As I was making dinner tonight Older ran up to me waving a blank piece of paper with some urgency. “I need three pieces of paper. I looked and there was only one piece of paper left, but I really need three all together.” Okay then; I procured him some paper and went back to sauteing kale.
I long ago stopped asking Older what particular idea he has in mind when he requests paper or art supplies. He might make a mess, scattering so many tiny pieces of paper on the ground in the course of feeding his muse, that it looks like a freak snowstorm his our house, but he never really gets into any trouble. I expected to find the paper turned into some fanciful model but after he went to bed I found three short stories, printed in 2nd grade handwriting, lying on the floor. As someone who fancies herself a writer, my first thought was “Yea! A budding creative writer in our midst!” Then I read the stories. Verbatim:
Story #1: Once a boy hit a toilet. When the boy’s mom went poop the toiled reflushed. It covered her with poo and pee. Suddenly the poop came alive and started kissing her face. As you can imagine she got a lot of poop. Then they went away and everything was back to normal. The end.
Story #2: Once upon a time a boy named Jack licked his mama’s butt. His mama screamed and spanked him. But he blocked with his karate moves. Then he barfed on his mama. His mama fainted and then puked on Jack. Jack screamed and punched his mama in the face. The end.
Story #3: Once upon a time there lived a scientist who always asked why. One day in the park the flowers came alive and we are going to destroy your planet they said/ Whey he said. Because that is what we do they said. Why he said. Well we have to they said. Why he said. Well it um blech they barfed out all their insides right on the scientist. The end.
What the hell? I am partially amused at the never ending depths of potty humor that spring forth from the eight year old male specimen. I am pleased that there were minimal misspellings in his writings (he even spelled “a lot” properly, something many adults have not mastered). I am happy that he is writing. But I am also, quite frankly, kind of offended at the unfortunate predicament of the mother in two of these stories. A child psychologist would probably say something to the effect that it is a sign of Older’s secure attachment to me that he feels able to voice his negative feelings in this way. But still…I am miffed and a little bit pissed. I slave away for my kids. I spent tonight making homemade treats appropriate to my kids ancestry for “International Day” at their school tomorrow* and this is the thanks I get. I am totally out of my depth with parenting an eight year old boy. Is this just innocuous bathroom humor? Should I worry? Should I talk to him about it? Should I ignore it? Should I stuff my face with all the extra International Day treats in order to deal with my parenting stress? What do you think?