Imprisoned

Or, riding in the car with me.

After reading several reports on the state of education and feeling dismayed, I thought, I’ll go straight to the source: L.

(Okay, so I don’t think L really wants to talk about education at the end of a long school day. Then again, he’s buckled into the back seat. He’s all mine.)

M: How was school?

L: “It was good. Overall, a good day.”

M: Did anything stand out for you?

L: “I got to read with my kindergarten reading buddy. That was awesome.”

(I have a specific question in mind. I’m gonna cut to the chase.)

M: How do you know you’re doing well in school?

L: “Because I know the answers.”

M: (ACK) If you have to choose between knowing the answer, or how you got the answer, which one?

L: How. Definitely how. Because then I can figure out other stuff.

The state (of education) rests.

Because

L and I walked to school today. We were discussing games we would invent. I rambled on about my Greek Myth-based adventure wherein the player meets each of the gods and must answer riddles, solve problems, and, sure we can throw in a duel (not really), to move ahead. I ginned up some poorly disguised multiplication word problem and L said:

“WAIT. That’s a math game. You’re trying to sell me on this idea when it’s really about math?”

(Yup.)

“That’s not exactly action/adventure.”

(Nope.)

“Why do you want your game to be about math?”

M: Because.

“That’s a ridiculous answer. That makes no sense.”

M: ‘Because’ is a good answer. As in why did you climb the mountain? Because it was there.

“Again, a ridiculous answer. You climb the mountain because you WANT to climb the mountain. That’s the answer.”

And therein lies our existential crisis of the day.

Curse of the Hoodie

Preface: I’m biased. I think L is the bees’ knees. That his eyes are dreamy pools of love. That his lips look like a rose. That his nose is perfection. That he should SHOW THAT LOVELY MUG AND NOT HIDE INSIDE A HOODIE all day long.

Picked him up yesterday from school. It’s boiling hot, stifling, uncomfortable. Like me, L does not do heat well. In fact, we’re straight up heat averse. We fall apart when the mercury goes above 80 (70 for me, but who’s counting?).

L is wearing his hoodie. With hood up (must be down during the school day). He’s fussy and says, “I’m stressed.” I look at his heated cheeks and say, “if you take off your jacket, I’m pretty sure you’ll be much less stressed.”

L: “Mom, my hoodie is part of my identity. It’s who I am.”

M: (Here we go again.)

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