 |
| Mommy's watching you, dear. |
My friends know that I call the boy "little Dr. Cooper." He is overly slender, quirky and serious and has a giant brain. I stopped understanding his school work about 2 years ago. So, if he has trouble with a math problem, I take a picture of the equation (which just looks like feathery bits of squiggles to me) with my IPhone and send it to Winston, if he is out of town. He looks it over, because he went all the way through, like, Calc 21 or something mental like that. Then he sends back another set of feathery squiggles. Little Dr. Cooper looks them over, laughs as if daddy is a charming idiot and says, "Well, that's not helpful at all. Is that what old fashioned math looks like? That's hysterical. Never mind, I'll figure it out while I sleep tonight."
You can imagine this is rather trying to live with. I find myself turning into the mom from Malcolm in the Middle, screaming things like, "If you're so smart, why do I have to tell you to brush your teeth every day, huh?" I always feel like, even if I win an argument with him, I have actually lost but I am too simple to understand why.
Last week, he came home and tossed an enormous packet of papers at me.
Me: What's this? What does Our Lady of the Perpetual Shake-Down need money for now?
Boychild: Some research thing they want me to do. Just sign it, ok? Don't make me talk about it.
Me: Maybe you could research the reason you are unable to get through a day without 2+ hours of Call of Duty. Or why you torment your sister. Holy crap! It's like (flip flip flip) 21 pages! I'm not reading all this!
Henry: Like I said, just sign it, Mommy! And it's 23 pages. That's what those little numbers mean at the bottom of the pages.
Me: Huh. Look at that. Little numbers.
Henry: Sigh.
After skimming the large print bits, I discovered that Our Lady of the Perpetual Shake-Down wants the boychild and his brain to do a brief stint at Case Western in their research lab. It's not like he's going to be creating radioactive superheroes (I wish) but he'll be learning the day to day techniques and record keeping that goes on in a lab. In the experimental biology lab. Being ever vigilant of a zombie apocalypse, some pages stood out to me more that others...
 |
| Not your standard field trip permission slip. |
Severe illness and possible death? Unknown consequences? What, like a zombie outbreak? Or like, Rise of the Planet of the Apes? And there were pages after pages of descriptions of all the things I was waiving the right to be upset about. They went on in some detail about possible...
1. Explosions and/or asphyxiation.
2. Tissue damage and hearing loss
3. Teratogens. I had to look that up. It is a chemical that messes with your reproductive bits and makes you have squid children.
4.Neurotoxins! Fun!
Me: And you want to do this? Are you sure, honey? It sounds like a lot of... work. And there's the chance you will grow a third eye.
Henry: Mommy, it'll be awesome. They have mutated mice!!! I will be handling mutated mice!!
Me: Not super excited about this. It sounds gross. Mutated like how? Like having tentacles? Or extra limbs?
Henry: No, like they mutated their BRAINS! So they are crazy smart and stuff. It's gonna be awesome!
Me: I forbid you to drink or eat anything while you are there!!! I won't have those lab nerds mutating your brain! Wait! Are you helping study the mice, or are they studying you studying the mice?!?! I've read Flowers for Algernon! It ends badly! Don't eat anything, do you hear me?!
Henry: Mommy. Calm down. It's fine. Just sign it and stop talking at me, OK?
 |
| Yes. I signed this. God help me. |
Now, I am sure you are all thinking the same thing: Listen to her brag about her son. Disgusting. I am so done reading this blog. Everyone thinks their kids are so damn smart! I don't have to listen to this crap!
But listen to what happened later... and you will understand why he scares me and makes my eye twitch.
The kids are into fencing. And honestly, I am sure there are those of you out there who think it's some sort of elitist crap sport, but I would ask you this: Who doesn't want to run around with a sword? Who doesn't secretly want to be a Jedi or a pirate? The first time my kids went to fencing class and were handed a foil, it was like a light went on over their heads and they started getting all three musketeer and stuff.
So, after fencing the other day we were eating my Polish Pad Thai, and Henry looks at me and says, with great drama:
"Mommy, I have decided I am going to the Olympics. Please don't get upset and start crying or anything."
Me: Why would I get upset? That's a great goal, honey!
Henry: Well, I just meant you might be worried or something. You know.
Me: Why would I worry? Well, I mean, maybe you should set a lower first goal. Like, maybe, set a goal for county, then state, then nationals. Jumping right to the Olympics seems a bit much, but I like your enthusiasm! Go for it!
Henry: But aren't you worried about me dying?
Me: (sensing suddenly I have no clue what we are discussing) Why... would... you. .. die? Who dies at the Olympics?
Henry: Don't people die at every Olympics?
Me: Well, sure, I guess. Like the crazies who do skeleton or, like, the luge or half pipe. But you're talking fencing. So... like zero fencers die.
Henry: That's a lie! 50% of all the fencers at the Olympics die!
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
Henry: Well, I mean, you get to use real swords at the Olympics, right? So the loser dies! 50% of all Olympic fencers die!
Me: People don't kill each other at the Olympics!!! And they don't fence with real swords! It's not a duel to the death! It's the freaking Olympics!
Henry: But you use real swords. That's true, right? I mean, that's what I'm training for, right? A sword?
Me: NO!! And the loser in the Olympics doesn't die! What do you think? Usain Bolt wins every track race and then they line up the losers and shoot them with the starting gun?
He looked at me, hopefully.
Me: NO!! They do not! And there is no stabbing with swords either! What is wrong with you? The Olympics is about national pride and competition! It's not the Hunger Games!
He was very quiet for a minute. He sat there, blinking. I swear I could hear a humming coming from his processor. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. And then he said...
"I can't imagine why anyone would want to go to the Olympics if there are no swords. It just sounds stupid now. I don't want to go to the Olympics anymore, Mommy."
The he cleared his plate and went sadly and silently to his room. And I watched as yet another childhood dream, like Santa Claus, evaporated for my little boychild. No stabbing at the Olympics. Do you see what I mean? I feel like I need to throw some hardcore parenting at him, but I am not sure how or what. It's like, "Oh, my sweet honey, I am so proud of you... OMG what the hell is wrong with you!" at the same time. And later this week, he will have access to mutated lab mice.
~dana
