Tuesdays are now known as the “six mots” day, a weekly homework writing exercise a native French speaker and skilled translator/copywriter/proofreader is struggling to complete.
Browsing: Clueless Parenting
I take full responsibilities for many parenting mistakes. But Fortnite and Momo? Blame the school.
What are the odds! Every time Mark plays Parcheesi against Bat-Bear, he wins. Crazy.
Parents are often asked if they start feeling like a mother and a father the second they see their newborn—does a kid feel like his parents’ child the moment he is held for the first time?
Parent-teacher meetings are this week. We have the 9:00-9:10 slot. Should be a fun 10 minutes.
My friend’s kid is going as a giraffe. Mark is “Georgie”, the first kid murdered by Pennywise the clown in “It”. Clearly, I failed at parenting.
Happy birthday, Mark. You’ve been looking forward to being 6 for almost a year now. No, we can’t pretend you’re ten. Sorry.
Who are those people who look back at their school years with nostalgia?
I check the lunch box to see if Mark enjoyed his “nutrition break”—no kidding, that’s how the school calls it (classes are “instructional blocks”). There are a couple of flyers inside.
If Mark’s wobbly baby tooth was going to fall out, I was fairly sure it was going to happen at camp.
Mark gives me a weird look, one that says, “I can’t take you seriously as a mother if you’ve never had a freaking marshmallow”.
Thanks to me French upbringing, I’ve been blessed with the ability to say “penis,” “vulva” and “vagina” without giggling or blushing. I can answer any question.
“Mommy! Look what I’ve got! METAL!” “Metal?” “No, medal!” Mark shouts, barging in to my…
To me, Mark’s school is some kind of mismanaged charity with inconsistent guidelines where the presence of kids is an inconvenience and volunteers are always needed urgently because made-up reasons.
Sometimes, I say ONE thing ONCE and it will be remembered forever. Problem is, I never know what will stick with Mark. If I did, parenting would be easier, right?
It takes me a second to realize that Mark snuck into my bedroom again. I smile.
Mark’s big questions always come out of the blue—even though I’m pretty sure he has been thinking about them for hours—and they often start with an assertion statement.
On a quiet Sunday last fall, my in-laws decided that Feng and I had failed at parenting again. The situation was serious—at the ripe old age of 5, Mark couldn’t swim.
Feng and I froze. I looked over my shoulder. Mark was standing outside, by the door, his hand….
Apparently for Easter, I signed up for Kinder chocolate and an egg hunt at home, because that’s what we did last year and that’s what Mark is now expecting for the next twenty years.
On December 1, Feng and I had a combined fever of 80ºC, and suddenly, writing to Santa was no longer a priority.
“All done with your Christmas shopping?” the salesperson asked cheerfully as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer started playing for the 275th times.
Alright. Maybe Mark doesn’t speak French. And yes, maybe it’s my fault.