The glass half-full: at least he still had his pants

Sometimes I like to think I remember what it's like to be a kid. And then something happens to remind me that I have absolutely no clue.

For instance, take Friday.

It's fair to say that Jensen had a bad Friday. Among other things:

• He didn't have a coat to wear to school (and it was pretty chilly) because he left it in Jeff's car the night before. Instead he wore a woefully inadequate sweatshirt.
• His teacher moved him to a different desk because he keeps getting in trouble for talking too much.
• He lost his hat and gloves. It was the second time he'd worn them.
• I had the nerve to make him call the bus barn to check the lost and found for said hat and gloves. This was mortifying for him. This may be one of those moments he relives in a therapy session in 17 years.

He doesn't like to screw up (usually) and by bedtime the weight of the day had crushed him. He was in tears, and my mommy heart kind of ached for him.

Oh, but wait. Turns out he had withheld the best part. Saturday morning he worked up the nerve to tell me that he also lost his shirt at school.

I'll let that sink in.

Yes, he misplaced what most would consider to be an essential article of clothing. Don't you hate it when that happens? He doesn't really remember where or why he took it off. "I think my top half got kind of hot," was the best explanation he could offer. Which makes sense, in a random sort of way. Still, questions abound.

So, like I said, things like this prove that I really have no insight into my kids' realities. But even if I could remember how overwhelming it sometimes is to be seven, I truly don't think that inexplicably ending up half-naked would be on my radar.

And this is how road rage starts

Jensen got kind of bored during that week he was quarantined and missed 157 days of school. In order to keep him from passing time by tattooing "love" and "hate" on his knuckles, we allowed him to play some video games.

So, there he sat, playing some kind of driving game. (Harrowing, by the way. Based on this demonstration, he may be allowed to drive when he's, like, 31.) He was wearing plastic Halloween vampire teeth, because what self-respecting seven-year-old boy doesn't wear vampire dentures while playing video games? I don't remember what I was doing, but for the sake of argument, let's say I was cleaning. Or pretending to clean. Whatever.

Oh, and before I go any further, let me just offer some self-defense: I have never (I don't think) dropped an F-bomb on another driver. Maybe some other charming stuff, but not that. At least not with kids in the car.

So, Jensen, driving like a maniac, suddenly cut loose with an explosive "Buck you!" Remember, vampire teeth: the "B" was pretty fuzzy. Not unlike an "F."

This, understandably, caught my attention. "Excuse me?" I politely inquired.

Jensen repeated, "Buck you!" Again with the fuzzy "B."

I icily asked to whom he was speaking.

"That other car! Buck you!"

Because I thought good parenting skills would dictate that I clarify before yelling, I asked, "Would you kindly remove the teeth and spell that?"

He removed the prosthetic teeth. And with enormous eye-rolling and sighing and condescension implying that I was quite possibly the stupidest creature to ever take in air, he enunciated:
"B. U. C. K. Y. O. U."

"Oh," I said, my mind temporarily dulled by his dramatically anticlimactic answer.

"What did you think I said, Mom? Gee-eez."

When he uses questionable vocabularial (?!) acquisitions, I'm usually pretty quick to go into full Boring Mom Mode: do you know what that means, is that really what you want to say, respect, blah, blah, blahhh-ahh-ahhh....

But I totally copped out on this one. Because: 1) I didn't really know what this meant; and 2) after the whole Wheat Thins Incident, I wasn't really sure I wanted to get into it.

Rose-colored eyeballs

Jensen has pink eye. Which is actually a misnomer, because his eyes are apparently more of a fire-engine red hue.

He's miserable.

And he's still at my mom and dad's house.

Mom called last night. Jensen was sobbing inconsolably. She was desperate for something (anything!) that would help him feel better. And she was worried about his eyes, which look kind of scary. The problem is, it's a viral infection, so antibiotics won't help. He's already been to the doctor twice. There's really not a lot to be done.

But man, was he unhappy. Jeff and I talked to him, and he broke our hearts. So when he said he wanted to come home, we decided it was probably for the best, even though that was going to require major schedule adjustments. (Rule #1 of parenting: be flexible.)

Mom and Dad were ready to ship him home, too. Let's face it: they're taking care of their grandson who has some hideous, painful eye infection. What if it's not pink eye? What if it's something much worse?! They hardly want to be responsible for him losing his vision. Not in their job description.

Then this morning, I talked to young Jensen again. No way did he want to come home today. Nuh-unh. (Rule #2 of parenting: be flexible again.) As I talked to him, I think I figured out what was going on.

He got in trouble at Grandma and Grandpa's house.

I got in trouble from my Grandma K exactly once when I was a kid. And I was devastated. Crushed. Betrayed. Ashamed. I cried as if someone had died.

So when Jensen 'fessed up this morning, it all came clear to me.

Yep, he has pink eye. It hurts. He doesn't feel good. And he got in trouble. I'd probably want to come home too. At least for an hour or two.