I. Am. Drained. (This is going to be a long one.)

It was a VERY emotional weekend; around every corner lay a new tsuris.  I wondered if it would take its toll on everyone and if anyone would still be speaking on Monday morning.

My glass is so half-empty that way.

So Friday night was dress rehearsal for Vagina Monologues.  It was our first night in the Flying Monkey, and most of us had never set foot in there before, so that was new.  We still had the opening “scene” to block, but needed everyone there in order for it to be productive.  Lezlie had been detained at the Cellar, so we all just ogled eachother in our hot black and pink outfits, had a bottle of wine (or four), and generally chatted.  One lady kindly (ha!) let me know that I had inadvertantly left her name out of the program.  She offered to just go home, since I hadn’t acknowledged her. (I’m being MUCH kinder in this retelling than actually happened.) I promised to, on my own time and dime, print out inserts in the program the next day.  So just shut the hell up. (That was pretty truthful.)

Finally the rehearsal began.  It ran a little long, but we got out of there around 11.

OH!  I didn’t tell you about The Boy.  Well, when Bryan picked up The Boy, he said he had left his bookbag on the bus.  This was a huge deal (at the time.. little did we know what was to follow) because his graduation fee had been in the bookbag, and Friday was the deadling.  Although the biological ‘rents were freaking out, I was a cucumber, saying, “Dude, it’s just freakin’ kindergarden.  They’ll accept it on Monday.”

So while at dress rehearsal, I get this text message; “The Boy’s mom got a message on her machine at home saying that ‘John’ had been in a fight on the bus and was suspended for a week.”

This was distressing, mostly because ‘John’ is NOT The Boy’s name. 

So a whirlwind began.  The Boy swore UP and DOWN that, no, there hadn’t been a fight on the bus.  He wasn’t involved.  Then, upon fierce interrogation from the biologicals, we discovered that.. yeah, okay, there HAD been a fight, but he WAS NOT involved.  He just watched from afar.  Silently, and (I imagine) sulking, he went to bed.

Bryan and I talked about it when he got home.  There was much frustration.  It was one of those “step” nights, when it all of a sudden hits you that your opinion means nothing in this equation.  It’s as it should be, I know.. but it still sucks.

Anyway, Saturday morning, first thing, I got up and took my car to Firestone for some work to be done.  They estimated a three hour job, so I called Bryan to ask him to come get me.  Right as he answers the phone, I hear, “Okay, so I WAS in the fight on the bus.”  And there is ANGER.  From me.  I asked him to come get me.  In my mind, we’re done with baseball for the season.  Better not even think about video games.  And this gorgeous weather?  Good thing we have windows; you’ll be enjoying it only from the view your bedroom provides you.

However, the maternal end of the biologicals says we shouldn’t keep him from baseball.  WHAT?!  It will stunt his development in the sport if he misses a season, she reasons.

HE’S FIVE. 

Anyway, not my fight. 

So they come and get me, and we head to McDonalds for breakfast.  Bryan is too angry to speak, so I sit The Boy down and we talk about lying.  How we’re all in this together, and only the truth will help us.  I confessed about lies I told when I was his age.. and HOW MUCH TROUBLE I GOT IN because of it.  He nods, and I think, “Good.  We’ve at least gotten through about the lying thing.”  Because, honestly, it wasn’t the fight that killed me.  It was the lying.  We asked about what had happened afterwards, and he said nothing.  He had not been to the principals office, had not spoken with the prinicipal, and was unaware of any discipline taken against him.

A quick trip to Kinkos, and the inserts are done.  We head to WalMart for a few last minute items, and my car is done.  The Boy, however, during all of these trips, is acting like a hellion.  It’s clear that he has yet to come to grips with just how angry we are at him.  He asks to go to the park, to go home and play GameCube, things that he KNOWS he no longer has the privilage of doing.  And although it brings us slight satisfaction to say “no!”, really, we’re just worried that the punishment is far too light.

