A HERO'S SPARK: the final book in the Wicked Women series!

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

A message to Precious...

Good afternoon!

To quote Steve Czaben, my favorite sports guy on the planet, "Favre can still play."

Yessir he can. And boyo, did he last night. Favre has now beaten every team in the league...something else no other QB will ever do again.

But enough about Monday night Football. I hate football on Monday nights. It messes up the week. Sunday is for football. All day Sunday. Saturday is college football, and that's fine. But Monday? Monday is for getting back to regular family stuff and you know, writing.

(I'll admit it, I haven't written much in the last two weeks. and I'm pretty sure I owe my critique partner a chapter, which I may have lost....Oh, wait, I think I know where it is!)

I was informed this morning at my part time school job that I wasn't perfect. Let me set this scene up for you: For an hour every morning I work as a child supervisor for our schools' before school program. We have to have two supervisors on at all times, even though in the mornings we have two kids and only two kids. Well, most mornings the other lady who works with me brings her four kids with her. (One is an infant.) The older three children are...not that mannerly. (I'm putting that good old Christian spin on it.) My life would be much simpler if she would stay home with the four kids and I just surpervise the other two.

So this morning the lady goes up to the office to do something. (So much for having two supervisors on at all times) and she leaves ALL FOUR KIDS WITH ME. Including the baby. So now I'm watching six kids, three of whom live under the impression that violence is the only way to communicate. Seriously. In my years of babysitting and teaching I've seen a lot in the way of sibling relationships. These kids take the cake. They take it, they smack each other over the heads with it, and then they smear it all over the place and then walk away so other people have to clean it up.

When they started throwing motorized trucks at each other (BIG motorized trucks) I took the toys away. The older two moved on to other pursuits of naughtiness, but the younger girl sat next to me on the sofa and asked every ten seconds if she could have the trucks back. I said no.

She punctuated her requests with that cutesy little crunched up shoulder pose. You know the one little girls pull when they're really trying to be cute. It's the one they pull when they're trying to get out of trouble. I hate that face.

I informed this future punk band groupie that I was not giving her back the truck, and that the cute face wasn't going to work one bit on me. That's when she said the following: "You're not perfect, like my mommy."

I had plenty of comments to fire back at this attempt at an insult, but I didn't voice any of that. What I said was, "Well, it's my job to make sure that none of you gets hurt while you're down here. And if you're going to throw toys at other children, then it's my job to take that toy away."

To which Precious says, "The other times we were here you were nice."

Well, Precious, I wasn't put in a position where I had to actually pay attention to what you were doing since I always work under the assumption that the parent on site will take care of their offspring.

Precious continues her line of reprimands. "My mommy doesn't take toys away for so long."

Well, Precious, I can't speak to your mommy's method of discipline. I can't speak to it because I've never seen it in action. What I can say it that if you think you're getting anywhere in this argument with me, then buckle up Buttercup, because you've just met the one adult who has spent a lifetime shattering the egos of pretty, snotty little beasts such as yourself.

I didn't say that. I didn't have to. I looked at her with an expression I've perfected in the 16 years I've parented, and she backed down. I have no illusions. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow will be the same with her.

But Precious, know this: I've been a babysitter, a teacher, and a parent for more years than you and your siblings have been breathing. Telling me I'm not perfect like your mommy...I'll take that as a compliment.

And no, you won't get to play with the trucks tomorrow, either.

No comments:

Post a Comment