So last night I was working through my big kid’s fifth grade accordion folder. It goes with him to his four different classes throughout the day, and people, it is a study in how NOT to organize oneself. Organization is a learned process and in his school, the learning commences in fifth grade. He’s the type of person who, while not a hoarder, has papers of assorted age and relevance interspersed with the “Dear Parents, Tomorrow is parent-teacher conference night and we’re pleased to schedule your child’s conference for 5:30 pm.” Of course, being the highly tuned-in parent I am, I knew when conferences are. What kind of mom do you think I am?
Turns out I am exactly THAT KIND OF MOM. And I’m equal parts aghast and amused at my son’s, ahem, creative writing. My son’s love for writing and drawing is an intrinsic part of his being. He IS a writer. Always has been. It came easily for him from the moment he understood that symbols had meaning. This post has absolutely nothing to do with MD today except that one of my biggest fears for his afterworld is that his ability to write and draw will be stolen from him by fucking MD. But not today! Today, friends, I had a talk with my son about the comic strip he created titled, Pottymouth Peach, upon which I stumbled in the aforementioned accordion folder.
A drama in six cels, Pottymouth Peach, seen in this strip playing baseball, gets called out on strikes in cel one and says “D*mn.” Yes, he inserted the star symbol so as to avoid actually writing the word. In cel two, the lovely Peach shouts at the umpire, “Mother**** you!” Moving on, poor, poor Peach takes a high and inside pitch to the head, and shouts “balls o’ dookie” in cel four. Our neutral narrator informs us in cel five that PP took tons of injuries before making her triumphant return, finishing in grand fashion: “When was the last time I took a sh*t? You imbisle.” If like me, you’re stymied just a tad at how taking a sh*t fits with taking a beanball, I really can’t help you out. And because I am THAT KIND OF MOM, in all of this, I’m most horrified that he misspelled ‘imbecile.’
So. Yeah. That happened. But you know what? I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he didn’t get all of this from me! I never, ever say taking a shit or balls o’ dookie, and I most definitely know the difference between saying f-you and motherf’er and would never, under any circumstance confuse those contexts. Because I’m not a TOTAL loser mom, I ask him about it, and my hand on my heart–he blushed! I say to him, “I get it. You hear stuff and you want to know how far you can push it. You’re experimenting with how you talk, what fits for you and how you want to fit in with your friends.” Big kid admits he might have crossed a line. Ya think? Best part: Pottymouth Peach was laid to rest in the shredder when we got settled at home tonight. His doing, not mine. Not even something I suggested or expected. But the best, best part? I took a picture of it on my phone. Don’t f- with the mom, son. Mom wins every time!