Boo and I want to give our kids the all the opportunities that we didn't have the luxury of when we grew up. That means soccer games, skating lessons, basketball, and swimming. We allow them to pick a sport a season, so that I may have the privilege of sitting (and usually shivering), watching and enjoying my offspring develop.
I know I am a good mother. I don't need anyone to tell me. I know this just by seeing the love reflected in my children's eyes. I know this because, quite simply, they haven't been carted off to the funny farm or locked behind steel bars. (Yet. I know they're still young.)
So why is it, when Fric's teacher, Mr. H, phoned last night and left a message saying he had to speak to me regarding my son, terror struck deep in my soul. Like I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Revealed to be the lousy parent I secretly fear others think I may be. And when he said the issue was of some sensitivity, why is it my mind raced to every bad scenario possible? Was he a bully? Was he a crybaby? Was he hiding school schematics and downloading pictures of automatic rifles?
Suddenly, it was like I was fourteen again, and I was in the principles office awaiting punishment for organizing a protest rally that resulted in vandalism. (There's a post for another time.) What could I, as his mother possibly have done?
Turns out, nothing. This one is on his father's head.
It seems my boy is somewhat of a Casanova. A ladies man. And he's into inappropriate displays of public affection. Damn him, for trying to kiss the cute ten year old girls on the playground. My own little Romeo.
His father is soooo proud.