“Daddy, I just peed in the lake while I was fishing!”
"That's okay in a lake, but don't do that in a pool."
"Why?"
"Well, you wouldn't want to swim in a pool where other people peed in it, would you?"
"Well, yeah. I'd like it because it keeps you warm."
Now that's natural energy.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Jaws
I have found myself engaging lately in an ever frustrating argument with Vaughn about differentiating fact from fiction, especially when speaking to other children’s parents. With his current fascination with ocean animals—sharks, squids and the like—Vaughn is going around playgrounds regaling other children’s parents about his many ocean adventures. His latest fish story is how he survived the attack of a woodland shark. I’m trying to be a conscientious parent and remind him that this is a story he is telling, but others might think it true, but “You know that it’s not true right? You know you haven’t been attacked by a shark, right?”
“Uh-huh. But I did get bit down at Grandma Nimmie’s. I got bit by a woodland shark.”
Yeah. Grandma Nimmie, who lives at The Coast with a lake in her backyard. Whatever. I finally give up and shamefacedly look away whenever I overhear Vaughn entertaining unsuspecting parents with his tale of the violent woodland shark attack.
It’s not that I have a problem with Vaughn’s being “creative with the truth,” but it’s not like he’s saying he’s been attacked by a dragon, and he’s just so emphatic about it, right down to showing off his healing microscopic shark bite (that I’m now informed is fading into a scar. I’ll take his word for it), and I don’t want to have one of those kids that just goes around telling people about how he barely escaped a house fire and his mom is an exotic dancer—I mean things that people might actually be led to believe.
Today, he comes back from playing at the river telling me that there were a bunch of piranhas at the river behind a fallen log. Right, like your bite from the woodland shark.
“Yes, but these were REAL! There really were piranhas!”
“Wait a minute…You mean there is no such thing as a woodland shark? You just made it up? Woodland sharks don’t exist?”
“No.”
I don’t like to think of myself as a particularly gullible person, especially a person capable of being conned by a 6-year-old, and before you think you have a bridge to sell me, keep in mind that I’ve read him all these different books on the myriad of different angler fish, squid, whale and shark species with names like coffinfish, tasseled wobbegong or the infamous cookiecutter shark.
I just thought this was yet another ocean species with a rather exotic name. I mean it seemed a little odd that one would name a sea creature a “woodland” shark, but I figured it must be some kind of fresh water shark that inhabits creeks and ponds in the forest or something, one of those obscure species that looks like an odd piece of wood (…land) or something, or had big, round, long-lashed eyes and resembled a cuddly forest creature. I figured it was like the Humbolt squid and that Vaughn just latched onto the name and it stuck in his brain, one of the exposés I missed on a Discovery Channel DVD. Now, I come to find out that he’s actually being fairly accurate about his encounter with the woodland shark—he has an invisible scar from a vicious fictitious assault by a mythical shark. Yep, Vaughn is the victim of an imaginary woodland shark attack. I guess I should have listened more closely when he told me that those pieces of wood down at Grandma Nimmie’s were the teeth of the woodland shark. I just thought he was embellishing his fish tale.
Well, at least I won’t have to sit in the background at parks anymore shaking my head sadly as I overhear him duping some other kid’s parents into sympathizing about his apparitional brush with death and showing off the scars to prove it. My conscience will be free. I won’t have to concern myself that I’m raising a child of tall tales. Rather, just a creative writer in the making. After all, it’s not my fault if some parent is so credulous as to believe in such a thing as a woodland shark. They probably still think Elvis is alive, too. Sucker. (Wait…Elvis is dead, isn’t he?)
“Uh-huh. But I did get bit down at Grandma Nimmie’s. I got bit by a woodland shark.”
Yeah. Grandma Nimmie, who lives at The Coast with a lake in her backyard. Whatever. I finally give up and shamefacedly look away whenever I overhear Vaughn entertaining unsuspecting parents with his tale of the violent woodland shark attack.
