Lately, Little R has been coming home from school with some interesting new words and songs and, lets call them, dance moves. That’s the trouble with school. Older kids, and classmates with older siblings say things that you don’t hear on treehouse. He’s learned some song about sticking his butt in the air, AND it’s got bonus choreography that features Jim Carey-style talking butt-cheeks! Yay! He once told me his teachers were bitches because they wouldn’t let him sit by his friend. That one started a couple of weeks earlier with “ditches”. I let it go and hoped he wouldn’t acheive mastery on that particular vocab word, but obviously he’s got a tutor at school and well, you can’t stop progress! So I just tell him that some words/dance moves aren’t nice and I tell him why and I tell him I don’t want to hear them/see them again. I don’t get upset or react with shock, I deliver like I’m letting him know what’s for lunch. It’s worked really well so far.
The same works for correcting willful attempts to ruin him by his uncles. My Uncle Gordie advised Little R to run away laughing when I’m giving him trouble. Uncle Gord also told him that “girls go to Jupiter to get more stupider”. To top it all off, he told Little R not to tell his mom what they discuss, because that would be breaking “the code of the guys”. Then there’s my brother, who told my son that if he worked at it, Little R could learn to shoot lasers out of his arse. This would allow him to explode toilets. I just tell him not to repeat those things yadda, yadda and I add that his uncles are developmentally delayed and can’t be held accountable for their stupidity.
Lately, we’ve been taking the kids out for dinner with us. We’ve got it down to a science. Baby A loves to eat, so we can keep her occupied by feeding her a steady stream of little bites and we bring the iPad for Little R so that he can play a game while we wait for dinner. We are very smug about this. We often high five each other on the way out of the restaurant to congratulate each other on how we’re awesome parents with well-behaved children who can go out to a nice restaurant anytime they want! Hells, yeah!
Last night at dinner Baby A and Little R were playing across the table from eachother. Baby A started to get excited and was squealing and giggling. Little R looked shocked and turned to us to exclaim “Baby A just called me an asshole!”
That’s hubris, people. Overweening pride. Just when you think you’re mother of the year, your pre-schooler shouts out “asshole” in a restaurant.
To top it all off, that one’s probably my fault. Asshole is one of my favorite words. Even when I think he can’t hear me, he hears me. Why couldn’t he have yelled out “bitch” or “Donald Trump”?