The Hair Apparent

As most of you probably know, in January, Hudson cut his own hair.  Not just a little bit, a lot.  Right in the front.  Actually, if you want the specifics, he removed his double cowlick down to the scalp.  He thought it looked awesome.  Standing in front of the bathroom mirror brushing his teeth those were in fact his exact words, "Oh my gosh.  I looks so awesome."

The hair massacre of 2012

You might be wondering what kind of parent leaves her child unattended with scissors and to that I say, "This kind of parent and you have obviously not met this child."  He is always on the lookout for "fun" and even though we try our darndest to keep sharp objects out of his reach, he has a special gift for finding them out.  So after the great hair massacre I was faced with the dilemma of fixing his handiwork.  This was tough and we got a lot of suggestions the most common being buzzing it all off.  This wasn't going to work for me.  I have spent over three years cultivating one of the the strangest heads of hair you could ever imagine and finally got it long enough and trained enough to lay flat.  No way was I starting over on that hot mess.  I decided that I could just wait it out.  After all, when he ran around outside and the wind blew, you could hardly tell that he was missing at least 1/8 of his hair.  Plus he's super cute, so that has to count for something.

We lasted almost four whole weeks and it started to feel like we were living that old adage, watched pots never boil.  Apparently watched hair never flipping grows.  So the day after Valentines I decided to take him in and see what could be done.  We went to our usual place and while Connor was getting his straw toupee trimmed, Hudson took a seat in the adjoining chair.  His conversation with the stylist went like this.  "Hi Hudson, did you cut your own hair?"  "I did.  I do so good."  "Well it looks interesting, can I trim it up for you?"  long pause for a moment of quiet reflection "I trim it now.  You give me scissors?"
Oh good grief, I felt like it was time for me to step in before he batted his eyelashes and she handed over the scissors.  This might be the right time to mention how my three year old pronounces the word scissors.  If I have to make a comparison, I would say he sounds exactly like the Taco Bell chihuaha.  See-zors.  As in, "You give me see-zors?" There, I wanted you to have that visual, now back to the salon.  I could tell that this poor girl was feeling stressed even though I tried to be very upfront in my expectations.  I wasn't looking for a miracle, I just wanted some blending.  She got to work and it hadn't been five minutes of snipping when she stopped and announced, "I don't think I can do this.  It is just too short in that one spot."  Again, being the laid back and no-pressure parent that I am, I reminded her that we just wanted her to try her best and frankly the last person that cut it was a three year old, so really our standards were pretty low.  After a couple of more minutes she brought in a couple of more ladies to consult.  So at this point Hudson is lapping up the attention with a spoon while three women fawn over him and rub his head.  They decide that maybe cutting it dry would help, so out came the blow dryer.  This entertained the crap out of Hudson.  Once dry, the analysis continued along with a few tentative snips of the scissors.  No wait, it definitely needed to be wet again.  Snip....snip.  It was taking forever and frankly by now Connor and I were over it.

I think you can tell by her hand that she is worried.  Hudson on the other hand, not so much.

After another ten minutes she turned to me and said, "So, do you want to keep the sideburns?"  For some reason I found this question hilarious and started laughing like a lunatic. I told her if it was possible to transplant the sideburns to his forehead then please by all means go for it, if not then I consider sideburns to be the very least of our problems.  On it went, this never ending haircut.  She kept muttering to herself and I could tell we were slowly breaking her spirit.  We seem to have a natural talent for spirit breaking and sometimes it truly doesn't feel like a complete day unless we have made someone question their life's calling.

Finally!  She finished/gave up and whirled him around along with the disclaimer, "I am so sorry this is the best we can do, but I think it looks ok?"  Hmm, I thought ok was a pretty generous adjective to describe what was happening on top of that little angel's head.  Was it worse? No. Was it better?  Absolutely not.  It was just a whole different kind of bad.  Now instead of a big chunk of hair missing, I had just paid $16 (plus tip) for my preschooler to sport a five-head.  You know a forehead that is so gigantic it has to be called a five-head?

