I prefer not to blog about blogging. I feel it to be dull. I would rather blog about life. Sometimes, when you blog; the blogging spills over into your life. Bear with me for this one blog. It is going to be about blogging. It is going to be about life.
My child was hurt and bullied. Fact. Hurt in a variety of incidents. Hurt when other children turned their backs on him. Fact. Not the sort of facts you want around you. But real, damaging and out there. Fact. Fact. Fact.
When a child hurts; a mother feels the pain. More fact. She thinks: "What can I do? My child is hurting. I must make it stop." I am "the Mother who Blogged." Shame on me. Shame. Shame. Shame. A mother will, of course, defend her child but I could have been more British. Shut the door. Had a quiet word. It would have been sorted out. I thought about it. And, then I wrote about it.
I blogged again, and, once again. What can I say? It gets to be a habit. I "virtually" bent my blog over backwards to explain that staff acted swiftly and with consummate professionalism. As keen to turn things around, as they would be if my child was their child. In a way, my child is their child. They have introduced a friendship bench and buddies, more supervision in the classroom and directed play at break time. They are bringing in a behavioural expert and a new anti-bullying policy. I could not have asked for more. I am grateful for every moment of thought they have put into turning things around. I could weep over them with gratitude, each time I see a casual kindness to my child. A word. A sticker. A small hand taken and held.
As for whether it will work. I hope so. It seems to be. In the last little while, my son has not said, matter-of-factly, that nobody wants to work with him or that he spends his break time watching others play. I think "all being well", "fingers crossed" and "let's hope so", it should "come good."
My son is too small to ignore his feelings of hurt when children do not want to play with him, or when some child kicks out. Luckily, I am older. Old enough to enjoy certain ironies. To pretend I have not noticed snubs and coolness from women who would spend smiles on me quite happily before. That there are now women who do not pass the time of day as they might have done before. I am so old that I can choose to smile at someone whose face is tight with disapproval when she sees me. Someone who can scarcely bring herself to reply to an everyday question. And, I can take at face value, a sweet soul's concern for me because of the "upset" I have created. Luckily, I am a grown-up and not a child. If I were a child, I might think that I was bullied and tell my mother. Then, there would be trouble.