I have homework? That's bullshit!

First week of school.  The boys' homework consisted of bringing home a massive, crap-ton of forms for me to fill out and sign in duplicate.  The same damn forms I filled out and signed last year.  The same damn forms I filled out online so I wouldn't have to fill out the paper version.  Which, apparently, I had to do anyway.  Schools need to cut some budget?  Here's an idea.  Stop with the damn forms already!  But, as per usual, I digress....

In addition to all of the forms, one of Moon's teachers sent home an actual homework assignment for us to do.  A freaking essay.  I kid you not.  The assignment was to tell him about our kid in "A Million Words or Less."  I was tempted to just send him my url and say "have at it," but I didn't want to get called in to the principal's office.  So, here's my essay.  Moon, in far, far less than a million words.

Our son, Moon, needs a haircut.  He has this crazy, curly, wholly unkempt set of locks that makes his already oversized head look six inches larger in diameter than it actually is.  I’ve been insisting on a haircut for well over a month now; each mention met with a shrug of the shoulders and an utterance of, “but I don’t want a haircut.”  It seems Moon likes his hair long.  And curly.  And crazy.  Short, tidy hair isn’t cool.  It doesn’t fit with Moon’s idea of who he is.  And at age 11, Moon is all about figuring out who he is.

Until recently, Moon was happy to just be our kid.  The one that we made and shaped.  He was fine with believing whatever we believed.  Thinking what we thought.  Liking what we liked.  Just going with the flow.  Now, he’s happy to go with the flow, so long as the flow doesn’t get in the way of any of the super-cool stuff he wants to do with his super-cool friends.  If he were awake, he’d be rolling his eyes at us right now.  We are SO not cool.

The way we tell it, Moon is wicked smart, incredibly handsome, funny, completely disorganized,  a little cautious (and thank goodness for that, because his brothers are totally bananas), prone to anxiety, mature beyond his years, and occasionally mouthy.  At his core, Moon is a sweet, gentle, kind soul.  He doesn’t pick fights, he doesn’t play rough, he doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

But, if you were to ask Moon who he is, he might paint a little different picture.  He would tell you that he’s an awesome gamer, a real life guitar-hero, and he can p3wn you on the basketball court.  He might also tell you, “oh snap, you got served.”  Even though you probably didn’t get served.  He seems to have a little trouble with the proper context for “servage.”

Moon has been having a massive growth spurt lately.  Needing new shoes every month.  Wearing jeans that are three sizes too big in the waist, just so they’ll be long enough to touch his ankles.  There are a lot of complaints of growing pains.  Sore legs.  Sore knees.  Sore feet.  What we all need to remember is that the growing pains aren’t just physical.  Every roll of the eyes, every sigh of exasperation, every utterance of, “but, you don’t understand,” is just another form of growing pain.  A little bump in the road on Moon’s journey through adolescence.  If we don’t mess up too badly, he’ll come to the other side of that journey a thoughtful, warm-hearted, intelligent adult.  And hopefully, somewhere along that road, he’ll stop off at the barber shop for a haircut.


That's love

Peanut, crying, feelings horribly hurt:  Mom, Moon said my craft project is stupid.  Now I don't want to do it anymore.
Me:  What?  Your project isn't stupid.  It's awesome.  I love what you're doing.
Peanut:  Moon says I'm obsessed.
Me:  So what.  You're doing something creative and super cool.
Peanut:  Moon think it's stupid.
Me:  Look, Moon is an ass.  He's on his laptop doing absolutely nothing productive, and you've spent two days doing this totally awesome, creative, amazing craft.  He doesn't know what he's talking about.
Peanut:  Mom, I think you lost weight.


Would someone else care to explain why this is inappropriate?

Peanut, singing:  Santa's comin' tonight, tonight.  Santa's comin' tonight.
Me, ignoring him...
Peanut, singing:  Santa's comin' tonight, tonight.  Santa's comin' tonight.
Me, still ignoring him....
Peanut, singing:  Santa's comin' in meh butthole, Sant's comin' in meh butthole.
Me, no longer ignoring him:  Um, no!  Not appropriate.  Absolutely not.
Peanut:  What?  Why is that inappropriate?
Me, at a loss:  Because you can't say butthole.
Peanut:  We say butthole all the time.
Me:  It's not appropriate because I say so.  And I'm the Mom.
Peanut, sighing:  I don't get you.