Every day at 3:45 there is an explosion at my front door. You see, 3:45 marks the exact time that the last of my three children finally comes home from school.
This is the first year that I have three different children in three different schools, albeit one is only a few days a week and it is only preschool . . . it still counts! And it is nice having individual time with them at the end of their grueling days to go over the "events of the day," otherwise known as "what did you do at school today?"
This is no easy task for my oldest, I have to dig a little. Unless the day happens to be the day that his science teacher told the class about having a bottle rocket embedded in her arm - I could not get him to stop talking that day!
You gotta love a boy who is enthusiastic about science.
My middle one though, is never at a loss for words, which are usually describing some horrible thing a classmate did involving boogers or spit, or how he was not given a choice in salsa (mild or hot) at lunch. Yes, Wyatt believes that the elementary school lunch program should give kids a choice in salsa strength, not just assume that the majority of them cannot handle the hot stuff. I suspect that if he ever runs for student council again, this will be his slogan: Vote for Wyatt! Salsa you can believe in!
Anyhow . . .
He was in a funk after school the other day and after inquiring as to what, exactly, had gotten his feathers ruffled he decided to share.
"We had a substitute today and she was not very good," he said, "she made us miss recess because she couldn't tell time."
"You missed the your whole recess?" I asked.
"No, just three minutes of it." He said.
"That's all?" My husband asked.
"Yes, but that is not fair. She should know how to tell time, she is the teacher and I don't think it's fair that she kept us in for her mistake." He said.
My husband and I looked at each other, our eyebrows raised and a shocked expression on our faces. I tried not to spit out the sip of Diet Coke I'd just taken and instead busied myself with the loading of the dishwasher.
Brett patted Wyatt on the shoulder, told him it would be ok, made sure that he was not still upset about this horrifying experience and shooed him out of the kitchen. As soon as Wyatt was out of earshot I said, "Wow, I wonder what he says about me when I'm late." Which, if any of you know me in real life HARDLY EVER HAPPENS (cough, cough).
Did I just get struck by lightning? Ok, we're good then.
As I was saying, I do try, but I am not always the most punctual person on the planet and although I do have a pretty good recent run of being on time, everyone still thinks I will be late and teases me to no end. So I wonder what Wyatt thinks of all this? I am afraid to ask, for I suspect that his answer would be something like, "Can't you tell time? I mean, you are the parent."
I don't have any idea where he gets these high standards of his, but I'm certainly happy that he does, it keeps the rest of us hooligans in check.