The five-head

So we are back to waiting for tiny blonde hairs to grow.  I am not that great at patience and it certainly doesn't help that every time I look at his hair this is what I see.....

  It's uncanny, right?

One Boy: Extra Sweet

I was looking through Connor's note drawer, the place he keeps his beloved lists and journal pages and found this one sitting on top.  "Two weeks of Diabetes."  Those four words pretty much say it all.  As if I could forget any of the days, minutes or seconds that have passed since we got the news, and as you can probably tell from the note, Connor hasn't either.

To say life at our house has changed would be an understatement.  Even though I have lived with Type 1 Diabetes for almost 15 years, Connor's diagnosis at the age of 5 hit us like a physical blow.  Yes, I know there are way worse things in the scary world of childhood illness and yes, we know that it is a completely manageable disease, but it still hurt like a punch in the face.  Even though the symptoms were classic and we could not think of any other reasonable explanation and in my heart I knew what the doctor would say before we even stepped into that exam room, I cannot express to you how desperately Matt and I wanted this to be a fluke thing, a virus, a random infection but not diabetes.  I think it is a innate feeling in parents everywhere to want better for your own children than you had.  I don't talk about my diabetes a lot, in fact as little as possible because it is something I live with every day and I don't ever want to burden anyone else with it or have people feel like they need to feel sorry for me, because they don't.  I just never wanted this life for either of my boys.  Don't get me wrong, I have a great life, but there is never a single day where I don't think about diabetes and it's impact on my life.  No matter how hard I work at it or how easy I make it look, it is still a burden, some days more than others and now my baby is shouldering that same burden but on a much smaller and bonier set of shoulders.  In a way, I feel like Connor got cheated.  I got fifteen years to be a carefree, sometimes stupid kid without a lot of worry in my life.  Connor got five and that doesn't seem like enough.

Connor, in his usual fashion, has really impressed us over the last two weeks.  He has been so incredibly brave and understanding beyond his years.  Four days after his diagnosis he was doing all of his own finger sticks and giving himself his five daily injections, which completely blew our minds.  He came downstairs one morning and announced that he would be giving all his own shots from now on. Why?  "Because I'm a man, Mommy."  As happy as we were for his independent streak to come out, it was another tiny crack in my heart, because he isn't a man, he is a little boy doing grown up things.  After giving both his morning shots in his legs, he looked up at us and said, "I knew it.  It hurts way worse when you and Daddy give them to me."  Ouch.  Literally.

We are slowly getting out of survival mode and moving towards a new normal.  Connor is back at school, a place where he finds immeasurable joy, and most of our days have been happy.  He is becoming pals with the school nurse and he told me yesterday that she is working with him to teach him everything he already knows.  "Mommy, I let her tell me even though I know how to do it all, because it makes her happy to show me."  That's my boy!  We are carefully navigating the sometimes stormy emotional waters of a five year old diabetic and though those sad or mad (or "smad" as my preteen husband has named them)  moments have been blessedly few so far,  they have served as reminders for his dad and I that no matter how mature he is or how ridiculously high his IQ, in that freakishly tall body still beats the heart of a five year old who wants answers and explanations that don't exist.   Man, that hurts.  But the good news is that it hurt a tiny bit less today than yesterday.

So thanks to everyone for all the sweet messages and prayers, we have been more flaky than usual in responding, but we saw and appreciated all of them.  And thanks to our friends that didn't look horrified when we showed up places looking like hobos and spontaneously started crying.  I am proud to say that I only cried in front of 3 out of 4 of my bosses.  That 4th one was a major test in willpower and I made it!

And for those of you that might be worried that this major life change might have squeezed some of the weirdness out of our oldest child, I saved this last story especially for you.   So the last step in insulin injecting that Connor isn't doing by himself is actually putting the insulin in the syringe, but he has been dying to do it.  He walked up before dinner last night and said, "Mommy, I really want to do this all by myself, can I please put the Maxima in the needle?"   I paused, thought for a second and said, "Can you put the what in the needle?"  He stared at me like I had lost my mind and said, "The Maxima. That is what I started calling the insulin.  So can I do it or what? Me and Hector are starving!"  I glanced over at Hector/Hudson and he gave me a dirty look and said, "Where the maxima?  I so hungry!"  Oh that crazy Carlos, why go weird solo when you can drag your brother along for the ride?

