Every so often I get email updates from my son’s teachers. About half of them make me happy. The other half force me to draw on every principle I’ve learned from yoga, Love and Logic, and Jesus (in no particular order) so I don’t eat my child. Today’s emails, yes plural, were the latter.
Apparently my child has neglected his math homework on nights that coincide with wrestling matches. For two weeks running. And cited wrestling as the reason. In spite of his plan to use class time allocated in his ESL class to get his work done.
Apparently my child was in a rotten mood this morning…for the entire time he was at AHS. And let other people know about it.
Mama Bear was the one to pick him up from wrestling practice.
“How was school?”
“It was good!”
“It was OK. (no pause) I have math homework and my English project. I want to do my project tonight and my math homework tomorrow during English” (please refer to the above in which this plan is great…until it doesn’t actually happen).
“No. You can do your math homework tonight and work on your project tomorrow, since you’ll be in English for both periods because of exams. And because you’ve made plans to do your math homework during that time and have yet to do it.”
Proceed with conversation about not getting homework done because of sports and how sports are secondary and how, the evening of the next weeknight match, the homework better be done by time to leave or you’re not going.
Follow that up with “what put you in a bad mood today?”
Eventually, it came down to being mad at oneself over a test and taking it out on others. And then a conversation about how sometimes he’s just not happy in the morning.
“You don’t have to be happy about it, you just can’t be a jackass.”
That kinda got his attention. He doesn’t hear me say things such as that very often.
And it’s probably the parenting line of the night.
As of right now, said child is retrieving his goods from a neighbor’s house (not even sure why they’re there) and doing tonight’s math homework…as well as last night’s homework.
***Also, he was wrongly accused of blowing through his dad’s soda stash…but you know, when you can’t be trusted to be truthful all the time, and your mom doesn’t drink that mess, you can’t help but be the first named culprit. Turns out, it’s probably the neighbor.
Ah, the joys of raising boys.