The other day my son came out of his room squealing in delight about the following arrangement:

 He said “Mama! Ava gave me these socks and I think they go really well with the green in my Vans! Don’t you think?”

And I said they look amazing, especially with the baseball pants, and I kissed his head.

I considered writing a blog post about how my son is gay, but then remembered that  wearing pink (or full drag, for that matter) doesn’t make a boy gay. [That wasn’t a slight against that woman who wrote that post (how’s that for vague?) when her son dressed in drag for Halloween, but rather against people who make giant sweeping assumptions when their boys gender-bend a little, IN PRESCHOOL,which isn’t actually gender-bending at all, since they haven’t been “gendered” yet and therefore can’t “bend” it — and are rather, in my opinion, just displaying a simple appreciation for the color pink. Or ruffles. Or tutus. Or whatever. ]

He wore those socks all day, including to baseball practice. I prayed none of the shithead children would make fun of him. We dodged that bullet, this time.

He once went to school in a navy blue jacket with pink piping and got all kinds of crap for it, and he was only in preschool. He may or may not have ever worn that coat again. He also got his heart handed to him for bringing a stuffed white seal to show-and-tell, because it was a “girl” toy.

That one thrashed me.

And as he was flailing around in his bright pink socks all day, I thought to myself…now THIS is a serious benefit of homeschool. My kid can run around all day dressed however he wants and won’t be tormented because his choices don’t quite fit the world’s gender expectations.

Yes, I know. Someday he’ll have to face the homophobes and their children. And they will be mean, especially if he continues to dress in 1980s-throwback gear. And he’ll doubt and question himself until all the pink is busted out of his little soul…

Or he’ll ROCK THAT SHIT forever (which is what I’m kinda hoping for).

Because dude. The kid has STYLE. Here’s the outfit he put together for his dad’s birthday dinner:

I love you, Rocket, with your pink socks and plaid fedora and big open heart.

I am not one of those parents. I am not not not not not not.

 Convinced?

 Yeah, me neither.

 Especially when I consider my recent decision to homeschool my son, Rocket.

 I’m so granola I should be in a bin at Whole Foods.

Next thing you know I’ll be growing armpit hair and knitting a hemp beanie for my kid, Moondance.

Or, maybe you’re thinking I’ve been BORN AGAIN. I’ve gone so religious I suddenly realize I’ve been “called” to shelter my children from the devious fingers of the DEVIL – protect them from the unrighteous (you know, gays, drugees, drunks, atheists, agnostics, Muslims…[fill in the blank]) – um, yeah fucking right. That definitely isn’t it. I’d choose the deviant outliers over the judgmental born-agains any day of the week.

I have decided to homeschool Rocket because regular school was totally and completely not working. Check it out: he’s almost 6 years old and he can’t read. Doesn’t want to read. Has no interest in reading. This may be because he’s dyslexic, which wouldn’t shock any of us, considering he has a genetic disposition for it and has shown other symptoms, OR he just, um, has no interest in reading yet.

Either way, teachers are obsessed with kids LEARNING TO READ. Must LEARN TO READ. Must learn to read NOW. Must learn to read NOW or something is WRONG with you.

And Rocket is not learning to read.

And he is not an idiot. He knows the other kids are learning to read.

And he is sensitive.

Remember The Seal Incident? Yeah, the kid feels it when he can’t perform. He feels it when he’s let others down, acted poorly, failed to meet expectations.

The result of this scenario? My little guy comes home from school nearly every day with a migraine headache. Nearly.Every.Single.Day. Five years old. Wracked with anxiety.

Yeah, no thanks.

I opt out.

Unsubscribe.

Please remove me from your mailing list.

Thank you for your time, traditional schooling, but we’ll be pursuing other options now.

We considered Waldorf or Montessori – too expensive. We considered sending him to regular school and just hoping he’d handle it one way or another, but there’s a problem with that approach, namely that every day, Rocket walks away with one message: “I’m not good enough. I’m not as smart as the other kids… What is wrong with me?” And I’m pretty sure that message will play over and over and over until finally he gets tired of the sound of that noise, gets tired of the feelings it triggers…tired of the whole thing…fed the hell up…and then the tape will probably play a new tune, maybe going something like this: “Screw school. I hate it. What I want is the HELL OUTTA HERE as soon as humanly possible and until that’s possible, I’ll just sit here and mess with the other kids, sniff glue, and/or work on my Early Expulsion Strategic Plan.”