Long live the Maxima!

Dear Connor, From Santa

Dear Connor,
I just want to start out by saying you have been a really good boy this year.  Really.  Frankly, I've been impressed.  However, I have some bad news.  You know that toy at the top of your Christmas list?  The one whose commercial you have memorized and talked about for months?  Right, that one.  Well, here's the thing.  Santa would love to put that present under the tree for you big guy, but I just can't in good conscience do it.  That particular item has a one star review on Amazon and frankly, Connor, that is not an easy thing for Santa to overlook. Some of the reviews include such gems as, "the worst made piece of crap I have ever spent money on,"  or "is it possible to give negative stars because I think this junk deserves negative stars." and those are the ones safe for children's ears.  See my problem?  There was even some speculation on the lead content of it's paint and Santa just can't have the shadow of a product recall hanging over his head.

I know you are going to feel disappointed, but think about how you would feel if you saw that bright shiny, obnoxiously marketed box under the tree and ripped into it ready to play with your dream toy, when all of a sudden it breaks because it truly is an over priced piece of poorly made crap-ola that won't even survive the day.  The emotional roller coaster throwing you from the highest high to the lowest low will be almost more than you can take. Trust Santa, this is for the best.  Wait, Santa understands that hypothetical disappointment is a hard thing for a five year old to visualize, even a super smart one like you, so let me take you back to a memory from Christmas Past.  Remember last year, when Santa brought you and your brother that wicked awesome remote control airplane?  Your family was so excited to try it out and Connor, it was truly glorious.  Glorious for those few short hours until your daddy flew it onto your neighbor's second story roof never to be seen again.  That, son, was disappointment and it felt horrible.  Santa desperately wants to shield you from ever having that feeling on December 25th again.

Still think you want to risk it, maybe you're thinking that those 103 negative reviews were all just flukes?  Let's visit another memory.  Two years ago, Santa delivered a tiny, yet quite pricey mini helicopter that sadly met it's fate minutes after you awoke, when your dad kamikazed it into the tile floor.  It just wasn't built to withstand your daddy's sad aviation skills and that's when Santa decided to start checking the online reviews.  Again, Connor, that was disappointment and we just can't have a repeat of that this Christmas.

Thanks for being so understanding, Sport.  Santa never wants to let good kids down, but I think in the long run you will see that I did you a favor here.  Feel free to select a new favorite toy to put at the top of your list and I will see what I can do.  In the meantime, I will be finishing up my article titled, "The Louder the Commercial, the Crappier the Toy."  Look for it in your stocking.

Love,
The Big Guy in Red.

Thanksgiving

For the last couple of years I have written a Thanksgiving post about all the blessings in my life, namely the three loves of my life. While I am still thankful for those particular blessings, this year I wanted to dedicate my Thanksgiving post to another child that has taken up a big piece of my heart. A couple of years ago, I decided to submit my name into a pool for home bound teachers in our school district.  When Matt was sick in high school, he had a home bound teacher that really made an impact on him.  We still talk about her to this day and I thought if there was a need, I might be able to help someone in the same way.  After submitting my name, I didn't hear anything back and pretty much forgot about it.  Over a year later, I was contacted by a school to work with a third grader named Chenee.  There are a million things to know about Chenee, the least of which is that she has leukemia.  
When I first started visiting her at home, I didn't really know what to expect.  I had never been around an eight year old with cancer before, so I was worried that it might be sad or scary.  I was nervous.  But walking into the Cayco home was like walking into a beam of sunlight.  Being around Chenee and her family is like seeing the physical embodiment of joy walking around in human form.  She has a mom and dad, an older brother and a spunky little grandma they call Momma Lola. Her parents work night and day to keep their family afloat and take care of their little girl. I worked with Chenee four days a week until the end of school with the hopes that she would be able to start back with her classmates in August.  In the time that I taught Chenee, we sometimes worked at home, sometimes in the hospital and never once did I see her with less than a mega watt smile on her face.  Even though I knew in my heart she was sick, I knew she was hurting and I knew she was tired, she and her whole family always seemed happy.  They tell me that they know there is a higher plan for Chenee and they have faith and peace in that plan.  In short, they are amazing.