Bryan makes hot dogs for lunch.  And all hell breaks loose.

The Boy starts pushing buttons like no one’s business.  After we warn him not to, he immediately gulps down an entire glass of juice without touching his lunch, and says he’s not hungry and WILL NOT eat his lunch.  Ohhhhh.. nay nay, nadine.  I’ve never seen Bryan so angry.  He sat there, just vibrating, across the table.  So we sat there, in a contest of wills.  “You may NOT be excused,” I told him.  “We will sit here until you eat your hot dog.  I have a book, and your father has a magazine.  We will sit here as long as it takes.”

We sit.  And sit.  And sit.  Bryan is fidgety.  And The Boy is starting to cry.  I am reading a book.

And I realize that I am the only one in control right then.  And I want to cry, because I have no say so in anything that happens with this child, yet am responsible for any structured behavior he may gleem.  He’s clearly not getting it at home, and we have him so little..

Anyway, after close to 45 minutes, he is sent to his room for a nap.

Did I mention that I had a show.. that I was responsible for.. opening that night?  I had SOOOOO longed for a peaceful, calm, relaxing day..

I headed over to the Flying Monkey after putting both men down for a nap.  Quite frankly, after a day like that, I figured I could tackle anything that happened on stage.  Everything went well.  I had a GREAT time.  We made some GREAT money for the Madison County Free Clinic.  Saw some surprising faces in the audience.  And, as it should always happen, I fucked up on stage.  Big time.  Just completely blanked during my group piece.  The piece was about women “coming of age” and menstruation and how their mothers handled it with them, and all I could think of was..

“Well… (cue panic in Sarah’s eyes).. my mom.. (praying that the next girl is ready).. is a bitch.”

And everyone lost it.  Way to go, Miss Director-Lady.

We ended the night, loaded up, and I headed home.  New development there.

Bryan spoke the principal.  Guess who HAD seen the principal on Friday?  Guess who HAD received a detailed note explaining the circumstances?  Guess who HAD left it in his desk?

NO baseball, I say.  That’s it.  We can’t reward bad behavior, and this is inexcusable.  He had the chance to come clean and continually lied.  Bryan was ready to paddle him.

The maternal biological wouldn’t hear of it.  Any of it.  The Boy will still play baseball (yes, because we’re dealing with the next Bambino here), and she wouldn’t hear of physical punishment.  In fact, she said his “due process” was violated.

HE’S FIVE. 

So we go to bed.

Sunday was fairly uneventful, other than I felt like poo.  Everyone showed up at VM in a GREAT mood, and there was much laughter, and a BUNCH of people came, and we raised even more money.  Nothing better than that.

And as the crowd dispersed, I started to cry.  It was a huge release.  I realized how incredibly proud I was of these amazing women; how proud I was to be a part of them.  I was so proud of everything that had happened.  I just looked around, the laughter still clinging to the rafters, and I couldn’t get over how much I was truly going to miss chatting with these women once a week (or more, when I was lucky).  How happy I was to have met them all.  And how incredibly emotional the trip had been.  VM had been part of my life since Bryan moved in, since I took on an official role of “stepmother”, since I had become Sarah v.2.  And I made it.  I survived.  And had this AMAZING product to show for it.

When I got home, I felt like a new woman.  Bryan and I went to dinner at Surin, then went home and (on a tip from JJ.. THANKS ETERNALLY!) changed into our PJs.. because Brewsters was having a free-two-scoop-in-a-waffle-cone-if-you’re-in-your-pjs weekend.  It was glorious.

Emotional, yes.  But worth it?  Yes.

Ladies, thank you endlessly.  Words can’t express how flattered I was to be a part of it, and how amazed and proud I was of what you put forth.  I watched each and every one of you, in awe of how comfortable you were in your own skin, and it quite honestly made me thrilled to be female.  I can’t wait to do it again.

And remember.. when you have nothing else to say.. “My mom is a BITCH.” (Not really, Ma.)