Aidan got 23 stitches in the face that day, and that was just one of the three times Mack has put his little brother in the ER with broken bones or cuts.

You’d think Mack would carry around some feelings of guilt about repeatedly brutalizing his younger sibling. But…no.

Today, Mack brought home a project he created in the computer lab. It listed different goods and services, and had descriptive sentences about each one. Under goods, he listed ice cream (“I love ice cream! My favorite flavor is cookie dough.”) and football (“I am a great QB. I want to be a football player when I grow up.”) among others.

Under services, he listed stores (“I like to get footballs and jerseys and toys at stores.”) and the hospital. For the hospital, his descriptive sentence was, “When my brother gets hurt we go to the hospital.”

“Wow, honey, that’s a great report card! Almost straight As — you really worked hard!”

“I didn’t even look at it. As soon as I opened the folder and saw stupid Honor Roll [straight As is Principal's Honor Roll, you see] I shut the folder and puched myself in the head.”

OK, I admit my first instinct was to laugh. Who punches themselves in the head in the middle of class? Oh, my kid. The same one who covered himself with the “towel of shame” after a less-than-stellar swim meet. The same one who cries when he strikes out in baseball. That kid. I really don’t understand why he puts so much pressure on himself; we’ve tried to make it clear that we’re proud of the effort, not necessarily the result. But he is wired to scorn less-than-perfect.

Maybe he will grow out of it. Or maybe I will be forever comforting my “shameful” son who only makes the “stupid” regular honor roll.

This morning we were all cleaning the house. I asked Cat to polish the furniture in her father’s office and spray some Febreeze in the room when she was finished. “That will certainly vanquish his manly stench,” she said.

Sounds pretty descriptive to me.

So they will take (according to Mack) not one, not two, not three, but five photos of your child, until they know they have one that will meet with your approval.

Take THAT, children with mediocre school pictures and easy-going mothers.

Her list included:

“No doing a happy dance if I get a 12 out of 12 on my test. It’s embarrassing when you do that.”

“No bursting into tears if I do not get a 12 out of 12 on my test. That would be awkward.”

“You need to make sure you do your hair and make-up nice, but you can’t wear a dress or a lawyer suit. You need to look cute but not TOO cute because I don’t want the boys in my class to crush on you. That would be awkward. Besides, they are all supposed to crush on me.”

“Do not try to help me during the test. That would be cheating and it would be a black mark on both of our records. My record is clean.” (I am not sure what the pointed look after that last remark was meant to convey.)

“No matter how nervous you get for me, do not pee your pants.”

At this point, I had to interject. “Cat, have you ever known me to pee my pants?”

“No Mom, but I know how nervous and excited you get for me over the spelling tests and I thought you needed the reminder.”

I was assigned to volunteer at the same time as another mom. So I thought, “No matter what happens, at least I will have back up.”

So I was not very happy when I arrived almost on time this morning to find that my fellow mom had stood us up. And then I learn that my volunteering task was to take small groups of children aside, four or five at a time, and read and complete a Scholastic reader with them, then read a book with them, during which time we were to have a “rich discussion” of the content.

I really had to interact with the children – all of the children. No cutting, no gluing, no walking in line. I had to try to talk to them and teach them. Yikes. This was not good.

Let’s face it: even on a good day I can only manage about 50-60 minutes of patience with children. After that comes the yelling and the screaming.

I can’t remember the last time I had a “good day.”

But I knew there was no backing out, so I sat down in one of those tiny little chairs and I ran my discussion group. The reader was called “The Colors I See at the Pumpkin Patch.” And we discussed the hell out of that thing.

We talked about how pumpkins grow on the ground (unlike apples – where do apples grow?), and how vines bring the water and food to the pumpkins (how do people get the things we need to grow?), and why farmers put up scarecrows (are birds as smart as people?), and why the farmer needs a tractor (how many pumpkins do you think are growing in that patch?), and what food we liked the best – pumpkin pie, pumpkin bread or pumpkin seeds (anyone who didn’t say pumpkin pie is just flat out wrong).

It was going so well that by the third group I started to relax and think, “Why was I nervous? I got this.” Complacency – the downfall of many a parent volunteer.

I showed the kids a picture of a beautiful fall landscape, with trees ablaze in reds, yellows and oranges. “How do we know that this picture shows us the fall?” We talked about the leaves changing color, and I described how in summer all the leaves would be green. And then it happened: “And in the winter, all of the leaves fall off the tree. Then the tree is just branches…it is naked.”

Yep, I said “naked” to a group of five year olds. It was like a bomb went off.

I basically had to write that group off. They are probably still giggling now, four hours later.

At least the teacher now knows that, the next time I volunteer, she should just sit me in the corner with some scissors and construction paper.

