Sugar and the County School System

Tonight's post is brought to you courtesy of sugar and the county school system.

Um..what's that you say?  Come again?

Yes, sugar and the county school system.

I've sat here at the keys for fifteen minutes, willing myself into writing something pithy and useful and instead I just feel like crying and writing about why.

If you know me at all, then the thought of me crying is not alarming, because I do it with unusual frequency.  The novelty wore off of my tears in, oh, 1973 or so.  Even I am bored with it.

With the exception of a few teenage crocodile tears, though, every single one is an escapee from the aquifer in my heart.  I feel hurt way too easily, worry way too much...I'm just generally an over-the-top kind of gal.

Lately, I've been shedding a river of tears over the deterioration of my husband's health.  A type II diabetic, the Mister lived in denial for decades, consuming all forms of sugar in breads, pastas, sodas, fruit, desserts, cookies...and, well, as just plain white sugar.

Beginning May of 2012, we both took control of our health by losing weight, increasing exercise, eliminating all processed foods and gluten from our pantry.  We looked and felt amazing!!

But diabetes is a sneaky son of a bitch, because it doesn't have gears for "reverse" or even "park".  It can only drive forward, and your span of control is limited to the accelerator.

So I blame some of these damn tears on sugar and the self-perceived indestructability that gives teenagers and addicts and alcoholics and diabetics and fatties and dopers and QVC shoppers and me the permission to cling to "well, that (insert negative consequence here) will never happen to me" as though it is a fact.

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And speaking of consequences...

The Boy is my firstborn, my only son, my raison d'etre (at least until his little sister came along.)  I love him more than I can possibly describe, and I am pretty descriptive when I want to be.

He is smart and funny and handsome and getting taller by the minute - and he has been a handful since his first day of pre-K.  I lost count of teacher's conferences back in fourth grade.  Sometimes a class clown, sometimes an angry and defiant miscreant, sometimes violent...but always ALWAYS my kid.  My baby boy.

Middle school has been a roller coaster at best, and as we crept steadily towards the end of this school year, his referrals to the principal's office noticeably decreased, and the offenses were less and less significant.  My kid CRAVES attention (don't know where he gets that), and he is slowly learning that there are good ways and bad ways of getting it.

Friday, May 25th was the last day of eighth grade for my young man.  On Thursday, May 24th, the entire 8th grade had a picnic at a local community park.  Gorgeous sunny blue-sky day, happy kids, all was going well ...and then he tried to address the knot in his shoelaces.  With the little scissors in his Swiss army knife.  You know, the little red Victorinox pocket knife that every boy in the western hemisphere possesses (as well as some girls), yet the overwhelming majority of them have the good sense not to bring it to a class picnic.

Alas, my young man was not so wise or crafty, and he suffered the great misfortune of being caught with what most of us would consider a multi-purpose utility tool but most school systems consider a dangerous weapon.

(In case you are curious, the "acceptable" length limit for a pocket knifeblade from the school perspective is 2 and 1/2 inches.  Victorinox blades are 2 and 3/4 inches.)

Fast-forward to this afternoon, where the Boy and I sat for 90 minutes in the school system's disciplinary hearing regarding his weapons possession charges.  Yes, really.  Weapons possession.  We were presented with two options:  one, accept the school system's offer of a judicial "tribunal" where we could bring legal representation and dispute the facts of the matter, or two, waive all rights to said tribunal, just suck it up and accept the consequences as predetermined by the school system.

We went with option two, and the Boy is now slated to begin 9th grade this fall at our county's alternative school for chronic offenders with behavior/drug/weapons violations.  I haven't stopped crying since I sat down in that godforsaken meeting.  It sucks, it just sucks.  I'm not articulate enough to find a better word than that.

The good news is that, assuming there are no other infractions between now and then, he will be welcome to enter the traditional high school setting with his friends beginning in January 2014.  We are only talking about a semester here.

Also, we do have another choice that we will pray about and talk through - which is to withdraw him from the school system altogether and homeschool him.  Again, we might just do that for a semester and then re-enroll him in January. 

Too many pros and cons to all of this and not enough neurons to process it right now.

Plus I'm dehydrated.