Tate’s kindergarten class sent home a small container with instructions that Tate was to fill it with things that reflected her personality. All of the items had to start with the letter “T” and fit in the container.
She picked a truck, a tiny teddy bear, a tiara and tattoos.
The only thing I can think of that she overlooked was a toe tag for the victims of her secret ninja moves.
One of the biggest daily struggles of motherhood for me is monitoring my language. I enjoy profanity. I am, truth be told, quite fluent in it. I speak both the mild and blue versions and am even well-versed in certain regional variations. When I fill out various forms and they ask about other languages I speak, I am tempted to write in profanity.
That said, I do not think angel-faced young ladies exclaiming *(!+ sucker is particularly cute or endearing. Hence through extreme force of will and self-discipline the likes of which has never been applied to my diet, education, exercise program or any other area of my life, Cat and Tate have never heard their mother utter anything more colorful than “dammit” or “hell” and both of those have only made rare appearances in our family lexicon.
Until yesterday.
We were running errands and Tate asked, for the 10,000th time, to hear Pink’s “So What?” When I play it for the ladies, I always turn the volume completely down when Pink utters the S-word. After engaging in this exercise a half dozen times, I decided that the ladies were old enough for a lesson in double standards and bilingual education.
I explained to them that adults are allowed to do certain things that kids can’t do like drive, get married, drink alcohol and to use certain words. I explained when they are adults, they can choose their words, but for now, there are certain words that will not be on flashcards and should not be used by them. That said, the words exist in the world and they may hear them and I am not going to try to shield them from each and every one on each and every occasion when they may hear it. My days of diving on profanity grenades are dwindling.
Naturally they requested an example. So I took a deep breath and in as neutral of a tone as I could muster said, “Shit. Pink uses it in her song but you should not use it.”
“Mommy, what is shit?” Tate asked, in an unnervingly sincere voice.
“Um, well poop. But also adults sometimes say it when they are angry or frustrated. And sometimes they use when other people might just say ‘stuff.’”
“Okay Mom, we won’t use the S-word,” Cat promised.
“Yeah Mom, we won’t use your Mommy words” Tate echoed.
My Mommy words. Despite seven years of good behavior, profanity now forever is defined in my children’s minds as Mommy words.
Shit.
We spent the morning doing various errands in preparation for our family overnight camping trip along the river. We decided to stop at McDonald’s for a quick breakfast before heading out.
All went smoothly until the very end when I told the ladies to go wash up in the restroom as they both were wearing a fair amount of breakfast. When they returned to the table, Tate was barefoot and Cat slapped a soaking wet pair of her sister’s flip-flops down on the table directly next to my unfinished sandwich.
“Tate, why are you not wearing shoes?” I asked. “You know you are not allowed to go barefoot in a restaurant. What on earth are you thinking? Don’t you know that isn’t sanitary?” As I peppered her with questions, I grabbed the shoes.
“Well Mom, my shoes were in the toilet and I thought it would be LESS sanitary to put them back on” she replied staring at my hands that were holding the shoes in question.
“Ummmm….what?”
“My shoes fell into the the toilet, I knew you would think that was unsanitary, so I didn’t put them back on. I brought them to you instead.”
“Yes, and put them next to my breakfast. I see that now. WHY???? Why did you do that?”
“We knew you would want to wash them mommy. You know, to get the icky germs off before I put my shoes back on. But you can finish your sandwich first.”
When I am not being mommy, I am an attorney and privacy officer for a Fortune 500 company. Until tonight I thought I kept those roles fairly well segregated.
Cat and Tate were playing upstairs while I was working in the home office. Tate, age 5, approached me with a clipboard, a piece of paper and a pen.
“I need you to review this contract and sign it,” she said. “On second thought, you don’t need to read it, just sign it.”
“What is it for?”
“It is a tuck-in contract and it says that you will tuck Sissy and I in tonight using nice words.”
“Sounds reasonable to me” I said and signed my name on the line she had drawn next to a scrawling X.
A few minutes later, I went into where they were playing and announced it was time for lights out.
“Okay, but you have to lay here with us and and entertain us all night until we fall asleep,” Tate said.
“Nice try, but no.”
“Yes you do” she yelled. “It’s in the contract you just signed. Don’t make me sue you to force it, Mommy.”
“ENFORCE it, and where does it say that? I thought I signed a contract agreeing to tuck you in and use nice words, but I don’t recall agreeing to entertain anyone.”
She grabbed the piece of paper and pointed to a few random small lines at the bottom of the page. “Right there Mommy. Don’t blame me if you didn’t read the fine print.”
Within 30 minutes of handing me the teen romance novel, I heard from downstairs, “No, YOU go tell her.”
Curiosity piqued, I closed down my work email and started downstairs. Tate met me on the way. “Cat just threw up Mom. A LOT. ALL over the kitchen. It’s gross but impressive.”
She was accurate. On all counts.
As I waded (literally) into the mess to begin clean-up, Tate started rattling off a list of things she wanted as gifts for her upcoming birthday. Irritated, I asked “Tate, can’t you see that I am in the middle of something? And that it isn’t particularly pleasant?”
“Of course I can Mom,” she said. “You are cleaning up Cat’s barf. She thought you needed more romance, but I thought you could use a distraction.”
Tate brought home a form in her backpack and presented it to me. “You have homework, Mommy” she announced.
Indeed, the form is designed to give Tate’s kindergarten teacher some insight into Tate. It asks things such as her hobbies, special talents, forms of discipline that have worked, our concerns for her and a host of other thoughtful probing questions.
I spent hours on the form. I pondered my child analytically. I referenced her journals from pre-school. I did an informal survey on FaceBook of people who knew Tate. I grilled Darling Husband while he tried to watch television. Then I did what any good mother in my situation would do; I lied my ass off.
I provided true-enough answers for some questions but I believe the essence of Tate cannot be reduced to a few short lines and if I attempted to do so, her new teacher may fear her, not appreciate her.
Honest answers would have looked something like this:
Hobbies: Harassing her older sister, waking one or both parents at 2 a.m. for pop quizzes about world events, telling everyone she meets that she is a secret ninja, asking her mother multiple times a day if her lip is bleeding.
Special Talents: Performing naked “booty dances” after evening bath, singing “Teenage Dirtbag” by Wheatus at extreme volumes, jumping out at people and causing a coronary by yelling, “I am a secret ninja, fear me.” Can act out all parts of any Disney movie ever seen, with high honors in “The Lion King.”
Career Aspirations: Vegas showgirl and secret ninja.
Interesting Fact: Insists that Pink’s song “So What?” will be her wedding song.
Disciplinary Tactics That Have Proven Effective: n/a
Our Concerns For Her: That she will reach age 80 before sleeping through the night in her own bed and that she will have to be raised by her Aunt Karen after we succumb to exhaustion.
What We Expect From This School Year: Very little boredom.
All in all, its not a bad resume for a five year old girl, come to think of it.