Page 6 of Wake Me Up
Smith Sawyer, for instance. When he comes in for his doughnuts with his hat backward and his sweatpants … hell yes, he pulls it off.
“Bye, Gramp,” I say, ignoring his last comment. “See you in the morning.”
Walking to my car, I unlock it and open the door.
Tonight is a rare night when the boys have no practices or games going on, and we can all actually relax. Tomorrow, on the other hand, is a different story.
But keeping busy is good for all of us. The past five years have been packed full of hockey, basketball, and baseball practices. Swim classes, dance lessons, and so much more. If we had time to stop and think about how much we missed the way things used to be, it would probably kill us. So, busy seems to be the best medicine.
At least, for me it is. And as long as my kids are happy, that’s all that really matters.
I stare across the table at my daughter. “What do you mean, you pushed him?” I can’t even believe the words coming from my mouth.
At seven years old, she has never been anything but sweet. Well, mostly.
Aviana Hale has been dealt a pretty tough hand of cards. Her dad died when she was two. She has epilepsy that we control mostly with medications, but even that sometimes doesn’t work. So, I have a hard time believing she’d let a punk kid in her class get under her skin enough to shove him, but when I arrived at school pickup not long ago, I was met by the principal. Who was apparently just seconds away from calling me because a few minutes prior, my daughter had decided to shove a boy onto the ground.
“He deserved it,” she says matter-of-factly, slouched down in her chair and avoiding eye contact with me.
“Aviana,” I say in warning. “Why would you say such a thing? No one deserves to be shoved.”
“Unless he did,” Cane says, walking into the kitchen and straight toward the refrigerator. “His older brother is in my class. He’s a douche.”
Now, Cane I’d expect this from. He’s the one who gets into trouble from time to time. It’s always when he’s been provoked or when he’s sticking up for someone else, but Cash and Avy are my peacekeepers.
“That’s enough, Cane,” I half hiss, half utter. “Ave, tell me whathappened. I need to understand why you would think it was okay to put your hands on another person or to hurt them.”
She slouches lower, and her lip trembles.
Cane walks to the front of the table and looks her over. “What’d he do to you, Ave? Tell us.”
“You are not a parent,” I whisper angrily at him. “Go to your room. Or in the living room. Or literally anywhere else but in here with me.”
Before he gets the chance to walk away, like he should, Aviana’s voice squeaks, “He called me a bastard child because he said I don’t have a dad.” She stops. “And he brought up that I pee my pants because of the seizure I had last month in class.”
My heart breaks, not only because a child could be so cruel to bring up her dead father, but because I remember how embarrassed she was when she gained consciousness after her seizure and realized she had wet her pants.
“I’m going to kill his older brother,” Cane growls beside me, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see his body stiffen and his fists ball. “Douchebag kids.”
“Cane, that is enough!” Shooting up from my chair, I poke my finger into his chest. “His brother didn’t do it, Cane. Go. To. Your. Room.” I hiss the last words through my teeth. “Now.”
I walk around the edge of the table and stop in front of her before kneeling down. “Sweet girl, I’m so sorry that he said that.”And now I understand why you shoved the fucker down.Only I can’t even say that because this still has to be a teaching moment.
“You’re not a …” I pause, swallowing. “That name.”
“A bastard,” she whispers, bringing her eyes to mine. “What’s a bastard, Mom?”
“Well …” I say and stop again. “It’s just a word that boys in the second grade probably shouldn’t use.”
“But he learned it from his older brother, I’m sure,” Cane says, poking his head back in the room, proving he is not listening to me today.
Instead of scolding him again, I decide to just ignore him altogether. Nobody gave me a rule book on this parenting thing, so even twelve years later … I’m winging it.
“I’m just so sorry he said that to you. Youhavea daddy.” I take herhands in mine. “He’s with you every day. And as for the other part, you have epilepsy, baby. You can’t control that, and you should never be made fun of for it either.”
Inside, I’m equally sad as I am fuming. I want to go punch his mother right in the face, knowing damn well he learned this behavior from the way his parents treated others. My heart breaks that he told her she has no dad. She was only two when he died, so I know she doesn’t really remember him, but I try to keep his memory alive. I show them all pictures, and we celebrate his birthday; a few times a year, his family comes to visit, and we also travel to Florida to see them as well.
“You always say that, Mom. You always say I have a dad and that he’s with me,” she whispers. “But he can’t play Go Fish with me. Or Old Maid. He can’t help me build a fort or watch me dance.” She looks down, shrugging her tiny shoulders. “I don’t have a daddy. Even though you always say that I do.”
