You bet I have loved those teaching moments. I was a super-duper eager mom just ripe to plant some educational seeds in the Kid’s blank slate of a receptive brain. By four he knew llamas came from Pa-Woo. He could use the word “touche” in proper context by six. He was the only child in last year’s 7th grade that knew South Sudan was the newest country in the world. He uses who and whom correctly and actually corrects me if I ever say good when I should have said well.
I birthed a genius.
Ok, maybe just a pretty smart kid whose mom thinks she know all the important things to teach.
So he listens to all of that, but strings of words like “take a shower” and “throw those disgusting clothes in the hamper” mean absolutely nothing. Nada. Zilch. Foreign language.
I know this shit is selective because words like steak, ice cream and awaze make him perk up with radar-like acuity. After thirteen years of mothering I get it that only parts of my vast knowledge and wisdom will actually sink in.
So the other day he told me about a little girl he knows by the name of McCarthy. My audible smirk didn’t get past the Kid’s ears.
“What?”
“Well, that’s kind of a strange name for a girl.”
“Why?”
“Have you ever heard of Joseph McCarthy? I’ve told you about communism.”
So, the Kid, while playing Pirates of the Carribean on the Wii, also managed to score a lecture about communism in America and the odious agenda of said Senator McCarthy.
“Well, that is kind of a strange name then.”
“Well honey, maybe it’s a family name or the mom had never had a proper history lesson regarding a rather dark time in American politics. Or both.”
So in the third week of school (yes, folks- kids in Nashville started school on August 1. (Blech. Pleh. And Phooey) there is a brewing broo-ha-ha about who walks home, who rides home and who are the malingerers in the playground waiting for their late parents to pick them up.
“Mom, I am walking home. We just got kicked off the playground.”
Seriously? I am pretty sure the playground is park property, not school property.
When he got home I asked him to retell the afternoon tale of the middle school round up.
“So what did you say?”
“I yelled- THIS SCHOOL IS RUN BY COMMUNISTS!”
Oh Jesus Christ…and Mary and Joseph too.
“Darling, we have one more year at this school. Let’s try not to be total assholes and call the school administration communists. Whadya say?”
“Ok Mom.” He seemed disappointed to not be allowed a little rabble-rousing.
I needed to concede a little…
“I tell you what- let’s let daddy be the total asshole.”
And after talking to the FH, the three members of our funny little disjointed, somewhat fractured family agreed.
I can kick back and not be an asshole.
Feels kind of good.
