Bragging Rights

I get to brag, right? I have three small children, a husband, a house full of small animals, and I only take one pharmaceutical a day - so I get to brag, don't I?

We had our parent/teacher conferences the other night. C. was first - he's in PreK and his teacher absolutely adores him. No big surprises came out of that meeting, except the fact that he actually picks up after himself at school. We go round and round about that at home, but he knows he doesn't have to here because K. & D. will do it for him. But the teacher told us how charming he was, and that he is very kind to his classmates, and that she enjoys having him in her class. At 4 years of age, there's just not a whole lot of insight that a teacher can offer.

The surprise (to me, anyway) came when we got to the big kids' classroom. They're both in First Grade this year, and though I see and speak with their teacher often, I didn't realize how impressed she was with them until the other night. My kids got 'satisfactory' grades in subjects she hasn't even taught yet. One of them that sticks out in my mind was 'Writes in Complete Sentences'. The teacher told us that 1st graders don't usually write in complete sentences, but both of mine do. They also both got +'s (exceeds expectations) instead of s's (satisfactory - performs at grade level) in things like Vocabulary and Ability to Express Ideas Verbally. She also told me that my oldest son is so self-sufficient that she has to make a mental note to interact with him during the day, otherwise he flies completely under her radar. And she said that my daughter is frighteningly good with graphs, of all things.

The thing that scares me is this: by the time my kids are 12 they are going to be both taller than me and smarter than both of their parents. Then what are we supposed to do with them?

I cannot even comprehend what strange mingling of DNA has resulted in such good-hearted, smart, beautiful kids. I'd like to take credit for them - I really would - but I just can't bring myself to do it. Half the time, I don't have a clue what I'm doing. Every time I think I do, I'm forced to remind myself of the incident with the watermelon. Oh, you don't know about the incident with the watermelon? Well, well, well....just let me fill you in:

A couple of months after we moved in to this house, I had made my usual weekly trip to the grocery store (at the cost of my right arm, of course) and bought a watermelon among other things. The kids love watermelon, and I decided that would be a great summer treat that week. I unloaded the groceries by myself and the watermelon ended up on the counter of the pass-through bar in the front living/dining room (or The Red Room, for those of you familiar with us). That night at suppertime, K. had said he wanted watermelon but no one else did, so I told him we'd wait to carve it up until everybody wanted some. He was disappointed but didn't argue.

The next morning I was busy doing I-don't-even-remember-what-now when C. (then about 2 1/2 yrs. old) came running into the kitchen. He was hopping up and down and kept saying, "I'm sorry about the knife, Mommy, I'm sorry about the knife." Way to freak a mom out! My eyes travel instantly to the knife block on the kitchen counter where I keep my Henckels - they all were accounted for, thank the Lord. D. (then about 4 1/2) starts interjecting something about a big mess, and K. (5 1/2) is just standing there looking sheepish. I finally calm everyone down enough to start making some sense out of what they're saying. They led me back to K.'s room where I was confronted with a scene that looked like something out of an episode of CSI. The off-white carpet was soaked with some sort of pinkish red liquid and there were chunks of what looked like guts thrown willy-nilly around the room. In the middle of the mess was the carcass of what once was a watermelon, and a butter knife. Now, I don't know about you, but I have a hard time carving a watermelon with a sharp kitchen knife, let alone a butter knife. And after I got the whole story out of the kids, the butter knife weilding Jack the Ripper had in fact been the 2 1/2 yr. old! Don't get me wrong, it was a group effort - K. carried the watermelon from The Red Room to his bedroom, and D. conspired to keep the whole thing hush-hush while C. practiced his skills as a surgeon. But at that moment, as I stood there and viewed the carnage, I had to admit to my kids that I didn't know what to do. I didn't have the slightest idea how to go about cleaning that up without ruining the carpet, or what punishment the children should face. It's not like this was a crime that deserved a beating - no one was bleeding - but they couldn't grow up thinking it's acceptable to carve up innocent fruit in their bedrooms. What's a mom to do?

So, most of you moms (and dads) can probably understand my thoughts when the teacher was bragging on our kids and I kept thinking to myself, "This is amazing. How on Earth have Walker and I managed to not screw this up?"