“Morning, milo is such a good wee boy and very polite, u must be very proud of him.” Vicky’s text came at 9:46 this morning and I was still shaking my head over the irony at morning tea break. Vicky has Milo for an hour before school and brings him to class on the days I work.
“I guess it’s a good thing he has manners that he can put on when needed, I just wish he’d put them on for me,” I complained to my colleagues at work.
Just this morning he was having an absolute melt-down over the low level of milk in his oatmeal, Again. The dialogue typically goes like this:
Brilliant! The pitcher worked. At least 80% of the days it works, and this just didn’t happen to be one of those days. In fact, this morning, he even threw his spoon at me. Well, to be fair, I instigated a little bit—I told him that the other way to get a higher milk-to-oatmeal ratio was for me to eat some of the oats, and then I dipped my spoon in for a bite. He promptly snatched it. “Dad, Milo grabbed my spoon,” I wailed, in an attempt to diffuse the situation with a bit of ridiculousness. He then hurled his spoon at me. Well, that bit of parental creativity didn’t work.
The very next day Milo came home from school brandishing his first certificate. “Congratulations to Milo Shaw,” it read. “For always being so polite, respectful and helpful at school. You are a kind friend, Milo!”
“Oh, I’m so proud of you!” I purred. Of course what I was really thinking is “What, my son?! So what happens as soon as he comes home?”
I’ve talked to other moms, and they corroborate this phenomenon with their kids. For some reason, the person who the government pays to teach them how to read garners more respect than the person who feds them, clothes them, and worries over them. In fact, any other adult gets more respect than the parents. It’s not fair.
Well, as my own dad always said, “The World’s Not Fair.”