Not too long ago, I asked the village in which I live to stop packing their kids’ Nintendos, because it’s against school rules and puts me in a bad position — the one where I have to be the jerk who says “NO” and then get awarded the privilege of listening to my seven-year-old argue, “But, Mommy, they get to bring their games!”
You can learn many things from children.
How much patience you have, for instance.
~Franklin P. Jones
I was proven incorrect…
after an alert mom contacted the teacher for clarification. Much to my chagrin, it turns out that while the school may indeed have a “no toys or electronic devices” rule, my daughter’s teacher did in fact grant permission for the little monkeys to bring stuff like that from home to play with during inside recess. So I stand corrected. Kind of.
When you realize you’ve made a mistake,
make amends immediately.
It’s easier to eat crow while it’s still warm.
I don’t think those moms were packing with inside recess in mind; I’m pretty sure they were packing because WHERE’S THE HARM? and also WHO CARES, ANYWAY? as well as IT’S FUN AND MY KID WANTS IT AND I ALWAYS DO WHAT MY KID WANTS. I could totally be wrong, of course. It’s just that, I doubt it.
The thing that impresses me most about America
is the way parents obey their children.
But wait, there’s more!
All this might have been bad enough, easily filed away in what I refer to as my “sigh pile” — a stack of arbitrivial nonsense that ticks me off but isn’t worth the battle except as a rant here on my bloggy-blog. But no. There’s always more. Because God, don’t forget, wants me to get eaten by zombies. FYI, This sentence was completely off topic in YOUR mind only.
Freaks are the much needed escape from the humdrum.
They are poetry.
Apparently I’ve raised a sneaky-pants.
When my daughter went off with her father over the weekend, she slipped her Nintendo DS into her bag on the sly. Later on, according to her father, she asked if she could bring it into the store to play on it while they shopped, and he about had a fit because he knew very well she wasn’t supposed to have removed it from home. So in her bag it stayed, the entire weekend, right up through Monday when she got off the school bus and wouldn’t let me check her folder for homework. I thought she was being silly, but I found the Nintendo and the SHIT. WENT. DOWN.
When angry, count four;
when very angry, swear.
There was no shit. She bawled, we talked, she’s grounded from ALL games for a week, and she had to call dad at work and tell him about her poor choice in being such a stinky-sneaker. Admitting to her crime is always the worst part of any “punishment” I can deliver, cuz girl gots an ego higher than the sun, moon, or stars, and she hates when it takes a hit.
Your children tell you casually years later
what it would have killed you with worry to know at the time.
I love this quote, because it’s quite true.
At least for me and my sister. There were many indiscretions we committed as children to which we have only admitted in our adult years… now that Mom can no longer ground us.
Our parents once left the teenager versions of us home alone (isn’t that always how the trouble begins?). Suddenly, a wild rumpus appeared in the apartment upstairs. That’s what it sounded like, anyway. There was stomping and bass and walls shaking… so I took the broom and banged on the ceiling as a hint that our excited friends might want to quiet the fuck down.
The music got even louder.
So I banged harder.
And put a hold in the ceiling.
When the parents came home, they didn’t notice, because really — who looks up to check if there are broom-handle-sized holes in their ceiling? They failed to notice for several weeks.
They just kept not noticing.
So we just kept not drawing their attention to it. Until at some point, Mom finally freaked out and screeched, “What the fuck is that hole doing in our ceiling? Which one of you did it?”
My sister, bless her heart, covered for me and blamed a friend of ours who had visited a few months prior. And Mom bought it. And so we escaped with our asses intact, no groundings, punishment narrowly avoided.
Many years passed before Mom ever knew the truth.
We told our mother last year that the hole in the ceiling of that one apartment we lived in about fifteen years ago was, indeed, our fault. She didn’t even know what we were talking about at first. And then she just laughed it off. I’m glad she found it funny after the fact, because I’m here to tell you right now, she would have beat our butts with a wooden spoon if she’d known we had a hand in it.
I wonder what kinds of things my little one is doing that I don’t know about. The DS isn’t that big a thing. But that’s only ONE event in which I’ve caught her red-handed. Surely where there’s one crime in the light, several more lurk outside my sight in the dark. Will she have to wait fifteen years to come clean? Does she fear my recrimination, the way I feared my mother’s? Thoughts like this are the ones that keep me up at night, questioning my abilities as a parent.