Adjust and Proceed

The Bean passed a test this weekend. It wasn’t Algebra, Biology, English or History.  He passed the Blood Test or What you do when you slice your fingers with a Henckel Test.  (Dang, they’re sharp!)

He kept it together. Maybe he didn’t know how bad he sliced his thumb. Maybe he thought the blood was cool. Whatever it was, he was ‘pretty matter of fact’ about it.  “Dad, where are the band aids? Dad, where’s the cheese slicer?” (Hmmm, that an interesting pair of questions.)

So, I find The Bean, standing in the kitchen with a paper towel wrapped around his thumb, cursing that someone hid the cheese slicer on him. (He gets that from me. I do the same thing every time the cleaning ladies come and “organize” my mess. I can’t find anything… but, I digress.)

So, I find The Bean, standing – bloody paper towel, mumbling, more irked he can’t make a sandwich than–anything else. “Let me see, buddy. Ew, that’s gonna need stitches.” (Shoot – my team just tied the game… Oh well, time for a trip to the ER. Shoot, that’s gonna take hours… It’s a beautiful day, I want to run and I have a date with La Pistolita tonight. Oh no!)

Alas, I remembered the urgent care option. A quick call to the insurance company (wow, they answered the phone) and my insurance would cover a trip to a local office. The two hour we were in the urgent care office provided me the time to show The Bean all of my scars and share stories of stitching events. The nine-iron to the forehead, the utility knife in the palm, the utility knife to the finger, the bagel slicing episode. Maybe we both need a safety course on knives.

Inside of two hours, we were on our way home with three stitches, antibiotics and a newfound respect for sharp objects. The sun was shining, snow melting, my team won without my direct support and I was only 30 minutes late for date night. I’ll take it.

I got the note today. The one from a teacher that says my kid is not completing his assignments and is falling behind. It’s not the first, it won’t be the last, but lately, I’ve received quite a few of these.

First, I’m angry with the kid. Then, I’m angry with the teacher – she needs to let me know when he starts to fall behind. (She has, but that’s beside the point.) Finally, I realize at whom my anger is really directed. Me. This is on me.

It’s my job to make sure he’s doing his work. I know I can’t do this forever, but it’s, for damn sure, my job now. Right now, I’m too damn worried about pleasing editors, co-workers and vice presidents instead of attending to my own child’s needs. I’m too damn worried about making sure my little cog of a giant corporation remains greased while I leave my 14-year-old son with Asperger’s Syndrome to fend for himself.

Note to self: get your head out of your arse, determine what’s really important and do something about it.

This is on me, Bean. I’m sorry I let you down.