Monday, June 17, 2013
(I was rather keen on laying around all day watching tv myself, so it was an easy sell.)
Near the end of the day you yelled to your father to bring you something.
"Get it yourself," your father replied.
"But I'm sick!" you protested.
"You just ate a sandwich and two bananas. I think you're feeling better."
"Get it for me...or...or...I'll puke on you!" was your reply.
Yeah, I think you're feeling better.
Monday, March 11, 2013
You'd think we would learn.
You said it yesterday, as we were painting together, apropos of nothing.
"Yes, I've heard that about you," I replied.
"I am like a grownup," you declared. "Grownups aren't afraid of anything."
"That's not true," I told you. "Lots of grownups are afraid of things."
"Like what?" you wanted to know.
"Well, some people are afraid of spiders. Or afraid of heights. That sort of thing."
"Heights? What's a height?"
"They're afraid of being up high. Like up on top of a building, where they might fall off."
"Oh." You digested this for a moment. Then: "What are you afraid of, mom?"
I am afraid you will get hit by a car. I am afraid you will get left behind in the school system. I am afraid you fall down, hit your head, cut yourself, drown. I am afraid someone will take you away from me. I am afraid I am doing a terrible job of parenting you. I am afraid you will hate me one day.
"Oh," I said, eventually, "I guess wasps freak me out a little."
We went back to painting.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
I mean, it's hard for me, I struggle with remembering what day is Pajama Day and what day you're supposed to bring a family photo (that we don't possess) and to remember to go over your homework in the 1.25 hours we have together each evening.
But I mostly meant that it is hard for you. You are improving at making transitions without sulking, though it's still an issue, and getting better at playing with more than that one kid. (For a while there you refused to play with anybody other than your Chosen One, and threw an unholy fit if you were seated next to someone else. I'm sure the kindergarten teacher with a full class of 24 kids super duper appreciated having to finangle your seat next to That Kid every day just to prevent the screaming.) You acquire french words at an alarming rate. You seem to have fun, most days.
You also hate printing and hate drawing, you won't wear a nametag. You daaaaaaawwwwwwddddllle.
(Sweet mother of all that is wonderful, do you dawdle. You dawdle so much that you've missed the bus, when you are only 1 of 2 kids that the bus picks up.)
The printing thing is a bit of a concern, as your teacher seems to think it will affect assessment of your fine motor skills. Not that your fine motor skills are lacking - anybody who has seen you put together a lego set can attest to that - but the assessment of your fine motor skills is what tags along in your file. The dreaded elementary school File. So unless we want a big red stamp of DELAYED over that section of your File, we have to encourage you in this area.
Encouraging you in any area is just an exercise in frustration. I have never really mastered the skill of making you think something is your own idea. I want you to understand that, look, just print your name a few times and we'll call it good for the day. Just humor me with that, and everybody's life now and in the future will be a lot easier, and we can move on to something else.
Instead you insist that your name is actually Sparky* so you should be learning to print that, and we get about 3 letters in before you decide that you'll print the letters but not in order. Then you'll deliberately write down the wrong letter and giggle, and I will grind my teeth and bribe you with something, because after all learning is supposed to be a positive experience. Not one in which your mother loses her shit and threatens to take all your toys away.
Okay, so it is hard for me too.
I'm sure Grade 1 will just be twice as much fun.
*The reason your name is Sparky is because you're a dragon. Except for when you are Optimus Prime. You wear costumes to daycare as often as you possibly can (we tell you they're dirty a lot) and when you can't, you whine and say "you don't want anybody to see you like this" and "you don't like looking like Xander".
I wish I could just decide to be someone else each day, too.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Me: "Xander, please don't use bathroom words."
You: "-dle. Poodle."
You: "Poodle. Poodle, poodle, poodle. A poodle is a type of dog, mom. They're rescue dogs."
Me: "I don't think they are."
You: "Poo......dle. Poo. Dle."
Me: "Xander. Enough. I know what you are doing, please stop. We don't care."
You: "You don't care about me?"
Me: "I don't care about poodles."
You: "You should care about poodles, mom. If you don't care about them, they won't rescue you when you need to be rescued."
Your father: "I think you're getting poodles confused with St. Bernards."
Me: "I need a drink."
You: "Jake, when I am 18 I am going to MIT."
Jake: "What's MIT?"
You: "It's the school where they teach you to make the Iron Man suit."
You: "Mom, when I am 18 I am going to war. You can go to war when you're 18."
Me: "Let's go back to talking about poodles. Where's my drink?"
Saturday, December 15, 2012
You like costumes. Like, you really like dressing up. So much so that occasionally you wear them ALL, and toddle around the house like some sort of Spider-Thor-ladybug-dragon sumo wrestler.
So I guess it’s no surprise that you did a bit of a holiday mashup, and wore your dragon costume to meet the reindeer.
I’d get you another costume for Christmas, but they appear to be out of season.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Is happening. I had a lot of anxiety about it, before it started happening, though not for the usual reasons. I’m quite happy for you to pass on to new phases of life, even a little excited for you. I mean, sure, I mourn my ‘baby’ like most mothers; you are the only one I will ever have. But frankly, the older you get, the more interesting you get. At almost-five you say at least one thing every day that just floors me, and you make me laugh. Sometimes even on purpose.
So I had anxiety, but it was because I was (am) terrified that you will be THAT kid. The one that the teacher gives up on almost instantly, and I will have to spend the rest of your school career trying to convince people that you are worth teaching.
You are smart. So, so smart, but stubborn as hell and not conventional by any means. You are a teenager before your time; if someone tells you that “everyone else is doing it”, you will choose to do the opposite. Just because.
The daycare, of course, knows this and compensates for it. I know it, and compensate for it (sometimes poorly, and with yelling). But the public school system is not exactly known for compensating.
So on your first day, I had a lot of anxiety. There was some chaos with the bus, and I was glad I chose to be a helicopter parent for once and show up at daycare to make sure you were comfortable with it (I also showed up at school to make sure you got on it to go back to daycare). There was some chaos with the teacher, and introductions, and you refused to wear your nametag.
(Some wanna-be-helpful parent said to you: “Look, all the other kids are wearing theirs!” and basically sealed THAT fate. I tried: “How will the teacher know who you are?”. “Mom, I will just tell her,” you explained patiently. Hard to argue with that.)
But you went. And you thought it was great. And you come home every day telling me words in French, and that your best friend IN THE WORLD is Charlotte. (Who the fuck is Charlotte?) You aren’t napping anymore so you fall asleep instantly at 8pm and are, in general, more pleasant.
You also wear your Spiderman and dragon costumes to school regularly, and come home telling me that you learned “no hitting” and “no tackling” and “we don’t throw balls indoors at our brothers”. So…there is still some cause for anxiety there.
I mean, for one thing, you don’t have a brother.