This is your lucky week! I went through my drafts folder and found a ton of stuff I wrote but promptly forgot due to syphilis and never published. Or maybe I did publish it then took it down in a fit of paranoia, which is why it pays to subscribe to my blog. So I’m publishing (or republishing) this one, even though school is out and it isn’t exactly applicable. However, simply exchange “school” for “social skills therapy” and it becomes 100% relevant again.

What does this photo say to you?

Does it say….

A) Jesus, help me!

B) Are you the crazy one? Or am I? I’m just not sure!

C) Give me a drink!

D) What the fuck?

E)  I’m about to eat my weight in cheese-powdered snack mix.

If you guessed all of the above, you’re a winner!

You know how we parents joke about the mistakes we make with our kids and how they can send us the therapy bill when their older?

Pardon me, but I have some very French thoughts on that idea.

FUCK THAT SHIT.

You want to know who should be paying for whose future therapy bills?  Payton should pay for mine.

When I picked him up from school last week, there was yet another note from his teacher. I began to feel guilty for the destruction of all the rain forests, what with all of the notes Payton gets home from school.  That alone is probably responsible for the loss of 5 acres of rain forest somewhere in South America.

But don’t worry! I believe in going green so I’ll be repurposing these notes to use as wallpaper in MY PADDED CELL!

The note said Payton didn’t do much of any of his work.  Of course that’s what it said.  That’s what almost all of them say.

Payton usually tells on himself before I get the note.  His method of confession is, like himself, very unique.  His method is to run bat shit crazy, like a boy being chased by a pack of rabid hyenas, at the sight of me.  That’s how I know he’s gotten in trouble that day.   He comes out of the school doors, sees me waiting with his brother, and there he goes! Bat shit crazy run.

If they had an elementary track team, Payton would be their #1 star because all they’d have to do to get him to run fast as hell is to tell him he’s getting a note sent home from school and then point to me in the stands.

Honest to God, the people at school must think I beat him at home when he does things like this. Except he’s been known to run bat shit crazy from teachers like that too, so yay! I’m not the only child abuser.

As we were driving home, we were talking about the note and Payton was very mad. He flipped his lid that the teacher wrote he didn’t do much of any of his schoolwork.  He said he did some and he wanted to know why he wasn’t getting credit for the work he did do.

“Payton, teachers expect students to do all of their school work, not just some.  That’s their expectation.”

“What about Japanese?” he asked, as if we were discussing what to have for dinner.

Wait for it…

What the hell?  What does Japanese have to do with not completing his work?

I saw the mountain of school work that came home incomplete, and I tried to talk to him about what was going on, but then he spoke in what I swear is Tongues because his sentences made absolutely no sense to me.

This boy doesn’t come and say, “Mom, I’m hungry. Can I have a snack?”

He blasts into the room, acting as if he’s dying and says, “I HAVE LOW BLOOD SUGAR!”  Because, stupid me, I took the time to explain to him how food converts to sugar in our blood and if we get too hungry, blood sugar gets too low it can cause headaches, stress, etc.  And, oh my god, once you give that kid a scientific explanation you can forget ever hearing laymen terms again.

When he’s around my mind is in constant interpretation mode, trying to fit pieces of a Japanese puzzle together, rearranging his sentences so they make sense in the English structure of speech, and deciphering his scientific meaning.

And this is where the payment owed for Weight Watchers comes in.  I’m an emotional eater.  I get stressed or upset and, goddamn it,I need chocolate!  And wine!  And salty stuff!  And anything with cheese powdered coating should legally be considered crack.  Doritos, cheese Pringles, cheese Chex mix.  It’s all crack and I eat it like a crack whore in rehab.

And now the Wii Fit is going to give me hell about it tomorrow morning.  I’m adding that to my list of things to discuss with my future therapist.

This entry was posted on Monday, June 29th, 2009 at 12:01 am and is filed under Gifted Children, Quirky Kid Dossier, School is for dummies. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.