Welcome to my school!

“What did you do at school today, B?”

 

“There were a bunch of kids from other schools visiting for the volleyball tournament and I had to greet them.”

 

“You had to greet them, huh?  What does that mean?  Did you have to show them around the school?”

 

“Nah. I just told them that all they had to do was stay away from that bully, ZK, and they’d be safe.”

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I’m going places!

“Mom?”

 

“Yes, B?”

 

“Guess what?”

 

“I have no idea.  What?”

 

“I’m doing the announcements at school now.”

 

“That’s crazy!  You’re in Grade 7.  How did you get chosen to do the announcements?”

 

“I was just going to class, minding my own business when one of my classmates decided to chase me.  I went into the office to hide from him and the Grade 12’s were getting ready to do the announcements.  I asked if I could watch them and they said yes.”

 

“Okay. So how did you go from that to doing the announcements?”

 

“Easy,” B beams.  “I went back the next day and asked if I could say part of the announcements. They let me do the bit at the end. I kept going back every day and now I’m a regular announcer!”  He pauses and adds solemnly, “I’m going places, Mom.”

What do you think I said anyhow?

“Ouch!” B squeals, hopping on one foot.

 

“What happened?”

 

“I hurt my leg wrist,” he says.

 

I stare for a moment as he keeps hopping.  “Do you mean that you hurt your ankle?”

 

B glares.  “What do you think I said?”

Something’s wrong! Call the hospital!

“Mom?”

“Yes, B?”

“Sandy hasn’t sent me a gift yet on PokemonGO. Do you think something bad has happened and he’s in the hospital?”

“Maybe he’s too busy to play the game, B.”

B glares at me.  “This is SERIOUS, Mom!  Really. I think we should start calling hospitals. »

A woman’ s wrath…

“Mom?”

 

“Yes, B?”

 

“You know how I skipped taking the bus on Friday so my friend Z wouldn’t be able to give me a talking-to?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“It wasn’t worth it: she waited until today and I got a lecture anyhow.”

Go flush the toilet

The phone rings.

 

“Hello?” says B after putting the call on speaker.

 

“If you would like to reduce your credit card rates, press one now!” Chirps a recorded message.

 

“Okay,” says B pressing ‘5’.

 

“Good afternoon,” says a male voice.

 

“Good afternoon,” says B.  “Would you like to get your duck washed?”

 

“Haha, no.  Would you like to reduce your credit card rate?”

 

“I have no idea what that means,” says B.

 

“Well, ma’am…”

 

“Ma’am?” B croaks, outraged.  “Ma’am? I am a sir, Sir.”  B puts his hand over the phone and whispers, “Mom, give me an excuse to hang up!”

 

“B,” I tell him.  “Go flush the toilet.”

 

“I gotta go now,” B speaks into the phone.  “I have to flush the toilet.  Goodbye.”

Um, pumkin?

“Mom?”

 

“Yes, B?”

“Can you figure out this cypher?”

 

I sigh. B’s cyphers are becoming increasingly difficult for my poor little brain.  Luckily, he takes pity of me and points to the phone keyboard.  “I am a… pumpkin?”

 

B grins. “Yup.  Now.  Can you guess what kind of pie I want for dessert?”

I thought we were naughty but we knew NOTHING!

“Mom?”

 

“Yes, B?”

 

“Remember when I was in Grade 6 last year and we were the oldest in our school?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Other than me and a couple of kids, I thought that nobody was a very good role model for the younger kids,” B tells me.  “But now that my classes are in the high school and I see kids in Grade 12? I can tell you this: we had wings growing out of our backs; we were ANGELS.”

But Butt en español?

“Watch this!”  He proceeds to wiggle his behind.  “I’m shaking my butt!  I’m shaking my butt!”  B stops the nonsense and asks, “Do you know what the word in Spanish is for that?”

 

I frown as a series of Spanish words flash through my brain.  “No,” I admit.  “No se la palabra por ‘butt’.”

 

“I know the Spanish word for but,” B exclaims.

 

I raise an eyebrow.

 

“It’s ‘pero’,” says B.

 

“No! That’s not the word for butt…”

 

Oh. It’s Spanish for but.

Sometimes, Mom is a little bit CRAZY!

“I don’t think I should get in trouble for not doing something I was supposed to do.”

 

“Really?” I growl, exasperated.  “This is how it starts.  What are you going to say, ‘Oh, wow, I shot somebody because I was supposed to keep my temper and couldn’t and now that person is dead? So you shouldn’t go to jail for not doing something you were supposed to do?”

 

B stares at me, slack-jawed.  “Isn’t that a little extreme?  I just didn’t put on my deodorant!”