It’s not that I have a problem with Vaughn’s being “creative with the truth,” but it’s not like he’s saying he’s been attacked by a dragon, and he’s just so emphatic about it, right down to showing off his healing microscopic shark bite (that I’m now informed is fading into a scar. I’ll take his word for it), and I don’t want to have one of those kids that just goes around telling people about how he barely escaped a house fire and his mom is an exotic dancer—I mean things that people might actually be led to believe.
Today, he comes back from playing at the river telling me that there were a bunch of piranhas at the river behind a fallen log. Right, like your bite from the woodland shark.
“Yes, but these were REAL! There really were piranhas!”
“Wait a minute…You mean there is no such thing as a woodland shark? You just made it up? Woodland sharks don’t exist?”
“No.”
I don’t like to think of myself as a particularly gullible person, especially a person capable of being conned by a 6-year-old, and before you think you have a bridge to sell me, keep in mind that I’ve read him all these different books on the myriad of different angler fish, squid, whale and shark species with names like coffinfish, tasseled wobbegong or the infamous cookiecutter shark.
I just thought this was yet another ocean species with a rather exotic name. I mean it seemed a little odd that one would name a sea creature a “woodland” shark, but I figured it must be some kind of fresh water shark that inhabits creeks and ponds in the forest or something, one of those obscure species that looks like an odd piece of wood (…land) or something, or had big, round, long-lashed eyes and resembled a cuddly forest creature. I figured it was like the Humbolt squid and that Vaughn just latched onto the name and it stuck in his brain, one of the exposés I missed on a Discovery Channel DVD. Now, I come to find out that he’s actually being fairly accurate about his encounter with the woodland shark—he has an invisible scar from a vicious fictitious assault by a mythical shark. Yep, Vaughn is the victim of an imaginary woodland shark attack. I guess I should have listened more closely when he told me that those pieces of wood down at Grandma Nimmie’s were the teeth of the woodland shark. I just thought he was embellishing his fish tale.
Well, at least I won’t have to sit in the background at parks anymore shaking my head sadly as I overhear him duping some other kid’s parents into sympathizing about his apparitional brush with death and showing off the scars to prove it. My conscience will be free. I won’t have to concern myself that I’m raising a child of tall tales. Rather, just a creative writer in the making. After all, it’s not my fault if some parent is so credulous as to believe in such a thing as a woodland shark. They probably still think Elvis is alive, too. Sucker. (Wait…Elvis is dead, isn’t he?)
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Official Middle Ages
Oh my God…I have just reached the age where I am hearing myself saying uncomfortably often regarding music “I can’t understand a word they’re saying.”
I’m frightened. Please hold me. I feel cold…
I’m frightened. Please hold me. I feel cold…
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
More Adventures with Word Boy
Vaughn and I were walking out of the grocery store where the retailers wisely plant all those eye catching money munchers that kids are so tempted by. These things are strategically placed, obviously, like their Family Friendly grocery checkout lines, where they have eliminated all the magazines at adult eyelevel and have increased the abundance of candy and other miscellaneous juvenile temptations at child eyelevel. This way, the adult rather than being occupied with reading about this week’s celebrity pregnancy/marriage/affair/rehab as they wait in a tortuously slow checkout line can instead be entertained by the child in front of them and/or their child’s candy meltdown or listen to the incessant sounds of “Can I have it, Mom, huh? Can I have it, Mom, huh? Can I have it, Mom, huh?” said over and over again in a droning, brain imploding whine. (Have you also noticed that all the diabetic-coma-inducing-psychedelically-colored cereals are all suspiciously at waist level?) Grocery stores are spiked with little kiddy mines, where an explosive temper tantrum can blow up out of seemingly nowhere, scattering mommies’ peace of minds throughout the store.
Sorry, I digress.
The hook and stuffed animal machine catches Vaughn’s eye.
“Mommy, what’s that?”
Now, I can see where this is going and not desiring to get waylaid in the store entrance/exit, decide to nip this in the bud, so I reply tersely,
“It’s a machine that takes your money,” continuing my race-walk out the door.
