Stomanache (2008)

Stomanache

“Can you read these with me, Mommy?”

Jeremy was on my lap before I could move the clothes I was forever folding. His tanned legs reached to my calves now as he tried to settle into my lap; tall for his just six years he was too big and heavy to hold but he nestled in, pushed his back into my chest and rested his head in the curve of my neck. He held his books up, grazing my nose.

“Which one first?” I asked looking through several of his easy readers, surprised he had not snuck in Spiderman or Star Wars.

“This one.”

He chose Bananas Sometimes, a book he had read several times in kindergarten but until now I had not seen. The before bed grab a book and jump in my bed ritual had not ceased even though summer was here and the days less structured. Our basement was a mini library, filled with books I’d used in my own classroom and books I’d ordered for Jeremy and his older brother. As first grade neared and the summer was nearly over, I felt an anxiety growing in Jeremy to try to do more on his own and trust that he could be successful. This feeling of confidence was not something that came easily. Jeremy’s carefree and bubbly “let me do it” was often replaced with “I can’t” without even trying.

“Should I read it first?” I suggested, anxious myself to have him succeed.

“No, Mommy I wanna get my brain ready for school. I don’t remember kindergarten.
I won’t be ready. I don’t wanna be dumb and fat again this time,” he said matter-of-factly.

And with that the air in the room was removed and my lungs felt abused by this sudden lack of oxygen. I swallowed the sob that threatened to escape my clenched teeth. As I counted my careful measured breaths there was a fight to keep my lips tight, to hold all of the words that he should not hear me say; checked the anger that was building at the bullies of the world that had already whittled away at Jeremy’s sense of self.

Kindergarten had been difficult. There had been a bully and Jeremy had been an easy target. He was just five when he started, with that early August birthday.

On the day of his birth I had been so relieved that the doctor induced me weeks before my due date assuring me it was best for the baby. The diabetes and asthma medication had made the pregnancy high risk, so he and I were monitored closely. I had been so anxious to meet him, so desperate to be sure he was healthy, never thinking it would make him so young for school; forever tender to those born only a few months later. His height, nearly four feet, made the option to hold him back from kindergarten seem wrong. Being unsure made it easy to pick on him. And they did.

He was belittled for his height, his weight, his handwriting, his frequent tears. He was shy and more comfortable playing alone or with one or two other kids. The cliques already forming in the neighborhood or on the playground were intimidating. He did not defend himself with his words. My husband and I were suspicious when he did not love school then slowly made excuses not to go. The "stomanaches" in November seemed so real, I was sure he had a disease. The pediatrician assured us it was nothing physical. I should have taken the time to press him more or just tell him that I knew something was bothering him. When he did not answer or said it was boring I did not push, happy to be ignorant.

The real reason for his school anxiety did not come to light until January and by then the damage was done. He had came home elated, throwing open his backpack to reveal his first birthday party invitation.

“Read it to me, Mommy! Read it to me! When is it?” he shrieked as he waved a red and black postcard in my face.

I slowed his waving hand long enough to grab it. He was so happy, barely able to stand still.

“Who gave this to you?” I asked reading the postcard.

“My friend. I knew he would be my friend Mommy. I knew it. He invited everybody! The whole class. He gave me mine today. He said it is at Chuck E Cheeses. Right, Mommy? Everybody is going.”

The postcard was an advertisement for a school program. There was no invitation.

“Jeremy, I’m sorry but this is not for a birthday. Maybe you got mixed up. Did you leave it at school?” I searched for an explanation, something less agonizing than this truth.

He crumpled and cried on the floor, his back pack lying open like the lie it had held.

“He invited everybody before. He promised I could go, too. He said that was it Mommy and I put it in my backpack ‘fore I lost it. Read it again. Everybody is going,” he hit his thighs with each exclamation and cried, knowing the truth too.

I spoke to his teacher. I could feel her trepidation as I said the boy’s name. She apologized and said she would speak to the class. She later told me that others had been fooled also. It was explained that this boy had “issues” and that she was “working closely with the parents.” I knew that was code for class bully.

I felt I had betrayed Jeremy as I dropped him off each morning assuring him he was good enough and smart enough for school. I had brushed off his tears and stomanaches, not really listening enough to his protests, too busy with my own job.

He trusted me to get his brain ready for school--his mom, the teacher. I knew it was not his brain that needed readying, it was his heart. A tender soul and a spirited child is how he is best described. He cared more about what others said than what he knew.

Elementary school can be brutal to someone so raw.

I knew this brutality well as a teacher myself. Remembered the names of those bullies and those bullied; relived myself the sense of outrage and helplessness. I knew as his mother that I could not toughen him but I could give him words. I could teach him to read, and question and wonder. I could teach him to believe in himself so that when that bully struck with his limited vocabulary and own lack of self-esteem, Jeremy would not take those hurtful words as truth, he would know better.

I settled in. I inhaled the coconut lotion on his tender skin, let his sandy brown hair tickle my nose and gave his belly an extra squeeze. A deep breath released the pressure of that sob. Stretching my arms around him to hold the book in his sight I felt him swallow hard. He began chewing his cheek in his anxiousness to read, to make the letters on the page words and those words a story; to make sense of those things important in school. And he began…Ba-nan-as Some-times.

He read each word beautifully. But the cheek chewing continued, proving he was still unsure, unready, young.

“Jeremy that was great! You are such a good reader,” I whispered into his ear.

He sighed, pushing his head into my chest. “You read one too.”

I read the next book to model for him and watched closely to see if his jaws relaxed, hoping to see any changes so I could know if my words held any more weight than those who had put him down.

I read slowly and watched as he mouthed the words with me, trying forever to be right.