Parent To Teacher

Roy went to Cristian's Parent/Teacher Conference today. We pretty much knew how that would go. Apparently my son is VERY smart with an extremely large phonics base (whatever that means) and speaks very well. He ought to. I've been talking to him as though he was a miniature adult since day one. So after the brief compliments, the teacher got down and dirty. And we totally expected that she would. Apparently Cristian is a crafty little fox. The teacher said that she often observes him staring off into space with an evil grin during her lectures. She also said that he has cunning that she has only seen, thus far, in kids older than him. Specifically 6th graders are more cunning than your average 3rd grader, I guess. SO. Cris has mastered the Art Of Pushing Buttons at an early age. Look, Lady....I could have told you all of this a long time ago. The kid has had that intelligent glint in his eyes ever since they first fluttered opened inside womb. Cris is...interesting. The hamster in his head is constantly treading that big freaking wheel. If he isn't providing comic relief for his classmates, he's tormenting them. And believe it or not. They like it. He's friends with everyone. Wants to meet everyone. Wants to entertain everyone. Excepting his teacher and myself. With us, its all about the deception.

Oh how he loves his Mommy, who hides Smurfs around the house for him to hunt, who cuts his sandwiches into holiday shapes, who buys comic books on eBay, who paints his hair green for big soccer games....but oh how he loathes the mother who confiscates Yu-Gi-Oh! cards when he gets into trouble at school, who won't let him eat candy before dinner, who requires him to put away his toys every night and who won't let him wear his shoes past the front door. So this is where the deception kicks in. Candy is carefully and noiselessly extracted from candy hiding places and devoured in secrecy. Yu-Gi-Oh! stashes are carefully camouflaged throughout the house in the event that one deck is withheld. Toys are meticulously grouped into piles that "Will Be Played With Later" and can therefore not be put away. Tennis shoes are painstakingly transformed into "clogs" for easy removal by pressing down the backs with his heel until they are permanently crapped. So that the sounds of an angry mother can be heard throughout the house bellowing things such as...

"Why is there a candy wrapper in here on the floor CRIS?!"
"What the....where did these cards come from?!"
"I don't care if you're going to play with them for TWO DAYS STRAIGHT! PUT THIS CRAP AWAY! NOW!"
"I paid SIXTY dollars for these shoes! Stop being My Worst American Investment and fix the backs of these things! Ingrate!"

And now how do you suppose the 8 year old child responds?
"I don't know."
"I don't know."
"I will! I will!"
"Moooooooom. They really hurt my foot like that."

And how do I retaliate?
"Throw it away."
"Give me those."
"Now!"
"Thats a load of CRAP."

Listen up teachers of the world. I know what I got. At least YOU get paid money to deal with him. All I get are Ninja Turtle Drawings and warm, sweet hugs. Oh wait. I like those.