Discrepancy

As I place an order for Methyl B12, which doesn't contain cyanide like the B12 I took for over a year (!!!), I find myself craving a Twix. Damn it, it's just down the hall and I even found a crisp dollar bill in my pocket when I got dressed this morning, perfect and ready for our picky candy machine. Kismet? Wasn't that dollar meant to purchase a Twix?

My quest to lose 30 pounds felt like it was going well when I celebrated a 4.5 pound weight loss this morning, but that Twix is my nemesis. There is a discrepancy between my desire to lose weight and my ability to not purchase a Twix.

Discrepancy. That's been the word of the day lately. "P exhibits severe ability/achievement discrepancies in the areas of basic reading, reading fluency, and written expression and is eligible for services for the disability Developmental Delays established Specific Learning Disability."

I was prepared for the IEP meeting when I we received that info. Oh, I had printed out extra copies of suggested accommodations from our eye doctor, brought in examples of his classwork to show areas of concern, and felt ready for anything thrown at me.

But I don't think I was prepared for that sentence. Not at all. It was so official, so final, so foreboding. I wanted to dash out of that conference room, get him from his class, and take him home and take him in my arms and tell him I'd always protect him and never let anyone hurt him. Or embarrass him. Or make fun of him.

Because those are my fears, so they must be his too.

Last night I attended an event with a friend at her church, and oh my gosh I should have taken notes, but my arms felt too heavy to make the effort to get a pen out of my purse. This is probably all sorts of wrong, but the speaker said something to the effect of, "We can teach our kids one of two things. First, the love of the Lord and his grace and protection of us. Or second, to take on our fears."

But I remember being a kid. I remember being taunted for wearing big Sally Jessie glasses when I had an eye infection and having bangs that winged out and walking extremely fast by nature. Freshman year of high school sucked. I remember being left out of things, arriving for plans with a group of friends to discover that everyone had eaten take-out dinner without me, me having been left out of that part of the plans on purpose (I'm not a good dinner companion, I suppose.). Junior year of high school sucked. I remember crying over a Triple Cheese Melt from Arby's with my dad after a silly boy broke my heart. Senior year of high school sucked.

And school was easy for me. So how do I prepare my son for what lies ahead, knowing that there may be even different challenges for him than there were for me? But more importantly, how do I keep from projecting my fears on to him? I think that's that biggest question and what I'm struggling with today.

He's not me. That's what I keep repeating.