a tale of two school days: day two (fiona's turn)

I told the story of Neve's worst day of school.  Now it's Fiona's turn.  Coincidentally, their worst days happened within a week of one another.

We begin in the same way I began the last story (bus approaches, bus door opens, two little girls hop off).  The only difference is that now the subject wears her feelings a bit deeper than her sister wears her's.  Neve wipes her emotions on her sleeve, where Fiona tucks her emotions inside envelopes inside secret pockets under sweaters and coats.  There are no hung heads, no dragged backpacks down the bus steps, and definitely no tears in this greeting.  All I get is a stoic hello.

But as the day went on, it became more and more clear that something was wrong.  Fiona lashed out several times at her sister, mumbled third grade expletives, furrowed her brow, and was altogether a bit quieter than her usual already-introverted self.

*** mini backstory ***

Fiona is a happy kid, but she is different from me in her delivery.  While my husband is also a happy person, he is quiet.  He enjoys spending time with friends and a wife who can talk (a lot), but he also really likes being alone.  Fiona is like her dad. They retreat when things get loud.  They don't often discuss their feelings.  They can be funny and silly, but they are more in their head than on the table.  (Safe to say, Neve and I have no problem putting it all on the table all the time.  This blog is evidence of that.  I'd say Neve and I are like 70/30 table to head, and Fiona and Terry are 70/30 head to table.  But I digress...)  That said, it is rare to get an emotional offering from Fi, unless she's truly at her wit's end.

*** end of backstory ***

She was nearing her wit's end by about 7:00 that night.  Neve's annoying little sister-ness coupled with whatever "yucky" thing was on the menu that night is what did her in.  I could see the start of the avalanche happening... it started so quiet.  She wouldn't look in my direction.  I knew I was in for a doozie in 5, 4, 3, 2...

Me: "Fi, you okay?"

Fiona, not okay: "Yes."

Me: "Look at me.  Are you sure?"

Fiona turns toward me and boom.  No words needed.

Me: "Talk to me.  Did you have a bad day at school?"

All 63 lbs of Fiona were routed to her head which was thrust into my chest, almost knocking me over.  The avalanche.

After several minutes of hugging and hair petting (deja vu), she composed herself enough to tell me what exactly had happened earlier that day.

Fiona: "I should've known better.  It's my fault really..."

I honestly don't remember what awful things I imagined would follow that statement.  I'm sure I was holding my breath as I nodded with strained smile.

Fiona: "... I mean, WHO ACTS LIKE A FOX IN THE THIRD GRADE!?  I should've known not to do that in front of the gymnastics-girls."  (Unfortunately, I have no backstory to these "gymnastics-girls", as this was the first time hearing about them.  I assume they are the girls who prefer gymnastics over personified animals.)

Me, stifling laughter: "What do you mean you were 'acting like a fox'?"

Fiona, chuckles through tears, "I know, I know.  I don't know why I did it."

Me, stepping back to give her room: "Here.  Show me what you did.  I'll be honest with you."

To be fair, her fox reenactment was less of a National Geographic fox but more a Wes Anderson fox.  She, for whatever reason, felt the need to capture the essence of a fox at that very moment.  Amidst cartwheels and double round offs and athletic shorts.  I did not ask why she did it.  I trusted she had her reasons.  Besides, she's only 9 years old for pete's sake.  It's not like I'm pretending to be foxes for bank tellers or bag boys.  She's a kid!

I'm still holding my breath as I wait for the reactions of the gaggle of gymnastics-girls.

Fiona: "So, after I said I was just being sly like a fox, I slinked away.  I thought it might be funny, but they just thought I was weird."

Me: "How do you know they thought that?"

Fiona: "Because they laughed really hard at me and did this-" (rotating finger next to temple).  "So-and-so even followed me around the playground doing it at me.  I was so embarrassed, I climbed to the top of the old wooden slide* that no one ever plays on, and waited for her to go away."

My blood is at a rolling boil.  I'm silently counting backwards from 10 to keep myself from driving to so-and-so's house and ringing the doorbell to do the cuckoo sign language at them on their porch.  With gritted teeth I ask Fiona to wrap the story up.  

Me: "So did she ever go away?"

Fiona: "Yes.  So-and-so, so-and-so, so-and-so, and so-and-so (2 of said so-and-sos were also categorically "gymnastics-girls", FYI) told on so-and-so (the bully).  They all ran up to the top of the wooden slide* to make sure I was okay, and then I climbed down.  So-and-so (the bully) even said sorry and that she was only kidding with me, after I climbed off the *wooden slide." 

Me: "I'm confused.  It sounds like everything turned out fine.  Sounds like no one was really all that mean.  Then why are you so upset?"

Fiona: "Because I was embarrassed that I did it.  I'm not like them."

I wish I could say that I immediately understood the full impact of what she was saying at that moment.  I was too wrapped up in being angry at that other little girl to hear Fiona explain that she wasn't mad at her or anyone at all.  She was only upset that she let that little fox slip out.  I think she caught herself in a moment between little girl and big girl, and it embarrassed her.  

More so, I think she's finding her identity, and that road can be a lonely one at times.

Me: "Do you want to take a gymnastics class?  Is it something you'd be interested in getting better at?"

Fiona, with absolute certainty: "No.  I don't think it's bad, but it's not for me.  I just want to make books."

Done.  And when we find that book-making class, perhaps she'll meet another little fox like her.  

*Wooden slides.  Let's discuss.  I've never seen an all-wood slide.  But according to Fi, I think I know why no one is ever actually sliding down them.  (Ouch).