As a bonus to my visits, they always treat me like royalty.  I have never stepped foot in their home or hospital room without being treated to a home cooked meal plus had left overs to take home to my boys. I have been introduced to a variety of Filipino foods and Chenee is a crack shot baker. They are incredibly gracious and humble and are so grateful for the help I give their child that it makes me want to cry every time I think about it.  Frankly, I'm not that great of a teacher :)  Sometimes we just talk.  I have most definitely given her some questionable math instruction over the past couple of years and we are currently starting a science fair project that is already walking a very fine line between genius and disaster.

Chenee did start back to school at the beginning of fourth grade and I never thought I would be so happy to be out of a job.  Unfortunately, she needed me again a few months into the school year.  That is pretty much how our time together has gone since 3rd grade, she goes to school when she is able and when she isn't, she gets me.  She is now a 5th grader and I got the call earlier this month that it was time for me to head back to the Cayco household.  It had been a couple of months since I had seen Chenee in person and when Momma Lola opened the door she exclaimed, "Oh my goodness Melissa, you have gotten so big!"  What a welcome, right?  I had to laugh when Chenee explained that she was pretty sure she meant that I had gotten taller, although I know for a fact I have been this exact height since the 7th grade. Nothing like having your Filipino grandma call you out for weight gain!  Nonetheless, they keep stuffing my fat face with delicious food and I just can't say no.

So, our work continues and even though it sounds cliche, I know that I am learning as much as Chenee, and not just about 5th grade math.  I am learning what grace under pressure looks like.  I am learning about finding joy even though you are facing terrifying odds and I am learning about peace that passes understanding every single afternoon that I sit at her kitchen table.  Chenee can't get better without a bone marrow transplant and right now, a match has not been found.  I have never heard her parents bemoan this fact, they are just resolute in their belief that they only need one person and that person is out there for Chenee.  This week during our last visit before Thanksgiving, I asked what they were going to do for the holiday.  This family is always having a party and I love it.  Chenee thought for a minute and said that they were going to have a special celebration this Thanksgiving because two years ago on Thanksgiving they were in the hospital hearing that their only daughter was being diagnosed with leukemia.  She gave me one of her giant smiles and said, "This Thanksgiving we are celebrating two good years."

So this year, I am thankful for two good years with Chenee and praying for her to have ninety more.

I am including a link to a piece from the local news about Chenee's search for a bone marrow match and encourage you to get on the bone marrow registry.  Share this with anyone you can so we can get the word out about this little girl's fight.  All she needs is one person.  
http://www.wfaa.com/home/related/Wanted-Bone-marrow-match-for-10-year-old-Filipino-girl-130564078.html

Easy Peasy

A few weeks ago Connor and I ran in our first 5K. Maybe I should say Connor ran his first 5k, while I merely finished.   Yes, that feels more honest.  When we signed up, I had these lofty dreams of impressing my runner child by completing this run with dignity and my head held high.  Yeah, that didn't happen.  We signed up with the uncles and Ms. Karen (who furthered shamed me by running the 10K).  Earlier in the week, this incident happened. My knee was still shredded and prone to spontaneous bleeding and my training thus far had consisted of absolutely nothing.  I had decided to following the training plan of "Just Wing It", so I was obviously not in peak physical condition.  The scene was set for humiliation, but I was not going to let my oldest son down.

