Do You Know

Number 3 is in kindergarten. And, Praise God, despite the fact that he was born almost three months prematurely and experienced a significant amount of time where little oxygen was reaching his brain, he’s doing well in school. He comes home happy, excitedly opens his bag, pulls out his homework and just gets started. Unlike Numbers 1 and 2, he doesn’t even need me to tell him which pages to do; he figures out the pages he has to work on by flipping through the books and finding the last pages which his teacher has marked. I have hope that, God willing, he’ll be the one to NOT drive me crazy when it comes to school. I have hope that, God willing, he’ll keep up with getting done all he needs to get done, knowing that after that, he can just play.

He’s still learning the alphabet, letter by letter. They haven’t quite studied all of the letters yet. So the other day he says to me, “Mom, do YOU know all the letters?”

I’m still trying to figure out why he was SOOOOOO shocked when I said, “Yes.”  I felt like he was going to put his arm around my shoulder and say, “Now mom, I know you think you know all the letters, but maybe its time for a little review. Maybe you should come with me to school so that the Miss can teach you, too.”


No Such Thing As Discrete

I always like to have my kids’ uniforms and bags ready the night before. I make their lunches at night, for the following day, and it’s their responsibility to prepared their bags and make sure their uniforms are easily accessible (i.e. that they can actually find them). Number 3 is only six, so I do that stuff for him usually, but the two oldest take care of themselves. We simply do not have the time nor energy at 6:00 in the morning to be looking for pants under the bed, homework in the fridge and shoes in the shower…there’s just no time for that nonsense.

The other day, after Number 1 and Number 2 had already boarded the bus, I began to prepare Number 3’s bag. His clothes were out, jacket ready, and I still had about 15 minutes before he had to be up. But as I looked over at the area just by the front door, I realized that his shoes weren’t where they should be. I spent some time looking under the couches, under the beds, in the shoe rack. I looked in all three bedrooms, with no luck. Even though he still didn’t have to be up, I had no choice but to wake him up and ask him where they were, hoping that by some miracle he would know.

Of course, he did not. We continued to search together, all the while I’m thinking, “Am I really going to keep him home because I can’t find his shoes?” And I would answer myself, “But they’re the only shoes that fit him! He can’t very well go barefoot.” We continue to look, but with no luck. I tell him to go wash up and get dressed: at this point I decide I’ll send him in a pair of his older brother’s shoes, even if they are a bit too big.

While he’s getting ready, I say to myself, “Think outside the box! Where haven’t you looked, yet?” The balcony. No luck. I even look down at the street below, hoping NOT to discover that one of the monkeys had thrown them from the sixth floor. As I’m looking, I see something red. Sullied from being driven over, from being kicked with dirt…but red. “Is that their spiderman water shoe? Please, God, tell me that’s not the missing water shoe I’ve been looking for since yesterday.” But I can’t see well enough from this far; I’ll have to check it out later.

But I still hadn’t found Number 3’s shoes. “Think outside the box!” I repeat to myself. So I check the fridge. No luck. The freezer. And guess what?! Just kidding…no luck there either.

Now I’m thinking I’ve looked EVERYWHERE. I look around me. I have some end/coffee tables with these tiny drawers, barely big enough to fit a notebook, or some coasters. “But the shoes wouldn’t even fit in there!” I say to myself. But I was wrong! The last drawer I tug at won’t open. Something has it jammed. After some moments of my cursing and wrestling with the drawer, it finally opens, revealing the missing shoes! Someone explain to me why in the world someone would put a pair of shoes in the drawer of an end table!

Anyway…so we go down to wait for the bus. I’ve taken a plastic bag with me, in case that red item I spotted from the balcony does indeed turn out to be our missing spiderman shoe. We walk over to it, and sure enough!

I hold the bag open. “Number 3, just pick it up and put it in this bag.”

I’m trying to be as quiet as possible. I realize what this looks like: we look like we just saw something, some piece of trash, in the street, and we want it for un-explainable reasons. I know that’s what we look like, so I want to be quiet and quick. But no luck with that either!

“What, mom?! You want me to pick that up?!”

So now I have no choice but to raise my voice, too.

“Yes! That’s the shoe you threw from the balcony! Pick it up and put it in this bag!”

Someone tell me what’s so hard about that?!

He picks it up, and instead of just quickly and quietly placing it in the bag, he waves it all around, as though he’s saying, “Hey everyone, look what I just found in this trash pile on the ground!! Isn’t it cool! I’m going to take it and add it to my trash treasure!”


Yeah. So much for being discrete.