To Publish or Perish

L came home yesterday and announced he had begun his magnum opus, called…. er…. maybe, “Red Eyes in the Night.” He explained it was a horror story (this from the boy who still nearly faints at the sight, description, or even mention of blood) and he had conquered Ch. 1. He told me that the secret to writing a successful horror story is to “add as much detail as possible. That’s very, very important.” When I asked why, he said, “details make the reader feel like he’s IN the story.”

Sounds good.

He told me that the second chapter would start with a simple sentence: “Meet me at the dock.”

“Doesn’t that make you curious? Aren’t you just dying to know what happens?”

He also said this was the first book he was truly committed to finishing. He then asked, “how old do you need to be to publish a book?”

M: “There are no age limits.”

L: “Wow. Seriously? Okay, I’m going to really make it the best it can be and see if I can get my book published.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I could make (and publish) the book for him. Better to have him shop it around, and see what kind of movie deal he can secure.

 

What’s Up, Doc?

Oh, the joy of a well-child appointment (as opposed to a sick child appointment)

Went yesterday to have the lad measured, weighed, tapped and prodded. As we were sitting in the waiting room, the nurse came in and instructed L to remove his clothes down to his undies.

L: “Well, this is going to be embarrassing. What if the doctor comes in and sees me nearly naked and has to turn away and gather herself? What if she’s not expecting this? This feels very awkward to me. I think the nurse might have confused us with another patient.”

M: “L, your doctor is a pediatrician. She expects to see you in your undies. She would be surprised if you weren’t nearly buck naked.”

L: “Okaaaay. But if we have this wrong….”

Doc comes in and is amazed at how tall L has become. She is the single greatest pediatrician in the world. She knows that L comprehends everything and speaks to him as she would speak to me.

Doc: “L, what’s your favorite subject in school?”

L: “Math. Definitely math.”

D: “Why math?”

L: “Because I have systems and strategies and math makes complete sense. For instance, if you’re adding two three digit numbers, you already know that…”

D: “Yes, you definitely understand math. That’s great. I wish more people loved math.”

L then tells her about his day, his week, his life, his dog, his friends. At the end of the appointment, he says, “well, did I do okay? Am I healthy?”

D: “Yes, you’re very, very healthy. You’re amazing.”

Yup.

Necessary Evils a.k.a. Homework

Ah, number lines. L approaches them in an assembly-like manner. Assess question, color in least number of squares, write digits in sequence.

M: “I notice that when you’re doing these exercises, you always color in the least number of squares necessary.”

L: “Yes, that’s my strategy.”

M: “Seems to work well. Looks like it’s a good strategy.”

L: “I’m a good strategy.”

Can’t argue with that.

Working

Best Kid Ever

Rotten day, yesterday. Worst day of my career. I’ve never seen a more ridiculous set of adults in my life. I’ll leave it there. Left work early. Picked up the lad from school.

The goal: Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry.

I cried.

L: “Mom, what’s wrong? Why are you sad?”

M: “Some people at work weren’t very nice to me. You know when you’re really good at something and no one can see it? That’s what it felt like. Felt like I was embedded in a world of aliens.”

L: “I’m so sorry, mom. I don’t want you to be sad. I love you. You’re the most amazing person I know. And I thinkĀ  you’re really good at what you do.”

M: “Thanks, sweetie. That means everything to me.”

L: “I’ll be very sensitive to you. Let’s go do my homework. Then we’ll sit together under a blanket and you can put your head on my shoulder and hopefully you’ll feel better.”

M: “I’m sure I will.”