We are entering a phase of parenting that makes me pine for a cranky baby, a teething toddler, or even an irascible preschooler who refuses to nap. Those tots I likely could handle; all I would need is a rocking chair, Tylenol, and a story book, in that order. Problems solved.
The two, not-so-tot-like boys who live at my house no longer have issues that can be addressed with that type of razor-like precision. I’m afraid it’s all horse-shoes-and-hand-grenade-type parenting from here on out.
Exhibit A:
Metro got an afternoon phone call from the elementary principal who said that Son #2 had written three curse words on his spelling paper. And these words were not the run-of-the-mill bad words like “crap” or “darn.” No, Son #2 went for the big guns. They rhyme with “duck,” “bass,” and “bell,” though their connotations are not even close to that warm and fuzzy.
Simultaneous to learning of this situation, Metro and I immediately thought, "Did he at least spell them right?"
I’ve written of our struggles in second-grade spelling; clearly, we are not over that hurdle yet.
Secondly, I realized that I was entirely confused by why my bright, downright ingenious boy had the lack of foresight to not only write these heinous words, but to also do it within the range of sight of the school’s principal. Over 500 other children attend his elementary school. Couldn’t he have stayed camouflaged just a bit? Maybe?
In his defense, however, he does think one of these words is really “funk” and believes it to be a type of music from the ‘80s. How he became such a connoisseur of Styx and Phil Collins is another post entirely.
He has also listened to his brother explain repeatedly that an ass is a donkey and hell is just the opposite of heaven.
Sigh.
Exhibit B:
I got an email from Son #1’s fourth-grade teacher who wants to talk to us about this elder boy’s “off-task behavior.”
When you’re ten, isn’t all behavior off task?
Anyway, we have an appointment Monday with ALL his fourth-grade teachers. Not. Looking. Forward. To. It.
Of course, this evidence leads me back to where I began – to Metro and I feeling our way blindly through this obstacle course called parenting. Some days, I would totally trade this phase for a little baby puke on my t-shirt.
Then, again, some days, cursing and being “off-task” seem unmistakably ideal.
