But you don't know, what you don't know

I don't flounce very often, but today? I feel like flouncing.

In fact? I feel like waving my hands around and shrieking things like, "YOU DON'T KNOW ME!"

Or more accurately, I suppose, "You don't know him!"

Oh you know him though. Through me, you know. You know how he's hilarious, honestly one of the funniest people I've ever met, and sweet. How I very nearly lost him before I even got to know who he was. How he's one of the smartest, brightest, kindest souls I've ever had the privilege of meeting. That he (and this isn't just my mother's pride) is an absolutely brilliant artist. That he can easily talk with adults. That he likes sushi. That he's an excellent story-teller. How, lately, he's a creeper.

You may not know that one time on his birthday, my brother said, "I'm sorry, I'll bring your present next week" and my son said, "All we want is to get to see you." You may not know that yesterday he said to me in the deep voice he's had since he was a little, little boy that I smelled like I "took a bath in rainbows and cupcakes". You may not know that he would defend his sister every second of every hour of every day. That she is his best friend. That sometimes I envy the relationship that the pair of them have.

But I know.

Every day of his life this kid, my son, walks into a school where kids pick on him. There aren't any good reasons for someone, anyone to get picked on. But the reasons he's picked on seem especially stupid. His accent, his ears. He talks too fast. People from Tennessee are racist (what?). That he doesn't play soccer and apparently you are only cool if you play soccer.

They don't know him.

Unfortunately for them, they probably never will.

Unfortunately for him, he has to go to school with these douches.

I would never wish away the time I have with my children, but some days I do wish we could see fifteen years into the future. So this kid of mine could know that eventually it gets better. It never gets perfect. There's always going to be some idiot you work with who thinks they are the boss of you, even if they aren't the boss of you. There's always going to be some moron in your neighborhood who acts like they own the whole town. There's always going to be someone who talks smack about your book and writes really mean reviews (I'm projecting, sorry). It's never completely okay.

But it gets better. Being different is a good thing. There are people who celebrate you for what you can create with your hands and your mind. There are people who still laugh at your jokes. Who still read your blog, even though they don't comment (projecting again, sorry). There are people who are rooting for you. There are people who love you.

Today it's not better. But it will be.


Because he's my son. And I know him.