“WHAT?! Why that’s just ffffuuuunnn…ABSURD.”
I always have to find out the source of his word of the day, and so after a little inquiring I discover that this time it comes from school rather than his primary source of information—TV. He then proceeds to quote Webster’s Dictionary:
“It means to be funny to the point of being radaculunt.”
“Ridiculous?”
“Yes.”
This is another interesting phase in Vaughn’s development, and it’s one of the few that I’ve rather taken a liking to. Being a lover of words myself, it gives me no small pleasure to hear these unexpected, descriptive words coming out of his mouth, AND they’re being accurately used. It’s a little hard to get used to when the majority of the time what I hear coming out of his mouth is anything relating to the bodily functions and the parts from which they emit. Potty humor is timeless, at least to the under 10 set. And then, out of nowhere, he comes up with something that is not only accurate but insightful. Absurd indeed.
Sorry, I digress.
The hook and stuffed animal machine catches Vaughn’s eye.
“Mommy, what’s that?”
Now, I can see where this is going and not desiring to get waylaid in the store entrance/exit, decide to nip this in the bud, so I reply tersely,
“It’s a machine that takes your money,” continuing my race-walk out the door.
“WHAT?! Why that’s just ffffuuuunnn…ABSURD.”
I always have to find out the source of his word of the day, and so after a little inquiring I discover that this time it comes from school rather than his primary source of information—TV. He then proceeds to quote Webster’s Dictionary:
“It means to be funny to the point of being radaculunt.”
“Ridiculous?”
“Yes.”
This is another interesting phase in Vaughn’s development, and it’s one of the few that I’ve rather taken a liking to. Being a lover of words myself, it gives me no small pleasure to hear these unexpected, descriptive words coming out of his mouth, AND they’re being accurately used. It’s a little hard to get used to when the majority of the time what I hear coming out of his mouth is anything relating to the bodily functions and the parts from which they emit. Potty humor is timeless, at least to the under 10 set. And then, out of nowhere, he comes up with something that is not only accurate but insightful. Absurd indeed.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Postscript to the Day From Hell
So after yesterday's morning of fun, I hightailed it home and got down to the business of being a housewife and mother--I blogged, what else? After finishing that, as part of my new insane, get fit fast program, I logged 7 miles with my good friend Leslie Sansone. By the time I had completed all the items on my To Do list: read, sleep, eat, I had 15 minutes of wiggle room before heading out the door to rescue Vaughn from his Hellhole (the YMCA) to prepare snacks, don a pair of capris and flip-flops, and grab the keys. The keys…the keys…THE KEYS!!! WHERE ARE THE KEYS? They are not in their proper place--I should say the designated key spot where they’re usually about 65% of the time. I glance at the clock and see I’ve got a few spare minutes. I haven’t been wandering much of the house today, so I go to the few spaces I have inhabited over the last 6 hours. Nothing. That’s okay. I know we have spare keys, but… they are also not in their designated spot. I know…I’ll call Dave. I’m sure he can enlighten me as to where the spare keys might be, which, helpfully, he did--one pair was conveniently located in the pocket of a jacket he had left down at his mom’s house at the beach, and the other pair was equally conveniently located in his work van, which was currently clear across town. Great! I spend a few minutes going through my fastest methods of transportation, biking, but then I would have to get out the Gator and wrestle with it for who knows how long, getting Vaughn’s bike connected to it, and then slog his bike 3-1/2 miles behind mine. I could skate, but it’s all uphill. Why oh why did we have to put him in a charter school? Why couldn’t we have put him in the perfectly adequate public school a few blocks away? Was it really so important that he learn to read and write?
I rushed around to change clothes, putting on my blister prevention socks, my well broken in tennis shoes, exercise pants and cami and grab my Ipod. Since I hadn’t walked the dog yet, I figured I’d take her along as well, because I’m that kind of 21st century multi-tasking kind of mom. Even in a crisis, I’m thinking, "Now, is there any possible way I could run an errand while putting out this fire?"
