The Brown Potato and The Red Potatoes.

Dear Son #1,
Daddy’s uncle once told me that bigger kids equal bigger problems. At the time, I was up to my elbows in poop and vomit that wasn’t my own, enjoying nights where a whole three hours of sleep was something to celebrate, and negotiating with terroris–I mean toddlers on a daily basis. At the time I gave him a weary smile and told him I would look forward to that.

Also he wasn’t wrong.

Now, don’t misunderstand this, I 100% don’t wish for the Time-Of-Not-My-Own-Bodily-Fluids back. Not one bit. But the issues in hindsight were easier to deal with and for the most part, they would end once I collapsed into bed at night. Like Groundhog Day they would repeat again tomorrow but not bad enough to keep me up at night. After all, I could handle a meltdown because I wouldn’t let you try out my breast pump or because your toast was the wrong shade of brown.

This week we were in the principal’s office again. Talking about what happened again. Feeling angry and defeated again. Knowing we were powerless again. While you abide by the zero tolerance policy to bullying at the school, others do not. While you just want to be a kid, others do not. While you think it’s good to be yourself, others do not. As I sit next to you in that office, it’s killing me that this is happening to you, that you have been practicing self-defence at home to better protect yourself, that you have been working on being more assertive to show them just how strong you are, that nine-year-old kids can be this cruel and there’s really nothing that we can do about it.

I could handle two-year-old negotiations, I could fix boo-boo’s, but when it comes to this, I have never felt more powerless. What’s funny about these types of situations is what it brings out when children and adults have to work together to solve a problem. While I rage at the principal and school board in Angry-Mama-Bear-Mode demanding answers and solutions, you simply tell us something that I not only hope you always live by, but teach others too.

“So there’s a brown potato and a red potato” you begin. The principal and I raise eyebrows at each other concerned about possible head injury that occurred in the playground. “The brown potato wants to fit in with all the red potatoes because they are mean to him and think he’s weird. So the brown potato paints himself red to try to fit in with them. It works for a little while because they accept him, but he’s not happy because he’s not himself. And being yourself, well, that’s the most important thing.”

We both pause in awe before erupting into words of encouragement and praise. After all, there are many adults who still can’t be themselves. We both say (almost in unison) that weird is wonderful and you should be proud to be weird and different and all the other things that adults say on that subject. Among all the other emotions I was feeling in that moment, I have never been prouder. We leave the office with a plan to meet again, to stay away from behind snowbanks and backs of portables, and to keep being ourselves.

Either way it’s not fair and I’m still angry and frustrated that I can’t fix this, that I can’t be heard and that I can’t protect you like I could when you were an exhausting and demanding two-year-old. I may now be a mom with bigger kids with bigger problems (I know, it’s not going to get any better) but know that I will never stop fighting for you and your brothers.

For your right to be weird.

For your right to be different.

For your right to be yourselves.

For your right to be a brown potato amongst a sea of reds.

Love Mommy,

XOX

P.S. This morning I asked you where you heard the potato story and you told me that you just made it up. Buddy, keep being you and you will change the world.