The run started out with a hill. Fantastic.  We had agreed that in the likelihood of my inability to keep up, Uncle Aaron, armed with a black market inhaler from Mexico, would become Connor's running partner. I felt like on a 3.2 mile run, at least one adult needed to keep him in sight in case a random child predator decided to crash the course.  You never know.  I was left behind almost immediately.  I also immediately wanted to quit, because I am pretty much a quitter, especially since my own kid, who I was there to teach a lesson on not quitting, wasn't even going to see if I did it or not!  But I powered on alone.  I kept up a very steady walk with occasional spurts of gentle running.  I made sure I wasn't at the very last of the pack because I have watched Connor at enough of the runs to know how the person at the end of the group is treated.  There is always a lot of yelling and cheering for the person that finishes last.   That seems really sweet and encouraging except when you realize that the people generally finishing last are overcoming some kind of significant physical disability, or are in the 85+ age category, or are 9 months pregnant and trying to induce labor.  They deserve those shouts of encouragement because they have truly accomplished something great often while overcoming tremendous hardships.  I don't think I can consider being an out-of-shape fat chick who is ticked because she forgot her ear buds a disability worthy of having a finish line full of people cheering me on. How embarrassing. 

After a while, I started to see people headed back in the opposite direction which meant that they had reached the halfway point and turned around.  That also meant that I would soon be seeing my child for the first time since the run started.  I kicked it into high gear because I didn't want to shame him.  That only lasted for about 72 seconds and then I got tired again.  I should probably point out that my scab had by this time split open and I was bleeding again which furthered added to my good mood.  I also passed by the most interesting garage sale so slowly that I could have typed out an inventory for the homeowner by memory.  If only I had my wallet!   Finally, I saw Aaron and Connor headed my way.  Aaron didn't look great, which cheered me up immensely.  I could tell he had been puffing on the Mexican inhaler.  Connor had his game face on, Ipod in place, running like a champ.....until he saw me.   I wish I had a camera to take a picture of the look of confusion on his face, like he was genuinely surprised that I was not only not right behind him but at least a mile back.  He was shocked and to make sure everyone knew that he was mine and I was his, called out, "Mommy, why are you going so slow?"  

I finally reached the turnaround and headed back to the finish line.  At this point, there are now 10K runners passing me, but that didn't even phase me.  I had been running next to this sweet older lady and she said, "Well this is humiliating, I can't believe they have already run twice as far and are passing us."  I told her, "Hey, once my 5 year old lapped me I gave up all semblance of dignity."  I think you could also probably infer our rate of speed by how easy it was to carry on in depth conversation : )  

Finally! The finish line!  There was my sweet boy waiting to cheer me on!  I wasn't last after all and I was so relieved.  Of course, he had already been done so long that he had time to eat 2 yogurts, a banana and an apple, but who cares? We did it!  I was so proud of him, he finished 12th in his age group and was by far the youngest runner to place that high.  As for me, well let's just say I did not finish anywhere close to 12th in any age category.  I asked him when it was all said and done if he liked the shorter 1 mile races better or the long ones and he said, "The long ones, Mommy. That was easy peasy." 

Ah yes, that was my exact thought as well, minus a few four letter words.

My Dignity is Worth Exactly One Flesh Toned Bandage

So I had a really graceful moment this week.  Probably my most graceful moment of the year.  If I had to rank this on my scale of personal professionalism it would have to rank higher (as in less professional) than the time I cleaned my sunglasses with toddler underwear in front of my boss.  Here is what happened.  I take Connor to school early one morning a week because he has Legos class.  On this particular morning I also had an early meeting way across town that I absolutely could not be late to.  Usually on these mommy drop off mornings, I wait on the porch with him, watch him walk in and then sometimes stay to stare at the empty space he used to occupy for another minute or two. Every week there are lots of kids hanging out on the porch parentless, waiting to get in, but clearly their parents don't love them as much as I love my kid :) However, on this particular day I told Connor that I was going to have to drop him off on the porch with all the other kids and take off because I had a ways to go and absolutely could not be late to this meeting!  I was feeling pretty guilty about this because I'd never done it before, even though the doors open at 7:30 and we walked up at 7:27, I still felt bad. And even though he would be in the building before I even made it back to my car I still felt that working mommy guilt.  But nonetheless I felt that pressure of new job, big meeting so I powered through, kissed him goodbye and started heading back to my car.  I was parked on the street directly across from the porch and made it literally one step off the sidewalk and fell.  Hard.  It was not an "oops, I just stumbled, how embarrassing" kind of fall.  It was pretty major and more than a little embarrassing.  I should probably mention at this point what I was wearing.  Since it was our first day of cool weather in ages I busted out my cute tall boots and a knee length skirt. I thought I should clarify what length the skirt was, just in case you were picturing another kind of "professional."  This ensemble made the fall all the more awkward.

