My son goes back to school soon. What a relief. He’s been holed up in the basement playing Call of Duty, getting in his last licks before his free time disappears. I see him for meals, and even then he’s not nearly as funny. This lack of material is hard on the blog. I told him he had to start producing soon or I’d start making stuff up. I’m very creative–who knows what I’ll come up with.
He accused me of using him. I remarked on his sense of irony. He reminds me that I’m his mother. I’m supposed to do things for him. He remembers that I’m his mother 363 days a year. On Mother’s Day and my birthday, he conveniently forgets.
He went to an AP English and History workshop yesterday. I don’t think they did too much, but it did give him a chance to meet the teachers so he could define exactly how much each option will screw up his life. He’s narrowed it down to one choice for each–anything else will be a disaster, ensuring that he will get neither of his choices, and I’ll get to hear about his awful teacher all year long.
He informed me that one teacher already “hates” him. Teachers adore my son. I don’t mind identifying myself as his mother, because I know they’ll get that squishy face and say “Oh, you’re his Mom” and tell me what a great kid he is. Anyhow, I asked him what gave him the impression the teacher hated him. He said he and his friends just walked in the classroom and sat in the back, and she said they were t-r-o-u-b-l-e. Let’s see, 10 boys walk into a room and choose to sit as far from the teacher as possible. Yeah, I can see that.
“No really, she’s crazy.”
“Crazy.” That’s my strategy when I want him to say more. I just repeat what he says in shortened form.
“Yeah. She cursed and everything.”
“Yeah, she talked about doing things a-backwards, like how you and Dad used to spell things that you didn’t want me to hear, and then said ‘don’t say ass.’ I’m like, uhm, you just said it.” We did do that. I think most parents do at some point, until they realize their children already know how to spell the critical words, like s-n-a-c-k. Why we don’t spell q-u-i-e-t and w-i-p-e is beyond me. If we did, they might hang on to something useful.
“That’s it?” Seems pretty mild to me.
“That and she said we had to think about how we ask for stuff. Like I wouldn’t say to you ‘Yo biotch, take me to the park’.”
“You’d only say it once.” I had to laugh. The phrase “take me to the” has defined my entire summer. That and “pick me up from.” When my time is my own again, I’ll have to find another scapegoat for my lack of productivity.
“Right. Like I’d ever say that. Everyone knows you say ‘Yo biotch, please take me to the park.'” I love the smile he gives me. I know the look. He’s had the punchline in his head all morning and couldn’t wait to use it. He knew I’d appreciate it. And he knew I’d write about it here, and he said it anyway.
And a blog post is born. My birthday is in two weeks. If he keeps feeding me material, I’ll consider us even. I’ll tell him that after he realizes he forgot again. It will give me something to write about.