Please Don't Say That About My Child

This time of my life is joyous.  For the first time ever, I am a parent with the freedom to volunteer at our neighborhood school.  What a delight for me that two of our kids are working with teachers who welcome parents as volunteers.  Each time I am in their classes, I believe I am the most fortunate of parents.

At first I wondered how our boys would react to me being there.  I clearly remember being a freshman in high school when my mom became the guidance counselor there.  I was simply mortified.  It became much easier after that first “sighting” and was comforting when she was later beloved by my peers.  But that’s another post.

I needn’t have worried about my own young boys because they LOVE it when I am there.  The youngest, who in most areas of life is a hesitant and shy guy, cannot stop waving to me during the hour and a half I’m there, and when it’s time for me to leave, he graciously hugs me.  It is one of the most precious parts of my life.

But the last time I was there, I heard something that stunk.  Two of his classmates carried on a prolonged conversation where the subject was how babyish Kahne was for calling me mommy.  That little conversation brought me back 40  only 20 years to my own kindergarten when a fellow bus rider ridiculed me for using training wheels and then threatened to tell the teacher.  It was silly, but for another hesitant and shy kid named Caution, it hurt.

Back to the mommy thing: my first response was not nice.  I considered barging into the conversation with a brilliant, “Oh yeah? So what, you little obviously inferior children!”

But logic and an ounce of maturity did prevail and I settled for sending them mean looks – a much kinder response.

Later those two children were in my group and couldn’t quite grasp the concept of first, second, third, fourth, fifth.  Well now: my opportunity for revenge!  I thought of pulling out Kahne’s correct worksheet to show the struggling children.  I thought of calling Kahne over to tutor them.  I thought of warning them that they should never show up at my house because the address has numbers in it – then I remembered that I have a bit of a problem with numbers myself.

I thought about how I am an adult.  I thought about how much I want to be invited to volunteer next month in their classroom.  I thought about how Christ’s love has been given to me and should be spread by me to others, and I smiled and helped them figure out first, second, third, fourth, and fifth.  It was right and it was good.

It’s frightening how a little, tiny hurt from so long ago can resurface so quickly.  I know there’s worse to come for Kahne and his siblings, but what I wouldn’t give to keep my kids from the mean words others say.