As I'm walk-jogging my way there, I try calling the school because for some godforsaken reason we don’t have the Y’s direct phone number written down anywhere, but the school didn’t answer. I figured it was probably just a matter of time before the Y called me, and sure enough, 15 minutes out the door, they did. I can hear Vaughn wailing in the background, while Ms. Shark proceeds to state the obvious: Vaughn was crying and she had tried to reassure him I was in traffic and that I was on my way but… I managed to pant out that I had “car trouble,” and I was hurrying as fast as I could walk and would be there in another 20 minutes or so (thinking I was probably underestimating a tad).
I cranked up my hyper booty shaking tunes and walked my Donque off. Poe’s poop reflex kicked in once we were well on our way past any public trashcans, so I had the pleasure of whiffing her neatly scooped poop perfume all the way there.
Thirty minutes later--Ms. Shark asked where did my car break down? Way off in Gresham? And I explained that my “car trouble” was in not being able to locate the keys to operate it. To top all this off, as Vaughn and I are walking out the door, with me still huffing, all stinky and dripping sweat, we pass Teacher Hottie in the hall, with me deftly tucking my head further under the bill of my hat, issuing a brief grunted greeting and hurrying past, pretending I’m Vaughn’s unkempt babysitter.
As we make our long journey home, I’m deriving no small amount of amusement from the fact that to the friendly waving neighbors we pass I appear to be a fitness conscious mommy, environmentally aware, all granola nutty, who conscientiously walks my child to and from school every day. Little do they know I’m just an absent minded slacker mom. Of course this pretty picture is somewhat marred by the fact that it appears I am dragging Vaughn along behind me (hard to believe this is the same child that at 3 years old walked all the way up to the top of Multnomah Falls, some 1.5 miles both ways), while I’m limping along, teetering on the outer edges of my feet to avoid the jolts of pain elicited with each step that are emanating from the rapidly mysterious formation of blisters on the soles of my feet. So much for blister preventing socks. In their defense, it could have something to do with the fact that it is entirely unnatural for human feet to trek 14 miles in one day, and also, since my pedicure, I have been religiously slathering my feet with lotion at night in an effort to keep the calluses at bay. I am now going to start walking on gravel so I don’t have to suffer from this affliction again.
One and a half hours, 1 billion “are we almost home yets,” 2 monstrous blisters, and a downpour of rain later, oh, and another poop stop where I had to use one of Vaughn’s snack bags because I had run out of the proper poop scoops, we arrive home.
Shortly, after we arrived home, so did Dave and quickly found the keys, lodged between the desk and the wall, right behind the designated key spot on the desk. I knew I should have pulled the desk out, but I was, ironically, just too in a hurry and, frankly, too lazy to take the time.
I rushed around to change clothes, putting on my blister prevention socks, my well broken in tennis shoes, exercise pants and cami and grab my Ipod. Since I hadn’t walked the dog yet, I figured I’d take her along as well, because I’m that kind of 21st century multi-tasking kind of mom. Even in a crisis, I’m thinking, "Now, is there any possible way I could run an errand while putting out this fire?"
As I'm walk-jogging my way there, I try calling the school because for some godforsaken reason we don’t have the Y’s direct phone number written down anywhere, but the school didn’t answer. I figured it was probably just a matter of time before the Y called me, and sure enough, 15 minutes out the door, they did. I can hear Vaughn wailing in the background, while Ms. Shark proceeds to state the obvious: Vaughn was crying and she had tried to reassure him I was in traffic and that I was on my way but… I managed to pant out that I had “car trouble,” and I was hurrying as fast as I could walk and would be there in another 20 minutes or so (thinking I was probably underestimating a tad).
I cranked up my hyper booty shaking tunes and walked my Donque off. Poe’s poop reflex kicked in once we were well on our way past any public trashcans, so I had the pleasure of whiffing her neatly scooped poop perfume all the way there.
