Sometime around Ash Wednesday, Max ingested some truth serum. Okay, he didn’t really, but it seemed like he did. Everywhere we went he was spouting classified, need-to-know-basis info with folks who did not, in fact, need to know.
A freshly minted teacher came for a visit (herself an alumni of St. Elizabeth Seton school) and asked Max if he was still in school.
“Well, I’m being home schooled.”
“Yeah! I know! How’s that going for you?”
“Good. I’m not going to Seton because mom and dad said it wasn’t good for me.”
I gave him a “Shut your yapper!!!!” look and tried in vain to find his skinny shin under the table to kick.
“What? You DID.”
Or the time his co-op teacher left her class to come and interrupt my class to tell me Max was telling all the kids that t.v. – ANY t.v. – turned their brains to mush.
“They’re trying to tell him that movies about Jesus are okay but he just shakes his head!” She sounded a little panicked. “He said his parents told him that.”
I was crimson. “Well, we diiii-id . . . ”
Oy.
We endured it, the humility of it all, throughout Lent as a forced penance. And we tried really hard to teach him appropriateness.
The final straw came on a shopping trip to a large store. We had been harassed all evening to sign up for their store credit card and we were trying to laugh and politely refuse. The lady at the register would not be deterred and when she asked for our phone number, Jac gave her one.
“But dad! That’s not our phone number anymore, remember? You said we had a new one. It’s -”
We chuckled, pulled his hood over his head, batted our eyelashes as scurried for the door.
It’s difficult to teach a kiddo timing without really messing them up. You don’t really want them to say to strangers, “We aren’t supposed to talk about things like that outside of our house.” Can anyone say ‘red flag’?
Anyway, I was having the most difficulty with his indiscretions. I am not good with humility or getting embarrassed especially when there is nothing I can do to keep it from happening. Then Jac confronted me.
We were getting ready for bed one evening and he entered the room with a nervous laugh.
“Sooooo, I think you’re the one who drank the truth serum! Ha, ha, ha.”
“What are you talking about?”
Then he proceeded to replay the conversation we had just had with a visiting friend in which I detailed the contents of my bladder and it’s current state of comfort IN DETAIL.
He was right and I was defensive.
Here’s the thing – and I readily admit it – I have no interior monologue when I’m pregnant. Things just come out without me first digesting them or considering their appropriateness. You can ask me anything or get my opinion on any given matter without even trying. Sometimes it’s harmless. Most of the time it’s dangerous – I’m no longer flexible to get my foot all the way up to my mouth. As a result, when we’re out, Jac spends a lot of time laughing nervously, eyeing me with raised eyebrows and taking long sips from his beverage of choice. He must be thinking, “How do I get her out of here?!” Poor guy.
So, if you have heard too much info from me, I’m sorry. If you need someone to weigh in on a pressing (or even not so pressing) matter, stop on by.
And honestly, more than the swollen ankles and restroom visits, I am most anxious to get rid of this side effect. No, really.
