When The Son Sets
Here you have this columnist. He’s judgmental, thinks he knows it all, and tries to mix humor with those diatribes. Some think he’s getting paid to write, and when corrected, he’s called a fool. Life must really be perfect when one ranks on others.
Such is not the case here, and for the first time in five years, I don’t feel like writing anything. I could care less about Valerie Plame. I hope the Attorney General doesn’t get thrown under the bus. Maybe the President can throw that unappreciated “new tone” thing under instead. The conditions in Iraq seem to be improving, thus we are getting more and more stories from the MSM with quotes from disgruntled American servicemen who want out yesterday. I have a future son-in-law going over in May.
Is it burn-out? Maybe. One can only go on so long without a meaningful chance to recharge. But it’s something else.
I had to jettison my youngest son for the second time in four years.
Let’s put it this way…. When I was running for Massachusetts Republican Party chairman, he came with me to all my events, voluntarily. We started running into people at numerous events and people complimented me on what a great kid he was. If they only knew….
Anyway, leave it to Massachusetts to not have any real programs or boot camps for kids who need some kind of crash head cleaning. Of course, we could never have anything that might break them and get the narcissistic, rap music, crap out of their heads, but in the meantime, what can a parent do about a kid who just won’t obey the rules? The hardest thing for any parent to admit is that their kid needs “help”.
And how does one pay for that help? This whole situation surely wasn’t anticipated. I called around and some of the boarding schools in New York State, Atlanta, North Carolina, Utah, Ohio, and Montana ain’t cheap. I got one quote of around $2800 a month. I can only imagine what kind of job I’d need to pay a $2800 mortgage, let alone a special school for a child who will probably show little gratitude at first for that kind of sacrifice. Especially as I don’t make that kind of money.
Now I won’t get into the specifics of my son’s transgressions. It’s embarrassing enough. But let it suffice to say that he got to the point where we didn’t want him around at all. And yet, that all went out the window (for me anyway) when I gave him a hug before putting him on the bus. The last time I cried like a pussy was when my father died five years ago. But it’s amazing what happens when you lose control of your children.
The hug I received told me I was his father and he knew why he had to board the bus to hell. Hell being living with his mother, aunt and step-uncle out of state. The step-uncle (or whatever one calls him) who refers to him as a “little nigger”, threatens to beat the shit out of him, and tells him his father will never amount to a hill of beans. Should I ever see what a hill of beans looks like, I’m sure the full brunt of that insult will hit home.
I was hoping he could appreciate the contrast in environments. However, two years ago when he was banished for two months, he cried everytime I spoke with him on the phone and begged to come home. His mother called every other day demanding money, and I paid it just to shut her up… for that day.
Last month my son told me during those phone calls, he “exaggerated.” I figure I’d leave his butt down there a few months longer now.
As I’m talking about my son, I’m probably the equivalent of a battered wife. I miss him and I’m probably able to take more of his crap than anyone else. The problem is I don’t live alone and I wouldn’t want to put up with the abuse if he wasn’t my child. Thus the dilemma and all the grief that goes with it.
I’m spilling my guts here, and I guess it’s kind of theraputic. If this is becoming too squishy for you, I hope to be back to my old self next week….
This is the journey I’m on at present. The radio rants and television projects are still on track, and as the political minutia perpetuates, like the Los Angeles Times Barack “Magic Negro” Obama piece that I have to dissect, I’ll do better when the head is clear of that God-awful tripe known as emotion.
