A B C D E F G,
Gummy bears are after me.
Some are red, some are blue,
Some are peeing in a shoe.
Now they’re running for their life,
Because the green one has a knife.
This is what my soon to be 4 year old son currently sings on a continuous loop to the tune of the Alphabet song. It’s awesome. He learned it from his sisters, who learned it on the bus.
Damn the bus.
He knows it word for word, which really pisses me off, mostly because he still cannot recite the actual alphabet with any consistency. Believe me. I’ve tried. He has no use for letters and couldn’t care less. He goes to preschool too, but it appears only for the socialization and endless supply of animal crackers. Alas, at the end of the day, he’d rather sing about homicidal gummy bears than learn his ABC’s. He doesn’t even like Sesame Street. I can only presume because it provides way too much scholarly information. Letter of the day, counting to 10, who wants a nap? Puhlease.
It’s concerning to a somewhat laughable degree. We recently received a notification from the school district indicating that it’s time for pre-Kindergarten screening. I never worried about this with my girls, but they had actually learned to trace a straight line and recognize the letter “A” by the time this very important test was administered, so we all slept easy.
That said, I had “conferences” with his preschool teacher a couple weeks ago. It went something like this, “He is so happy. He just loves to play. He is an absolute joy to be around, and I’m sure he can count higher than six?” It was a question. Uncomfortable laughter followed.
Of course he can count higher than six. I think.
When my oldest child was born, a sales rep came to our door selling a series of classic old school children’s books. We invited him in, he told us we would have a genius child if we read these books to her, and then like fucking rookie parent idiots, we sold our souls and bought the whole damn set. Quickly thereafter, we realized that the interchangeable word for kitten (i.e. pussy) that reoccurred throughout every story in each book was too much for our reading aloud comfort level. Yes, we are immature children and couldn’t get past it. All the same, I am in control of what I teach and do not teach my children. This much is certain, if they ever nonchalantly refer to a cat as a pussy, I will have failed as a parent.
Regrettably, the books eventually made their way into storage never to be read from again. Seriously? Pussy? Even back-in-the-day? C’mon.
In any event, it’s probably my fault that my son would rather not be an active participant in the learning process. The fact is, I tried much harder with our first two children. By the time the third one rolled around, the novelty of trying to breed a genius simply wore off. Eh whatever. Plus, who has time for it? I’m at the point where I am banking on the gene pool to pull him through on this one. Nature versus nurture? I choose nature. His dad is smart (like genius, borderline obnoxious, smart). Some of that is bound to rub off on him. It’s basic science. And if not, he’s always got his mom’s glowing personality to fall back on. Sigh. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.
Don’t feel sorry for the little ignoramus either. He’s a master of disguise. I overheard him counting his highly prized family of Matchbox cars the other day. He got to 26 before I walked in unannounced, pointed a finger directly at him, and screamed, “Ah-ha! Gotcha!”
He immediately started sucking his thumb, assumed the fetal position on the floor, and then asked to watch Cailou.
Fuck no. No Cailou, ever! Until the end of time.
As if I needed a reason.
The important point here is that I am on to him. Furthermore, he IS going to preschool screening, whether he wants to act like a fucking idiot or not.
We’ll see how far he gets when he’s 25, still trying to fly under the radar, playing with his cars, and answering “Boobies” to any and all questions directed his way in an effort to pass himself off as a dolt to the general public.
Should be good entertainment at the very least. Pass the gummy bears.
Jill Veldhouse 