It’s June. If you’re a junior high teacher in Canada, this means you’re running both a marathon and a sprint, desperate to make it to the finish line before you collapse.
Factor in six-year-old twins in your “off” hours and, well, it ain’t pretty.
Looking back at the past week, I can see a number of reasons why I haven’t been nominated for Parent-of-the-Year.
Reason One: My Son Feels Unloved
Here’s a conversation my son and I had recently.
William: “I don’t love you when you’re mad at me.”
Me: “Oh well. That’ll pass.”
Of course, it’s great he can express his feelings, but so much for my Oedipus theory. At least I’m getting prepared for adolescent angst. Only seven more years till I get the real thing.
Reason Two: Accusing My Daughter of Faking an Injury
We were at soccer, my daughter’s favourite sport. Vivan took her turn as goalie, challenging whatever team’s players were racing toward her net. In one scrum, she grabbed the ball at the same time as a Lilliputian cleat stepped on her outstretched index finger.
Photo courtesy of Faramarz Hashemi (cc) Flickr
With her finger smushed under the shoe, Vivian wailed. She wailed so much the coaches called an early end to the game, signaled by announcing “snack time.” Vivian kept crying, climbed on my lap, and wiped snot on my jacket. I could see the cleat mark on her finger and thought, “Don’t be such a suck.” I am pretty certain I didn’t say it aloud, but sometimes what I think in my head comes out my mouth anyway.
One day later, we realized she hyper-extended her finger. Three days later, it still resembles a sausage.
What kind of a mom doesn’t believe her crying child?
Reason Three: My Kids Don’t Believe Me When I Compliment Them
I’m seated at the table, enjoying a morning cup of tea. A pajama-clad Vivian is perched on a chair at the head of the table doing Craft #542. William sidles up and stands beside her. Not only is he dressed, but his clothes are coordinated and appropriate for the weather. I hadn’t even asked him to change out of pjs.
I look at him, grin, and say, “Hi, handsome.”
Without a beat, both he and Vivian pivot inwards, looking behind them at the person I complimented. They look back me in a synchronized motion, and one of them says, “Who are you talking to?”
Maybe in July I’ll do a better job parenting.
Then again, maybe not.
Feel free to share any tales of disaster parenting…