As I fell, I landed with my entire, considerable body weight on my right knee.  It drove into the broken asphalt like a jackhammer and then hurt so bad, I couldn't recover and just fell completely over. I know, super elegant. All this happened while a school bus waiting to turn into the parking lot, idled next to me, full of children with their face pressed against the windows.  That's called a real world education kids.  So I hoisted myself up using the handle of my car door and threw my body in the car to survey the damage.  It wasn't pretty.  After brushing off the pieces of gravel size asphalt I realized that I had pretty much removed all the skin from my knee cap.  It was bleeding profusely and being the always prepared mother I am, I had no Kleenex, wipes or napkins with which to staunch the bleeding.  All I had was a spare shirt of Connor's, left in the car because everyday that the Rangers have been in the world series, we have had to travel with his championship shirt so as soon as his butt hit the seat in the afternoon he could whip off his uniform shirt and throw on his Rangers gear.  Blood was running down my leg and into my cute boots so I did what any desperate person would do, I licked the shirt to get it wet and started to clean the blood off my leg, all while driving, because remember I could not be late to this training session.  It was not my proudest moment.  I made it to the meeting and felt like I had a pretty good handle on my injury.  Don't get me wrong it hurt like the devil and every time I lifted my foot off the gas, my key chain banged against my knee and I had to hold back tears.  But I had to rise above the pain and try to save any shred of dignity I had left, because lest we forget, I am a professional.  I hobbled in and asked a couple of friends in the elevator if they thought it looked okay, and by the horrified looks on their faces I realized it might not just be an overdramatization on my part.  It looked nasty. But whatever, I sat down and made a personal vow not to get up because I didn't want to draw any more attention to my humiliation which, again, hurt like nobody's business.  In talking with another friend, she got a grossed out look on her face and said, "Um, I think you need a napkin or something, blood is running down your leg."  Oh, fabulous!

On the car ride over, I called Matt to explain to him that the dark cloud of bad luck that seems to follow me everywhere had struck again.  He actually had the nerve to accuse me of exaggerating my injury.  That offended me so I stopped to take a picture with my phone and sent it to him.  His response, "Oh my lord. That is so embarrassing."  Thank You Honey!   After a while, someone was nice enough to find me a giant elbow bandage, probably because people were getting sick of looking at my wound every time I hit the snack table.  The bandage was a lovely flesh tone.  I'm not sure whose flesh tone this particular bandage was  modeled after but it wasn't a close match to my already pasty white winter skin, but since bleeders can't be choosers I stuck it on and made it through the day.

So alone, this might not have been blog worthy.  After all, I do stupid stuff every day but there's more.  I also have the added pressure of running a 5K with Connor tomorrow.  It's his first 5K and being the compassionate child he is, checked out my injury and said, "Mom, I am really worried that this is going to slow us down."  Um yeah, me too, that's definitely my biggest worry. I think I might be slowed to a gentle walk.  So since it hurts every time I extend my leg like, for example, when I take a step, I'm sure tomorrow's big run is going to be a really fun and enjoyable experience. But since my child has been looking forward to this for months, I am going to slap a smile (possibly a grimace) on my face and watch as he leaves me in the dust.

Kinder Creeper

So Connor has just completed his first six weeks of Kindergarten and he loves it.  I mean, he really loves it.  Which is a good thing. There are a couple of things that have come up though, that have me slightly concerned.  But only a couple, so I think that we're doing pretty well. 

