[From a few weeks back]
I drip around the house nursing my cold and a handful of tissues, a nose like Rudolph and skin like red sandpaper. My children are well, all of them, with far too much energy.
I print out ten pages of Polygons so that we can address a homework problem in a calm and value free manner, both regular and irregular. I restrict my other duties to sterilizing anything that they might touch. Purell soap and Clorox wipes vie for supremacy. I refuse to permit my eldest daughter to take Britons' germs to Australia or contaminate the other passengers on the 23 hour flight.
My son, the filthy one, is the source of great irritation as he dresses and undresses, many, many times. Gradually, he tries on every clothing combination available in his wardrobe. My other son is less irritating but far noisier as he chants “picta dey, picta dey, picta dey,” in a ceaseless mantra.
Fortunately my ears are as clogged as my nose and brain. Everything is irritating as I grump my way through the day, grouchy and crotchety, unlike other [LINK TO JACK RILEY] more sanguine mothers. Through the fug of my fog it occurs to me that his behaviour is unusual. He has never shown any interest in clothes, clothing or fashion, whilst his little brother has an entirely different set of motivations that perseverate upon texture.
I decide to investigate further.
“What are you doing dear?” I watch him pose before the mirror as he flips between nonchalant, cool and strut. He has each of them down to a tee. His sister steps across to adjust his collar and cuffs.
“What are you doing dear?”
“Oh I'm just tidying him up some. There you go! Perfect!” Three small people look at me expectantly.
Joint attention rules! But I am still clueless.
“Um…..very nice dear. You do look smart, er…..sharp……er…..hansom?”
“He looks awesome Mom.”
“Indeed, awesomely awesome I'm sure.”
“Perfect for Picture Day!”
This is what happens to foolish parents who persist in typecasting their children despite the mountainous evidence to the contrary.
Cut and paste
from this little
boxy thing below