc, with treatment of the thyroid issue, I should start feeling much, much better in general - regain my energy levels, motivation, etc.
On the work front, I've gone from wondering what to do with myself to make a living to having started up 2 businesses. Both currently require a lot of time and attention which I am not managing to deliver... :-/ Eep!
BUT I've hired an admin assistant to help me sort things out, so we'll hopefully start sailing a bit more smoothly once we've sorted out the initial teething issues.
On the cinnamon flavoured candy, it's like this: Having received my first real pay cheque in ages at the end of July, I figured that although there is a LOT of financial catch-up to do, I could afford to buy myself a small bag of Jelly Belly jelly beans from our local Food Lovers' Market. Because they are awesome and they come in so many different flavours, none of which I have ever encountered and disliked. Until now. The cinnamon ones are reminiscent of those fiery little red fishpond pebble lookalike things I used to get as a kid. I loved them once upon a time. Now I just find them that little bit too intense and the flavour lingers a bit too long in the mouth. I may very well feel differently in the relatively near future. But for now, they're not on my favourites list.
And after rambling all of that random crap at you, I guess we've come to the part where I raise my hand and hang my head simultaneously and admit that I am a mom who swears. Yes, I know you all know that this is not news - I've made no secret of the fact that I have a filthy mouth. It's nothing to be proud of, I know. And to be honest, that thing people say about how profanity shows a lack of vocabulary is very true.
There was a time when I used to read and write and converse with people without ever having to curse and I liked it that way. But somewhere along the line I let myself slip and soon it became the norm for me to fling profanities at anyone and anything that annoyed me.
I could come up with all kinds of justifications, but the fact is, I have a potty mouth. And it has rubbed off on my kids. And here lies the root of the evil.
Anyone who knows my daughter at all will tell you that she's not your average 10-year old. And I have known pretty much since her arrival that she's a feisty girl and won't easily be pushed around. She doesn't take kindly to being told what to do and she doesn't like having to conform to other people's ideas of "normal".
And today, she told her class teacher to go and fuck himself. And then grabbed a pair of scissors and threatened to cut her wrists.
Now, I'm the last person who's going to pretend that I don't know where my daughter gets her anti-establishment attitude and potty mouth from. It's fairly obvious that those come from me - I plead "guilty", Your Honour.
But self harming? Threatening suicide? That's a bit much to process - and certainly not something she's seen modelled at home. Ever.
So where does it come from? Where does a 10 year old child, whose television and movie-watching are closely monitored, who rarely spends a night away from home (and then usually with her grandparents), who is dropped off and picked up from school and doesn't even walk across the street to the corner cafe without being accompanied by an adult... Where does she pick up that kind of idea? What have I missed? What have I failed to see, do, say, hear, protect her from, show her, help her with?
Of course, there's background to this story and there have been other outbursts, but none of them have been this bad.
We have been aware for a while that she's not especially happy at this particular school and is having a hard time fitting in. The other kids her age generally just don't get her. They don't get her wit and her humour. They don't get her offbeat and outlandish style. They don't get her tendency toward things dark and unusual and they certainly don't get her emo streak. And after having fought so hard for her to be admitted to this particular school, I'm having to eat humble pie and recognise that although the school is considered one of the best government schools in the region, maybe it's not the best school for her.
I'm looking at how things have been for the past year and a bit since we moved out here - hell, even before, at the old school - and I have to seriously question once again whether mainstream schooling is the right fit for Megan. More and more, I'm inclined to look for alternatives because I see my child struggling in this rigid and unaccepting environment and I can't help but think that there must be a better way.
However, I'm also reluctant to jump straight into the homeschooling option again, not only because I'm not sure that that would be the right solution either, but also because I'm spread pretty thin as it is and I don't know whether I can commit the time and effort that will be required.
Clearly, we have some questions to ask, decisions to make and issues to address...