Thirty minutes later--Ms. Shark asked where did my car break down? Way off in Gresham? And I explained that my “car trouble” was in not being able to locate the keys to operate it. To top all this off, as Vaughn and I are walking out the door, with me still huffing, all stinky and dripping sweat, we pass Teacher Hottie in the hall, with me deftly tucking my head further under the bill of my hat, issuing a brief grunted greeting and hurrying past, pretending I’m Vaughn’s unkempt babysitter.
As we make our long journey home, I’m deriving no small amount of amusement from the fact that to the friendly waving neighbors we pass I appear to be a fitness conscious mommy, environmentally aware, all granola nutty, who conscientiously walks my child to and from school every day. Little do they know I’m just an absent minded slacker mom. Of course this pretty picture is somewhat marred by the fact that it appears I am dragging Vaughn along behind me (hard to believe this is the same child that at 3 years old walked all the way up to the top of Multnomah Falls, some 1.5 miles both ways), while I’m limping along, teetering on the outer edges of my feet to avoid the jolts of pain elicited with each step that are emanating from the rapidly mysterious formation of blisters on the soles of my feet. So much for blister preventing socks. In their defense, it could have something to do with the fact that it is entirely unnatural for human feet to trek 14 miles in one day, and also, since my pedicure, I have been religiously slathering my feet with lotion at night in an effort to keep the calluses at bay. I am now going to start walking on gravel so I don’t have to suffer from this affliction again.
One and a half hours, 1 billion “are we almost home yets,” 2 monstrous blisters, and a downpour of rain later, oh, and another poop stop where I had to use one of Vaughn’s snack bags because I had run out of the proper poop scoops, we arrive home.
Shortly, after we arrived home, so did Dave and quickly found the keys, lodged between the desk and the wall, right behind the designated key spot on the desk. I knew I should have pulled the desk out, but I was, ironically, just too in a hurry and, frankly, too lazy to take the time.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Oh What A Beautiful Morning
This morning started much like any other school day, only worse. I began the morning drill like usual, turning on the light in Vaughn’s room with a perky, “Good morning, Sunshine!” or something like that, which was answered by a pitiful groan. Surmising what was coming, I quickly made my escape to the kitchen to prepare breakfast while in the background I was treated to the dulcet sounds of Vaughn groaning, whining, and otherwise doing his best impression of death throes (I tell you, there is a future in theater for that boy) from his perch in bed.
I have grown accustomed over the years to Vaughn’s more theatrical tendencies, and have made a concerted effort to inure myself to their powers, so I wisely chose to ignore this vexing cacophony, informing him that whether he was physically capable or not, he would be finished with breakfast when the timer went off. In the meantime, Dave is making a hasty retreat to work, nearly knocking me over as he sprints out the door. Coward.
Now, I have a pretty good idea what is causing the boy’s seeming distress. He has repeatedly and vociferously shared with us how much he dislikes the Y, and the evening before while calculating that there were just 2 more weeks of school left, he quickly computed that that meant only 6 more days of the Y. I thought that particular revelation would be a comfort to him. Instead, it seems to have intensified his dread of the place.
And so it continued all the rest of the morning, with me lecturing on how there are many things in life we have to do that we don’t want to (like getting up at 7 in the morning to listen to a whiney 6-year-old), but we do them anyway. So (and this is something I say so often that I’m sure in a few years he’ll be echoing me as I say it) you can either be miserable and do it or find the positives, focus on those, and make it as fun as possible. Wheeeeee! Yeah, that’s pretty much the reaction to that erudition.
Driving him to school in the van, I’m chanting in my head over and over, “Just a little longer and you’re free. Just a little longer and you’re free,” while Vaughn, as we turn down the street to his school, starts hyperventilating, blubbering in between gasps, “I need my breafs, I need my breafs.” This doesn’t stop as we pull into the school parking lot, but only escalates, as he starts negotiating with me as if his life depended on it, “If you take me home, I promise I’ll let you rest. I’ll let you rest aaalllll daaayyy.” Right. And you’re about as trustworthy as a junkie. He continues weeping uncontrollably, and it’s getting dangerously close to time for school to start. Completely exasperated, I decide that maybe this is a good time for a breakthrough, get some meaningful insight into his YMCA phobia.
