The evidence of childhood displeasure is bad enough when relinquished in the confinements of your own home. It is when the disclosure is made to the public that leaves a mom a bit sheepish. And, might I add, it is an experience that every self-congratulatory mom should experience. Revelation #2 came earlier this autumn month while in 1st grade. The students were instructed to decorate a pre-drawn vehicle which represented their transportation home after school. The choices were school bus or car. My son, being the mom-taxi'd lad that he is, chose the car. I stumbled upon this visual when I had come to school to assist the students in making apple pies. There I was behind the wheel, a side profile of mom with long chunky red hair, a big, bold blue eyeball and a big, blood-red... for everyone to see... frowny face. Lovely! I guess for popularity's sake among the class (teacher included) I should try to refrain from excessive morning scoldings toward my son's tail-dragging tendencies.
Imperfect Parenting
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And then... I noticed the stick figure. It seemed that my dear boy must have made a mistake on it, since it was slightly scribbled. Nevertheless, I searched throughout the house to find the young lad to elaborate on how wonderful a picture he had drawn. I found him, lavishly praised his creativity and then inquired about the stick figure. "It's you, Mom." I then asked if he had made a mistake on it due to the excessive lines. With head down, he grinned and announced that it wasn't scribbled "It's you on fire, Mom". Shock! Disbelief! I asked him "why" and he just giggled. I decided not to make a big deal out of it and instead told him it was a great picture anyway, but, oh dear, the tumultuous thoughts that began racing through my bewildered head would not quiet! I acted on the notion of tormented child syndrome immediately and phoned a few family members, who also thought it rather humorous and dismissed any negative connotations. Thankfully, I also spoke with a friend (who happens to be a psychologist) and he informed me that it was not that my son had pyromaniac tendencies, nor did he wish me in harm's way, it was simply a common way for a child to express himself when mad at a parent. Earlier in the day, my son was forbidden a third cookie at Grammy's house and mom's nastiness at the sweet omission warranted a good ring of fire about my humble likeness as a stick figure.
