This is not the smartest thing I have ever done. All my children have threatened me with varying levels of torture if I drag them into this. I briefly considered changing names to protect the innocent, but that would imply that they are innocent. So while I do appreciate the fair warning, I have decided to ignore it.
Conner was a big hit yesterday, so I thought I would share a little more about him. True he is currently the best at making my life miserable, but just as true he’s usually mad at me anyway, leaving me nothing to lose….
“Yes, Conner there really is a school, and yes you must go there.” This needs to be written, so hopefully I will never have to say it again. In his defense, I started this child in full day pre-K when he was four. He was a preemie and always especially attached to me. I thought the early start would help him to bond with other people. Truthfully translated, this means he was my 3rd child and I was ready to get him out from underfoot. I have been paying the price ever since.
In ten years, he hasn’t had a healthy morning. He has gotten up with ailments running the gamut from swollen toe syndrome to hair cancer. He has heard, “Suck it up, you’ll feel better by first period” so many times he has stopped telling me he is sick and started living it. The child has developed a proactive list of symptoms, directly related to the questions that have foiled him before. When called to get up, he begins the day with a weak groan and a pathetic ok. Shuffling to my side, he slumps pathetically, and radiates illness. A weather delay is his first hope so he checks the news and then the games begin.
“Mom, does everything feel cold to you?” means he has a temperature. “Yes, Con, I just got out of bed and it is WINTER, everything IS cold.” That is the signal to drag him self to the shower, but not before a well thought out delay, that is an expression of the effort it will take. Clean, but in his boxers, he returns for round two. “Shower help?” I Inquire. “I feel like I have to heave, but I can’t.” Avoiding eye contact I reply, “Good, I’d rather you didn’t. Eat something, you’ll feel better.”
I feign support by getting his allergy medicine every morning, but we both know he is cursing preventative medicine and praying for the sinus infection. Sane people would rather serve jail time than have that particular malady, but this child is dedicated to his art. Years of fine-tuning his warfare result in a performance not for the faint of heart. Nose blowing, until I think he is loosing brain matter, gagging in my face, and stomach gripping are all standards. He has tried fainting, turning blue and once he swore his kneecap was falling off. Ear boogers, fingernail pain and seizures, that all occur on the floor at my feet, are all in his play book.
7:04 and one last, “Man, I feel TERRIBLE today.” He kisses me on the forehead and trudges off to the bus stop, deflated and defeated again. Calling at lunch, by some miracle, he is well. “They need me to play my bass again, Mom. Can you bring it for me and then pick me up at five?” This is a project I was supporting until my Momdar picked up on the fact that bass playing was code for hanging out with his female fan club. I’ve been waiting years for this one. I grin and say, “Oh, Conner, I’d love too, but my hair hurts, I have ear boogers, my kneecap is falling off and I am going back to bed.”