Learning to Be a Mother

26. Exorbitant!

I slapped my son in front of his classmates. This highlight of the eyes was filled with great wrath so as to take spontaneous action, felt from my irregular breath while watching the nose of the first child who managed to embarrass our family name in the place of learning.

"Your mother never taught you to look like this."

From what he had heard earlier, the man lowered his head with both hands hiding behind his back. The head was completely withered with some vibrations that I could see occasionally in the legs, Fathan trembling at the consequences of what I had done.

"home."

Fathan immediately paled, begging mercifully with his arms folded. "Ma, Fathan hasn't finished the exam. Fathan's sorry, shouldn't be ...."

"Home home, you're saying her mother never understood!" I snapped and faced a group of friends. "Don't ever ask my kids to play with you again!"

Then, I dragged Fathan from the crowd that formed along the school hallway. My eyeballs did not need to answer their attention, nor did my son who was now resigned after his arm was pulled by me earlier. We go home, home with the deepest shame.

I told you not to play futsal or anything that meant hanging out with his friends, this is how it came from yesterday's meeting. This Monday, on the first day of the exam, my son actually had a fight with a classmate just because he was caught cheating. Fathan complains to his teacher but because his desk mate is a high-achieving child, Fathan is blamed for interfering with other people's affairs.

It's stupid and it's not true that anyone hears it, it's unfair. But that's not the point, it's about their quarrel that ends with Fathan punching on his stomach until the man complains of pain. Uh, not a punch. Except his death kick. Well, who's to blame here, isn't he?

I never taught my son to kick anyone for whatever reason. Don't kick, I can hit you back later. Should I kick my son too?

It's ten in the morning and the school gate has returned the student, I didn't bring a vehicle or take public transport and chose to take my first child home on foot. Really, if I have special powers, I'll erase every schoolboy's memory of what my son did.

What makes me even more upset, this news was conveyed by another counseling teacher who happened to be teaching there, not from Ms. Irma who used to discuss with me at school or outside school. The teacher was notoriously stricter and less tolerant, so my son immediately got a second warning letter for the violence and disturbing that was being tested in class.

"Mama, Fathan, I'm sorry."

Until now, I felt that these ears could not hear or deafen with the word 'apologize' alone. I still can't accept the fact, even imagining a Muhammad Fathan kicking a classmate can't. Can his father imagine?

When we arrived at the yard, I immediately took him into the room. His body was still dragged with the shoes involved there, the footwear left traces of footprints that stained every ceramic in this house.

I pushed my son into the bathroom, he's still with the same shrillness as if he was sorry for what he did at school.

"Mrs ...."

Without a second thought, I flushed it with annoyance that made the uniform wet. The roar of our breath hunted each other, both feeling helpless fear after many glances of attention that had glanced at our departure.

"You're too much, you know? Being told to study even futsal, the time for exams even fight. How did you not try!"

I flushed it again, continuing until the bath water was almost at its limit. Continuously until the cries and voices of my son also silenced, he could only be glued to a wet place that equalized the rinse of someone's body.

"Think you're thinking, Fathan .. if you know what? You don't think Mama, don't think of your sister who's like that now in her father's eyes. Don't you think about your future?"

"But he also ...."

"How dare you bales Mama, huh?"

"Try thinking again, WRONG OR NOT!"

Then, the bathroom door was pulled tightly. I closed it, locked it from the outside with the light of the room turned off quickly. Right, I locked Fathan in the bathroom soaking wet with the lights off.

Of course it prompted Fathan to panic, this light brown barrier he tapped many times from inside with many cries for help, apologizing with a groan I had never heard before.

Still unable to vent emotions, I ran to her room full of books there. Just say cruel or sadistic, I ruffled her favorite things in the room, satisfying my raging feelings with tears that were sliding down the cheek.

I wept. I can't believe my son would dare to do that, violence that doesn't exist and only worsens our surname. It is not the child that will be looked down upon, but his parents. I'll be blamed, I'll be the sharpest glare of people when they see me walking the same path.

I ended up in that place, pulling the kids hair as tight as possible by shouting without a sound. If it's my fault, I still don't understand where my fault lies. Whether I make him depressed or how, I don't understand.

However, all I can do right now is describe my emotional form. I couldn't do much more than make my first child aware, other than making my children follow orders and not much behavior. I need to be more firm.

...***...

Sorenya, my youngest son came home without the usual motorcycle roar to the house. He returned to his quarrel on foot, entered without greeting, and passed through my presence.

Before long, Kalista came back to the living room. Facing me without occupying an empty, uninhabited place. As if remembering something, he asked me.

"Ma, where's Fathan?"

Unfortunately, I'm still in a bad feeling. I couldn't talk, didn't respond much until my husband came home. Maybe I should tell her about her first child at school, I wonder how she responds later.

Feeling neglected, my son finally left. He knocked on his brother's room, surprised to see the door open in such a messy condition.

"Ma, that's Fathan where, anyway!"

I covered my face, looking for the direction where the calm was. But hearing the existence of the door experiment being pushed rough many times, I was surprised when Kalista managed to open it. Just remembered he's a karate kid.

"Mama!"

I approached the origin of the sound, there was a Kalista who tried to help his brother out of there with difficulty because of the weakness of the body of the man. Looks like Fathan ran out of steam and got cold in the bathroom.

I didn't help her at all, I monitored the brand until Fathan managed to lay down the body on her soft bed. The state of the room was still a mess, I just let it be as a form of lesson as well.

"Do you think what you're doing is real?" Kalista confronted me, saying as she pleased, "Mom think, Fathan is completely wrong?"

"You don't know anything, Kalista."

"Gue tau!" My son said quickly, "Gue know that Mama's doing it makes no difference, equally about violence. Mama wasn't afraid of trauma, so Mama was too. Yeah, right?"

"You are this ...."