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Retreat

Here's what I think happened:

When things fell apart with school last year, it was a bigger shock than I anticipated. I thought I had been holding the outcome loosely. "We're just going to see what happens," I told people when they asked how it was going. At every step forward, I cautioned, "It isn't over till it's over." But then when it was over, the result felt like a confirmation of what I had feared all along: that there is no place for Collin. No place for us.

And without realizing what I was doing, I retreated.

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Attack doesn't make me retreat. That's when I stand my ground or make plans to advance and overcome. It's disappointment that makes me want to circle the wagons, and I was deeply disappointed. So, I pulled back. My writing on the blog became less personal and less frequent. I stopped talking about homeschool in particular and sometimes felt reluctant to talk about Collin at all.

When I first realized what had happened, I felt ashamed. To retreat is to admit defeat. I'm supposed to be Collin's warrior mama, never taking no for an answer. But as I journaled one day, I noticed that if you take the word 'retreat' from verb to noun, its tone changes. To retreat is to give up, but to take a retreat, to go on a retreat, is to withdraw with the purpose of coming back better.

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Collin has outgrown a lot of the shows he watched as a little kid, but he is a long-time devotee of Yo Gabba Gabba. In one of his favorite episodes, Muno and Brobee build themselves a clubhouse. When their friends, Foofa and Toodee, come to play, Muno and Brobee won't let the girls come inside. They claim there is a secret password, but they won't share it.

Toodee and Foofa are surprised and hurt to be shut out when they thought they would be invited in. They get angry and want to make their friends do the right thing, but ultimately realize there's nothing they can do about it. So what do they do? They leave. They go somewhere else and build their own club house to their own liking. While they're learning this hard lesson, they sing "Do Our Own Thing," which I admit chokes me up from time to time:

We'll do our own thing, we'll have our own fun.

We'll do our own thing, we'll laugh, play, and run

We'll do our own thing, that's what we can do

When you want to play, but you get left out

When you want to go along, but get left behind

When you want to fit in, but there's no more room,

It's better not to let it get you down, and that's when we'll

Do our own thing.

A lot of Yo Gabba Gabba lessons are a little on the preachy side for my taste, trying to convince kids to act the right way through guilt or self-interest, but I love this one because it offers practical advice for what to do when you can't control a situation. When you can't make someone do the right thing. Which is always.

And now I realize that that's what we did. When the door was closed, we decided not to bang on it. We left. Yes, I was sad and didn't want to talk about it for a while. But we didn't spend much time sitting still. We were busy building our own place, finding our own people, doing our own thing.