My first concern is the weirdness level that Connor is exhibiting at school.  I know he has to be himself, but if I could control things (which I obviously cannot) I would like to keep the weirdness level down to about 30 percent.  From the stories he is telling me, I am afraid we are maxing out at about 75 percent.  That's a lot of weird.  For example, a couple of weeks ago there was a substitute in his class while his teacher went to a prearranged meeting.  That afternoon, I asked how it went.  Before I go into the detailed story, let me just give you the bottom line.....it went weird.  Connor first informed me that he was disappointed in his substitute because, although he was very nice, he didn't actually teach him anything.  Hmm. Connor has a very literal definition of what learning looks like and it doesn't usually fit the traditional kindergarten model, so this didn't surprise me. We've been addressing this issue all school year.   He said, "Mommy, he didn't even speak Spanish to me so since I wasn't learning anything new I decided to observe him."  Um, what?  He went on, "He was a tallish man with no hair on top,but sand colored hair on the sides and he smelled like a grandpa.  He had on black pants, brown shoes and a grey or green shirt.  I'm not sure which one because you know I'm color blind Mommy."  Wait, there's more.  "He also had on a black belt, black socks and a striped tie.  The tie was my favorite part and I spent a lot of time on that when I was drawing him."
Hold the phone!  I asked what he meant by, "drawing him" and he said, "Mom, I have to write down my observations so I drew and colored the substitute and it took me a long time because I had to keep stopping to watch him."   Okay, the needle on the weirdness meter just shot up to the red zone.  I am now picturing this poor substitute teacher who probably was someone's sweet old grandpa in a room full of kindergartners being obviously watched by a super creepy tall kid with overly intense eyes.  Short of a career as a police sketch artist, I don't think this type of behavior is going to serve him well in life.  And here is the best part, when I asked him what happened to this drawing he said, "I left it on Ms. Garcia's desk so she could see what he looked like when she comes back from her meeting."  Oh fantastic, instead of bringing the weirdness home where we could bury it in the giant manila envelope titled, "Connor-Kinder-1st six weeks"  we left it on display for not only his regular teacher, but also that poor sub to see.  I feel like we are already behind the eight ball a little as the five year old who keeps a daily calendar in which he records the lesson objectives and then checks them off after he has reviewed them at home, I'm just not sure what adding the title, "Substitute Profiler" is going to do to his street cred. 

So moving on from my concerns about public weirdness to my concerns about his citizenship (the behavior type, not the origin of birth type).  Connor ended the entire first six weeks on green.  If you are unfamiliar with his particular kindergarten color code of behavior, green is the best you can get.  I should feel elated that my child is behaving himself but instead I have overthought it to the extreme.  What an unusual feeling for me :)  What has me worried is that Connor has now proclaimed that he will spend the entire year on green.  He is really into the personal goal setting and this one is a big one. Come on, that just isn't realistic.  I know he is messing up at school, he just isn't getting caught  or his teacher is being too nice. I live with the kid, I know he isn't perfect!  But he has this enormous expectation for himself that I think is entirely unreasonable and that is my problem. I expect my children to be well behaved, sometimes they are and sometimes they aren't.  But I don't ever want my kids to think that their parents expect them to be perfect.  We don't have that expectation, but HE does. The longer the green streak goes on, the more disappointed I think he is going to feel when the time comes to change his color. And trust me people, that time is coming.  It's life!  I am starting to feel like we are walking around with this giant green cloud hanging over us and I just want to get the inevitable over with so we can talk about it and move on. Normally when I overthink and obsess about things, Matt is always the voice of reason, but I would like to announce that this time he is in agreement with me!  This is definitely "a moment" in our marriage.  We were filling out paperwork to schedule our first parent teacher conference in a couple of weeks and as we were checking the calendar for potential times, Matt looked at me and said, "Listen, when we go to this, I don't want to sit there and listen for 15 minutes about how perfect and wonderful he is, I want her to tell us some stuff that he needs to be working on at home."  Oh how I love that man.  But now I have to think of a way to word a potentially awkward email in which my message needs to be, "Dear Ms. Garcia, thanks for teaching our kid, please spare us the niceties and tell us all the things he has been doing wrong so we have something to address at home. Think really hard about it and don't hold back. Okay, we're ready. Go."
I'm betting if that teacher doesn't have a personal Hill Family Weirdness meter by now, she will by the time that conference is over!