The program was fun. They brought in “G-Man,” a mascot and performer from the Washington Wizards. He did cool basketball dunking tricks with a trampoline, and talked to everyone about the need to appreciate our differences and treat others with respect. It was kind of hard to take his platitudes completely seriously, as he was garbed in a blue nylon suit with padded muscles. Even his face was completely covered in blue, so rather than listen I mostly tried to figure out how he could see and breathe in that thing. But he could jump really high.

After the event, while we stood in line waiting for G-Man’s autograph, the vice principal came around and gave out small laminated cards which offered various tips for parents whose children are bullying or being bullied.

Atop one page of the card it said: What Can Parents Do If Their Child Is Bullied?

The first solution listed was, “Help the child develop talents and positive attributes.”

So, in other words, their advice for parents of a bullied child is, “Try to help him be less of a loser.”

As I plead with her to explain what happened, I get only, “I missed you.” “I’m tired.” “I don’t know why I’m crying I’m just sad.” (Which may be true in 10 years but I’m not buying it at age 6.)  Her teacher comes out and apologizes; she had been in the hall testing another student and didn’t see what happened. The substitute came out and said something about messy coloring. Aha! Now we are getting somewhere. Kaylee cannot handle criticism, and I feel in my gut this is why she was crying. But she swears up and down she’s just tired and sad. Her teacher suggests maybe she doesn’t feel well, because this is just not like her. Which is when every teacher and aide walking down the hall suddenly went into Flu Frenzy. “Does she have a fever?” “These things come on suddenly you know.” “You probably shouldn’t bring her back tomorrow either.” Kaylee begs to come home, despite her teacher’s urgings to stay at least through lunch and see how she feels (finally, a sane person!), and eventually I relent, grudgingly cancelling my lunch plans.

As I check her out at the office, they check her temperature “just in case.” 98.2, “a little feverish.” WHAT? Since when? Somehow we get out of there without getting quarantined. When we arrive home, Kaylee skips into the house and asks for string cheese on her way downstairs to watch TV. Hmm.

“You need to tell me right now why you were crying.” Sobbing again. “The teacher said my coloring was scribbliiiing!”

My lunch plans down the drain because I peeked in on her right after she was criticized. I KNEW that was it, but no, the flu the flu THE FLU! So after lunch (peanut and butter and jelly is not the same as a restaurant with friends) we are headed back to school. Hopefully we have both learned a lesson — but probably just me.

Because she has only had the cards for this week’s words one night, I expected to walk away with all of the cards. Normally, Monday night and Tuesday night are “my” nights to win with her running the table on me by Thursday. Apparently however, she had been cramming while I ran out to the dry cleaner and to do other errands because she spelled all twelve words correctly on her first try.

“I deserve a trophy,” she shouted jubilantly.

“Indeed you do,” I said. She and I both spied one of her Barbie dolls at the same time. I held it up and said “In recognition of your spelling prowess and your tremendous dedication to literacy, I hereby award you this trophy for hard work in learning new words and for perfect spelling performance,” I said, handing her the Barbie and then erupting into applause.

Cat beamed.

“Thank you,” she said, immediately slipping into acceptance speech mode. “I am very honored to have won this award. This really means a lot to me. I barely know what to say.”

The she paused and said with complete sincerity, “I would like to dedicate this to my mom, because without her, I would not be such a good speller and because she sounded out ‘traffic’ for me. Here Mom, this trophy is for you.”

My acceptance speech was a tearful, choked “I love you too Cat.”

Where is the protective equipment and such valuable lessons for parents? Was I at work or in Target during those seminars? Is there a make-up class?

Today Chris and I attended a special meeting about Cat at her school. Apparently our girl lacks focus. She would rather discuss her dogs, her Halloween costumes or our trip to the mall than to focus on spelling words or math facts.

Her teacher, who went out of her way to refer to Cat as “endearing” and “eager to please” summed it up by saying, “When she is with me, there is no stopping her, she is REALLY with me. But when she is not, she is really not.” It was a fair criticism. It was an accurate statement. It was an issue to which we had already been alerted.

It was also a knife in my heart.

Jill posted recently that no one prepares you for the parenting mistakes that you don’t see coming. I think it’s also true that no one prepares you for the anxiety and pain you feel on your child’s behalf. It is wrenching to have a child who is charming, bright and eager to please who falls short in her efforts. It physically hurts to watch her scrunch her face with concentration and determination only to be crushed to learn that 11-3 is in fact not 7.
And if there is a pain worse than hearing your child say, “Forget it, I am just dumb” then it is not one I am prepared to face.

To add insult to injury, she is learning to ride her bike with no training wheels but daily faces the taunts and inquisition of a younger neighbor, “Can’t you do that YET? When are you going to ride a bike with no training wheels?” He has been doing it for two weeks. I resist the urge to encourage him to do so in traffic. Barely.

These issues are small. She is healthy. She is bright. She will conquer bikes with no training wheels and second grade. Face these we will, though the weather be foul and face these we will, though the Hackencracks howl, to paraphrase the good Dr. Seuss. But I could surely use a jock strap for my heart while we do.