I'm Not Going to Survive Seventh Grade This Time Around
Eight different teachers, remembering to bring home books, an attitude and hormones. How is a parent expected to survive it all?!
My mother toasted me at my bridal shower telling guests that her sweet daughter mysteriously disappeared at the age of 12 and didn't return again until she turned 20 and that she had been so happy to have her back the last nine years. I laughed appropriately but never truly understood what she meant until this year.
Remembering homework--or shall I say conveniently forgetting homework--is a daily challenge for my son.
While never organized, I was so afraid of upsetting my teachers at his age that I always had my homework finished before class. Needless to say, I'm having just a wee bit of trouble understanding his ability to live with a clear conscious while ignoring the assignments that are due the next day.
We're working on a few "strategies" (read loss of certain game privileges) to reach the point when I'm not required to go online every day to read up on his assignments. Because seriously I refuse to continue playing the part of Medusa on meth each night.
My son will look me right in the eye and tell me either he doesn't have any homework or has finished it all when I know neither is true. It wouldn't be so bad if he just went upstairs to do it when I called him out, but the ATTITUDE I get for daring to suggest he might want to finish it brings me to the edge of losing my already weak mind.
And speaking of attitude, is it possible to temporarily remove your child's eyeballs--just for a little while--to prevent said child from rolling them at you one. more. time?
Fear not however. All is not lost parenting a seventh grader.
There exist moments you'll store away for a rainy day--or a full-page page ad in their senior yearbook--that make it worth the agony.
Three weeks into school, my son informed me he needed new clothes. Not yet recognizing my new role as the mother of a seventh grader, and remembering the all-red outfit (down to the socks and shoes) he tried to wear to school just a few years back, I casually asked what he needed. "Shirts or pants?"
"No Moooom! I need new clothes and they have to be from one of these four stores: Abercrombie & Fitch, Hollister, Aeropostale or American Eagle."
Clearly remembering being on his side of the conversation, I did what any mother would do while trying to conceal the smile on my face.
"Why do you need clothes from those stores?" I asked "innocently." "Do you really want to be giving those companies free advertising by wearing their logos all over the place? They aren't paying you for it?"
I think I may have added in some other lines too about individual style and saving his allowance knowing full well I was torturing him.
Ah the sweet revenge!
Then there was the high school football game this weekend.
Waiting for his friend's parents to pick him up he walked through the living room heading to the kitchen. What followed in his path could only be likened to the toxic cloud that hangs in the entrance of every department store leading up to the holidays.
I let out a squeak as I began to call him back into the living room when he rushed out the kitchen door.
So I bellowed louder.
"What is that smell?" I yelled for all to hear.
Responding to my summons afraid the whole neighborhood would soon hear "Huh? Nothin. I took a shower."
"Um, that's a bit stronger than the shower hon. Is that MY perfume?"
"Wha? No. I, um, just, um, sprayed some room freshener."
"Honey, I think I recognize the smell of my own perfume--even at that strength--and I'm all for you smelling good, but women's perfume probably isn't the effect you're going for. You want me to get you some cologne?"
"Oh would you, please? Could you pick me up some Old Spice?"
"I think we could probably do better than that."
"Oh cool! Will you get me some Axe then?"
I intend to hit the store and get him some decent and age-appropriate cologne right away--as soon as I share the story with the world.
You know, with a blog at my disposal, I might survive seventh grade after all.