So there you have it. I’m quitting work, returning to grad school and homeschooling my son.

That’s it. That’s all I got. My shit’s spilled.

Good lord I am not the homeschool type. But what the hell am I supposed to do? I’m no genius, but shit, even I can see that some things just aren’t working.

This was not, ever, in my plan. From my perspective, the payoff for the toddler years is that when they’re over, you get to send the kid to school all day – in another building – bye bye. But this was clear. I had to reassess.

I’m just trying to do what’s best for my little guy. Trying to find something that works.

And relying heavily on the fact that it’s kindergarten. I mean shit, how hard can it be?

I remember kindergarten. We cut out shapes and laughed at the kids who wet themselves. Oh wait. Maybe that was my first year in the dorms. Whatever.

We’ll survive.

What part of this am I missing?

Somebody explain to me how competition is useful in grammar school. I don’t get it. Or maybe I’m just too emotional or protective. I don’t know.

We went to my daughter’s “science fair” last night. All the kids had displays of their science projects, which they had worked on for weeks. They were all very proud, parading their parents around to all the boards, showing them whose was whose, especially highlighting their own, of course. My daughter was proud of her work and loving that we were at her school. It was fun. Well it was fun until the principal informed us that they would be “announcing the science fair winners” in a few minutes.

Wait. What? Why?

Why do we need ‘winners?’ Why does it have to be a competition? How do you judge the independent efforts of a 3^rd grader? How do you judge learning and exploration? And more importantly, why would you place them in a competition they are not emotionally ready to handle? Are these competitions for the child or are they for the over-engaged parents?

And if you must have a competition in 3rd grade, at least give the kid a CHOICE of whether or not she participates. This was a mandatory school project –that’s getting judged? So wrong on so many damn levels.

After seeing the other science projects, with their super complex presentations and perfectly aligned poster boards and color-coordinated everything and other obvious contributions by parents, I felt like saying to Ava “check it out. You aren’t going to win, little one. You aren’t going to win because daddy and I have the strange and radical opinion that kids should do their own work, without help or input of parents beyond subtle suggestions and hints, when the kid is stuck and explicitly asks for it. Consequently, your project looks like it was done by a 9-year-old.”

So the principal walks to the front of the room and all the kids with their hopeful, bright eyes and the parents – some looking intent and serious, others, like us, looking like we’re about to vomit – and she announces “first, second and third place” winners. I glance at Ava.

Her eyes burn red. She’s trying not to cry.

Half the room is trying not to cry.

And I run to her, torn as usual: wanting to cradle her but wanting her to learn that the world is a rough messed up place. Wanting her to fight her own battles, wanting to beat the principal and the fucktard PTA mom judges to listless, bloody pulps. So I say “Ah, baby. Let’s talk about it in the car,” hoping the walk across the parking lot will shed some light on it…give me the right words to say…give me just the thing to make her feel okay, to teach her the perfect lesson for this particular experience and make it all okay.

But I got nothin’.

As usual I flounder and struggle and try to explain that it doesn’t mean her project wasn’t great. It only means that a few people thought it wasn’t as great as the others…and it doesn’t matter what they think and who the hell are they to judge and they have their own motives, etc. etc. But she’s not an idiot. What’s the take away for her? What’s the ultimate message? Mine was not as good as the others. Mine didn’t win.

Period. End of story.

My project was not as good.

I am not as good.

And the pride she felt a few moments earlier vanished. And suddenly hers was second-rate and she was silly to hold our hands and parade us around. Because it wasn’t very good. It wasn’t a winner. The important people said so. There’s no ribbon on mine. Therefore, I lose.

Please somebody tell me how that’s helpful?

Because even if she were to win, what would she have then? An over-inflated sense of ego and superiority derived from an arbitrary judgment of irrelevant individuals. A feeling of success because other people approved of her work. Why not value the process? The journey. The fact that she did this work by herself and she did a good job. And that is enough in itself.

There is a place for competition. When a person is ready to compete. When a person is emotionally prepared to handle the loss. When a person can separate herself from the outcome, knowing a competition doesn’t define her value as a person.

But not now. Not in 3^rd grade. Not when it’s all wrapped up in one.

What did I ultimately say?

“Ava, remember that Townes Van Zandt song… ‘Don’t let the bastards get you down?’ Well, this is exactly what he was talking about.”

Then I called my mom and told her about the bastards, and tried not to let them get me down either.

when in doubt, ask yourself…