Simon came home from school happy about school, which is his normal status about school.
School is an amazing place, or at least he thinks that while he’s at home. (While he’s at school, it’s often a different matter and he can get mad at things not happening on schedule or teachers not being there.)
But today, it was happiness.
From the moment he got off the bus, he said school was fun.
I asked what he did at school. “Fun,” he said.
I asked again, emphasis on “what” he did…
“What did you learn about?”
Okay, maybe that’s actually a “where” response, but close enough that I’ll take it.
These feelings about school didn’t fade away. He ran through his usual “script” about going to school and when he goes back to school (tomorrow morning).
But that wasn’t enough today. He kept repeating himself and wanting me to repeat it back to him.
So I came up with a social story on the fly and told it to him.
“In the morning, you wake up, then you get dressed, then you eat breakfast, then you get on the bus, and then you get to school.” I held up a finger for each step, numbering them one through five.
He nodded along, so I went for the repetition.
“What do you do first?” [One finger held up]
“Then what?” [Two fingers held up]
“And then?” [Three fingers held up]
“And next?” [Four fingers held up]
“Take the bus.”
“And what’s the last step?” [All five fingers held up]
“Get to school.”
“Do you feel better now?”
“Great, so can you please get out of the bathroom? Because I kind of need some privacy now.”
Today a guy walked by me in the parking lot of the grocery store just as Simon got into the car and I was starting to put the groceries in the trunk.
This guy said, all disgusted-sounding, some comment like, “Huh, he’s just getting in the car and getting comfortable and not even helping you load those up.”
His tone made it clear. “Kids these days.” And maybe even “parents these days.” Because he clearly thought I was also doing wrong by not forcing my son to help.
Part of me wanted to correct him, tell him that I was happier with my son sitting in the car – somewhere safe, unlike the parking lot where the birds crying overhead would scare him and where loud noises would bother him.
Tell him that just minutes before, as I was paying for these groceries, my son had turned to one of the male employees at the store – someone we’d never seen before – and asked for a “big hug” while the guy looked all kinds of uncomfortable, and I’d had to ask Simon to come to me (again) which is what I’d been doing for the last fifteen minutes of waiting in line, trying to keep Simon from bothering the guy buying all the sushi and the woman with the shaved head and the monk’s robe (who I somehow thought should look enlightened or at least happy or even tolerant, yet the only way to describe her expression was disgruntled).
Tell him that the cashier had given Simon “Buddy Bucks” so he could go win stickers to save up for a prize, even though he doesn’t care about saving up for the prize; he just likes to put the sticker on his hand and wear it, going around all day with a yellow square that says “2 points” on it.
But I didn’t say anything to the guy because I’d rather let him be smugly satisfied with himself because I don’t owe him an explanation, and he wasn’t asking for an explanation. He was passing judgment on me and my son without knowing anything about us. And that’s his problem, not mine.
Main take-away point here?
How many times do I have to shout it from the rooftops?