Sahm I Am - By Meredith Efken Page 0,28
not even hello. Just stomped upstairs to change his clothes. I figured he’d had a bad day at work. But when he came back down, he had what I call his “royal British fit” stance—nose in the air, chest expanded, hands clasped behind him. Always spells trouble…
“What shall we have for dinner?” he asks.
I respond that I hadn’t thought about it yet.
“Suppose we pretend we are having a picnic in the living room, since the kitchen and dining room seem to be otherwise…occupied.” Then he made a big show of checking the living room. “Oh, never mind. The living room is also rather disheveled, I see.”
“Why don’t you just get carryout tonight?” I must admit I wasn’t very interested in food. My children were engrossed in discovery of the world—Tristan was the only one who was hungry.
“As I did last night? And three nights before?”
I finally gave him my full attention. “What’s the matter, Tristan? You seem upset.”
That’s when he exploded! He was mad because the house was cluttered, dinner wasn’t ready, the children were a mess and I—as he put it—“lack structure and a sense of self-discipline and routine.”
Well, DUH! It took him nine years to figure that out?
Turns out, he doesn’t like my method of schooling. Thinks the kids should be in a formal educational environment. I reminded him we had already talked about that, and he had agreed that an institutional setting robs children of their natural curiosity and hunger to learn. He claims he hadn’t agreed with the ideas, he’d agreed to let me TRY them. Well, it sure seemed to me like he agreed with my philosophy, too!
“Cosette cannot read!” he griped.
“She’s only four and a half.”
“Griffith spends all his time building towers and crashing them with his cars.”
“Which is pretty much what he would do in preschool.”
“I want Seamus to know about the Empire, the Civil War, the…the Luddite Riots! When will he learn such important historical events?”
“When we move to England, dear.”
Now he was pouting. “I might have meant the American Civil War, you know.”
“But you didn’t.”
He couldn’t deny it. Instead, he waved a brochure in my face. I grabbed it—a slick, fancy advertisement for a slick, fancy private school. A BRITISH private school here in Baltimore, I might add.
He claims that this school’s method of education is far superior to what he calls “letting the kids run wild.” I keep telling him the proper term is “natural education,” but he won’t listen. Never in our nine years of marriage has he ever tried to pull some male chauvinist routine on me—even though I know his family raised him that way. But now, he’s claiming that “we tried your methods, and now it is time to correct the damage.” So without my consent, he’s planning to put Seamus in the first grade there, and Cosette and Griffith in the preschool.
How could he do this to me? I’ve done my very best with them, and he didn’t even give me a fair chance. I’m so mad I don’t even want to be in the same room with him. I’ve never felt so hurt in my whole life.
Z
* * *
From:
Thomas Huckleberry
To:
Dulcie Huckleberry
Subject:
Re: Next Weekend?
* * *
Hi Dulcie,
Sorry about the weekend—it sort of came up at the last minute. You know how we’ve been trying to talk Mom into getting a computer? Morris finally bought her one, but she doesn’t have anyone to help her install it. She also wants to e-mail us, so I’m going to set that up, too. You should be glad. Now she won’t have to call as often!
I know I was supposed to be home this weekend, but she needs my help. I’ll make it up to you.
Love,
Tom
* * *
From:
P. Lorimer
To:
“Green Eggs and Ham”
Subject:
Re: Bad fight…
* * *
Dear Zelia,
I’m sorry to hear about the altercation with Tristan. He really should have been more understanding and flexible. But I honestly don’t understand why you are so upset about the kids going off to school. You’ll have so much more free time—to do art, to spend with friends. Maybe even pursue a career if you want. There are days when I can only dream of that sort of freedom. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like. And I know I shouldn’t gripe—my children are practically angelic. But Bennet is almost ten months old now and I have yet to get a complete night’s sleep in over a year and a half.
Julia is in the midst of a tantrum as I write