I think sometime in the last 24 hours my five-year-old has turned 13. It started this morning at the breakfast table when we were discussing the upcoming Booster-thon lap run he would be partaking in later in the morning. His friend, Alyna’s, mother texted me to find out if I was going to be there to cheer him on. I hadn’t planned on it—I had actually arranged to drop Pierce at Grammy and Papa’s so I could go to the gym. My muscles finally remembered how that damn Arctrainer works—and they haven’t forgiven me since.
Anyway, I asked Mikey if he would like me to attend today, and he said “I don’t want you to come.” Okay? Why? Well, unfortunately my kindergartner’s skills for articulating his reasons are quite under developed, but I gathered it was because he would be embarrassed. This from the kid who can’t exit the car in the morning without one of the teachers at the drop-off line opening the door for him like he requires a chauffeur. Who knows how that strange mind works?
So, initially I am thrilled because I don’t have to screw up my schedule as stay-at-home mom, and then I begin to wonder if it is one of those situations that is more likely to go on in the mind of a women than a little boy. You know the one; where we tell our husbands that they don’t have to do something for us. “It’s cool. Really. No big deal.” But secretly we are going to be really pissed if they don’t do it anyway. I asked him again just before dropping him off at school if he was sure he didn’t want me to come, and still said no. He even said, “I still don’t want you to come, but if you did would you leave after the race?” (No, Mike, I’m going back to class with you…) Well, upon discussing it with Alyna’s mom and my mom, it was decided that I better show up. I arrived and Bonnie and I chatted and watched for our kids while they ran 35 laps around the tiniest little track you could imagine. Michael never caught on that I was there until I actually went up to him at the end of the race, whereupon he looked at me like he couldn’t place my face for a few seconds (almost to the point where I was a little alarmed and thought I was going to have to introduce myself,) and then he says “Why did you come here?” I felt like a jilted lover that chased her man to the airport, only to be treated like an acquaintance. Then I laughed…because afterall, he’s my son, so if he doesn’t like me at school, he still has to come home to me at the end of the day. Mwaaa,ahhh, ahhhh,ahhhhh….
As if this little bit of pre-adolescent rejection wasn’t enough, Auntie Good Times came over after school to see her boys AND her sister after five weeks in the Bahama’s. Naturally, Michael thinks that she came simply to see him; and that the rest of us should hit the road. Well…Pierce can stay. After she gives us our fun gifts (the boys each got a turtle made out of a coconut shell that you pull the string on its back and let go and it runs across the floor. They also got a finger piano made out of a shell –which really aren’t all pianos finger pianos? And I got a great doo-rag/headband that I will not be able to wear into my gym because I look way too threatening. Then the demands for Auntie’s attention commences, as Mr. Mike decided to pull her down the hall to the boys room while giving me explicit instructions to go make dinner. Knowing he was going to have to share Auntie’s attention, he made it abundantly clear I wasn’t welcome in his room even though I went anyway. After numerous commands to go in the kitchen–“You belong in the kitchen,”–and make dinner by this sexist little man I call “my son,” I commented that I officially had new blog fodder and that I was going to write bad, bad stories about him. That was his next command since trying to get me to go make dinner really never works, then it was “Go write bad, bad stories about me, go mom, go!” So here I am, typing this and they all come into this room and want to watch the Lion King. I can’t think anymore with “I just can’t wait to be king” playing in the background…