Whenever I go upstairs, it never fails that my kids need something.
A case in point was the other day when from our bedroom I heard Beckett, 8, yell, “Dad, can I have a Jif party?”
Since this was a week or so before his eighth birthday, I thought he was referring to some sort of specialty party that was popular among the kids these days. Wanting to finish what I had started upstairs, I said, “sure, sounds good.”
By the time I got downstairs, what I found was hilarious. There were both my kids with two huge spoons digging into a big container of peanut butter. The ensuing conversation went something like this.
Me: Oh that’s what you meant. Can I help you with that? Maybe some bread, jelly, crackers, banana, a napkin?
Beckett: No, we’re great.
Carson: [grunted toward the fridge and signed for a drink]
Beckett: Yeah some lemonade would be great. It’s a little dry.
While probably not my best parenting moment ever, I just sat back and watched them go to town for a few minutes before intervening. From that point on, that became their jar of peanut butter.
I’m not sure what Beckett enjoys more — scoring soccer goals or celebrating afterwards.
Last Saturday it seemed it was the celebration part. He scored a few nice goals, reveled with his teammates and then somersaulted his way back to his position where imitated a silly jig he saw on a video game.
As all that played out, I found Pam and I reacting in a similar fashion: “Way to go Beckett, awesome left foot. Okay that’s good, alright come on Beckett. No, no, stop, no, please stop. Stop!”
Pam then gave me the look that clearly said, “you have to talk to him about that,” and I returned to her a look that responded, “I know, I know, that’s ridiculous, but that was an awesome goal, right?”
Later, choosing my words carefully, I heaped praise on him for his great play and how proud I was that he’s using his weak foot before giving him the but there were a few things we need to knock out.
I told him he needed to act like he had scored before and that his elaborate celebrations could be perceived as poor sportsmanship by the other team.
Just when I thought I had gotten through to him, he showed me a new dance move. When I asked what it was, he said it was his celebration if he scored next week. My response wasn’t so pleasant.
“But Dad I said if I score, so I’m not bragging. I’m being hubble, and that’s good,” he said.
He meant humble, of course.
The last few weeks of school are a bear, presumably for everyone.
These days the distractions that occur daily through raising a family and working seem all the more complicated when balancing them with school. We are constantly trying to keep our kids’ focus level the same now as it was earlier in the year. All the while trying not to reveal our hearts simply aren’t in it as much either.
However, there’s hope for all of us who may be limping to the finish line that is school in a few weeks. We are not in as bad a shape as Jen Hatmaker, who recently wrote a piece for the Huffpost Parents section online called, “Worst End of School Year Mom Ever.”
“You know the Beginning of School Enthusiasm? When the pencils are fresh and the notebooks are new and the kids’ backpacks don’t look like they lined the den of a pack of filthy hyenas? Moms, remember how you packed innovative and nutritional lunches and laid clothes out the night before and labeled shelves for each child’s work and school correspondence and completed homework in a timely manner? I am exactly still like that at the end of school, except the opposite,” she wrote. “We are limping, limping across the finish line, folks. I tapped out somewhere in April and at this point, it is a miracle my kids are still even going to school. I haven’t checked homework folders in three weeks, because, well, I just can’t. Cannot. Can. Not. I can’t look at the homework in the folder. Is there homework in the folder? I don’t even know. Are other moms still looking in the homework folder? I don’t even care.”
She ended her column fittingly.
“So, Mom out there sending Lunchables with your kid, making her wear shoes with holes because we’re, almost, there, practicing ‘auditory reading’ with your first grader, I got your back, sister. We were awesome back in October; don’t you forget that. We used to care, and that counts for something. Next year’s teachers will get a fresher version of us in August, and they won’t even know the levels of suckage we will succumb to by May. Hang in there, Mama. Just a few more days until summer, when approximately 19 minutes into our glorious respite from homework, liberated from the crush of it all, ready to party like it’s 1999, our precious children, having whooped and celebrated and ‘graduated’ and squealed all the way home will announce:
‘I’m bored.’”