“So, Vaughn, just what is so terrible about the Y?”
Tears trickling down his face, streams of snot trailing out his nose, he looks at me red-eyed and says tragically, “BECAUSE I HAVE TO EAT THOSE HORRIBLE LUNCHES!”
That was the point all empathy evaporated from my body. These “horrible lunches” he is referring to are made to his specifications by yours truly. I am the source of his embittered outlook of the Y.
I think this is a good time to mention that when he started the school year I knew 3 days a week he was going to be spending lunchtime at the Y; so, I impassionedly threw myself into researching all kinds of books and websites for making yummy, creative, healthy lunches and eagerly started making all manner of tasty masterpieces. However, after about a month of knocking myself out only to have these works of love returned uneaten, I decided to limit my lunch lady skills to only those foods that weren’t returned room temperature at the end of the school day. This solution, theoretically, should have worked, but the key word there is theoretically. Because then came the day, after weeks of him requesting NOTHING BUT P&B sandwiches, he angrily informed me when I picked him up from school that “You KNOW I don’t like P&B sandwiches!” Obviously, I had committed the unforgivable sin of not reading his ever changing mind. Thereafter, we were issued His Majesty’s menu the night prior to his Y attendance. These lunches started taking on rather minimalist proportions, “Tomorrow I want an apple and a juice box AND THAT’S IT!” As it turns out, part of his Y aversion, particularly when it came to lunches, was *GASP* they had to stay seated until they were finished eating their lunch. Now it was clear to me why the Y was synonymous with water boarding.
Back in the van, I assured Vaughn that he was going to school, and he could either go in crying or take it like a man (okay, I didn’t use those actual words). He is self-conscious enough that the mere idea of bawling in front of his peers was enough for him to “need my breafs” and suck in a few shuddered intakes of air, steeling himself to bravely face his fate.
As I’m escorting Vaughn to the front of the school, hands clenched and a strained look on my face, I hear what sounds suspiciously like weeping off to the side of me, and I see an older female version of Vaughn crying uncontrollably as her mother, with a remarkably identical expression to mine on her face, is pat-pushing (motherese for the act of appearing to pat one’s child comfortingly on the back while at the same time pushing them towards the desired destination) her daughter toward the school entrance. As I witness this little Hallmark moment, I wonder what it is about this school that is making so many children so desperately unhappy. I say goodbye to Vaughn and restrain myself from racing back to the van, arms flailing, jumping gleefully into the air, screaming, “FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST…” when I chance to see the little girl, still howling, looking utterly abandoned, as her mom burns rubber out of the parking lot. She’s holding a fabric bag arm’s length away from her body, touching it with as few fingers as is required to still be actually dangling it, and is wailing, “THIS HORRIBLE BAG. THIS BAG… I CAN’T EVEN TOUCH IT… IT’S…HORRIBLE!”
I bet her mom made it.
I have grown accustomed over the years to Vaughn’s more theatrical tendencies, and have made a concerted effort to inure myself to their powers, so I wisely chose to ignore this vexing cacophony, informing him that whether he was physically capable or not, he would be finished with breakfast when the timer went off. In the meantime, Dave is making a hasty retreat to work, nearly knocking me over as he sprints out the door. Coward.
Now, I have a pretty good idea what is causing the boy’s seeming distress. He has repeatedly and vociferously shared with us how much he dislikes the Y, and the evening before while calculating that there were just 2 more weeks of school left, he quickly computed that that meant only 6 more days of the Y. I thought that particular revelation would be a comfort to him. Instead, it seems to have intensified his dread of the place.
And so it continued all the rest of the morning, with me lecturing on how there are many things in life we have to do that we don’t want to (like getting up at 7 in the morning to listen to a whiney 6-year-old), but we do them anyway. So (and this is something I say so often that I’m sure in a few years he’ll be echoing me as I say it) you can either be miserable and do it or find the positives, focus on those, and make it as fun as possible. Wheeeeee! Yeah, that’s pretty much the reaction to that erudition.
Driving him to school in the van, I’m chanting in my head over and over, “Just a little longer and you’re free. Just a little longer and you’re free,” while Vaughn, as we turn down the street to his school, starts hyperventilating, blubbering in between gasps, “I need my breafs, I need my breafs.” This doesn’t stop as we pull into the school parking lot, but only escalates, as he starts negotiating with me as if his life depended on it, “If you take me home, I promise I’ll let you rest. I’ll let you rest aaalllll daaayyy.” Right. And you’re about as trustworthy as a junkie. He continues weeping uncontrollably, and it’s getting dangerously close to time for school to start. Completely exasperated, I decide that maybe this is a good time for a breakthrough, get some meaningful insight into his YMCA phobia.
“So, Vaughn, just what is so terrible about the Y?”
Tears trickling down his face, streams of snot trailing out his nose, he looks at me red-eyed and says tragically, “BECAUSE I HAVE TO EAT THOSE HORRIBLE LUNCHES!”
That was the point all empathy evaporated from my body. These “horrible lunches” he is referring to are made to his specifications by yours truly. I am the source of his embittered outlook of the Y.
I think this is a good time to mention that when he started the school year I knew 3 days a week he was going to be spending lunchtime at the Y; so, I impassionedly threw myself into researching all kinds of books and websites for making yummy, creative, healthy lunches and eagerly started making all manner of tasty masterpieces. However, after about a month of knocking myself out only to have these works of love returned uneaten, I decided to limit my lunch lady skills to only those foods that weren’t returned room temperature at the end of the school day. This solution, theoretically, should have worked, but the key word there is theoretically. Because then came the day, after weeks of him requesting NOTHING BUT P&B sandwiches, he angrily informed me when I picked him up from school that “You KNOW I don’t like P&B sandwiches!” Obviously, I had committed the unforgivable sin of not reading his ever changing mind. Thereafter, we were issued His Majesty’s menu the night prior to his Y attendance. These lunches started taking on rather minimalist proportions, “Tomorrow I want an apple and a juice box AND THAT’S IT!” As it turns out, part of his Y aversion, particularly when it came to lunches, was *GASP* they had to stay seated until they were finished eating their lunch. Now it was clear to me why the Y was synonymous with water boarding.
Back in the van, I assured Vaughn that he was going to school, and he could either go in crying or take it like a man (okay, I didn’t use those actual words). He is self-conscious enough that the mere idea of bawling in front of his peers was enough for him to “need my breafs” and suck in a few shuddered intakes of air, steeling himself to bravely face his fate.
As I’m escorting Vaughn to the front of the school, hands clenched and a strained look on my face, I hear what sounds suspiciously like weeping off to the side of me, and I see an older female version of Vaughn crying uncontrollably as her mother, with a remarkably identical expression to mine on her face, is pat-pushing (motherese for the act of appearing to pat one’s child comfortingly on the back while at the same time pushing them towards the desired destination) her daughter toward the school entrance. As I witness this little Hallmark moment, I wonder what it is about this school that is making so many children so desperately unhappy. I say goodbye to Vaughn and restrain myself from racing back to the van, arms flailing, jumping gleefully into the air, screaming, “FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST…” when I chance to see the little girl, still howling, looking utterly abandoned, as her mom burns rubber out of the parking lot. She’s holding a fabric bag arm’s length away from her body, touching it with as few fingers as is required to still be actually dangling it, and is wailing, “THIS HORRIBLE BAG. THIS BAG… I CAN’T EVEN TOUCH IT… IT’S…HORRIBLE!”
I bet her mom made it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)