I know we've all been skirting around the subject of that one language of love. Is it intended to be kept a secret? Are people scared to talk about it?
I don't know how, but once again my kids have gone above and beyond- they have cracked the code, figured out the other language of love and perfected it. At such tender ages. Granted, they are brilliant little souls. I shouldn't be that surprised.
I showed up promptly for my 45 minute rotation of classroom helper. It's moments like these they make me feel like an adult. A certified mom.
THE REAL DEAL.
That's what I am.
Believe it. Or don't. Whatevs.
Anyway, I was in there as the volunteer helping the kids with their writing. As Porter saw me appear in the doorway, he applied his coy little smile and sat up a little straighter. Just like he does every time I pop through that door. Oh it just makes my heart flutter.
So, I get to doing my routine of bee-boppin around the class, writing down the sentences that the kids dictate, reminding them of the two-finger space between each word, etc etc. It's what us real moms do when we help in class. FYI.
After making a few rounds, I wind up at Porter's desk again. Now, mind you, this is year two of Kindergarten for Porter, so he's a pro. He's got two sentences spelled out. His penmanship could rival any second grade girls. His picture is detailed. There's not a lot of enhancing to be done on his paper, if you will. But my job, as the in-class volunteer, is to help him be...
And since I didn't have any of the standard Kindergarten-level suggestions, I deemed it an appropriate time to introduce the concept of proper nouns to the boy. And that they get capitalized. Genius.
So I took the red twisty pencil that is reserved for us responsible adults and right then and there I showcased proper noun capitalization on his paper.
about flipped. In front of his classmates. In front of his teacher.
But it was a quiet flip. As quiet as the paper that softly feathered to the floor, dismissed like damaged goods.
His cheeks became bigger, his breathing heavier, his eyes very disturbed.
"YOU RUINED MY WORK,"
he said in the whispered yell that would make even the most seasoned mom envious.
I took the obvious route of trying to explain my thought process, how he was doing so good that I thought he was ready for even more. That wasn't about to cool him down one degree. His teacher went for a similar explanation before inviting him over to the reading corner to cool off.
I finished my rounds and looked for my routine shy, dismissal smile that I always get when exiting the classroom. But not this time.
Stone cold face.
An intentional stone cold face.
And without a doubt, I could feel it,
the love dripping off his soul for me, the intense appreciation he felt for the service I offered him.
The boy loves me, it's not to be denied.
And I felt it, at the core of my heart, where his pointed arrow had landed.
And to make sure I understood how these boys feel about their sweet mama....
Later that afternoon, Dallin called with the conflicting Ipad question...can he play the football game? The football game that takes way over an hour?
No. The answer is NO.
The compromise is 20 minutes.
And no arguing when the timer goes off.
"Ok great, yea, thanks mom I promise that's good you're great I would never argue now where's the Ipad?"
I love being on the same page. It makes life so easy.
Now come 30 minutes later- because let's be honest, ain't no one wanting to disrupt the peace when it's taken residence- we're back at the negotiating table, all previous settlements negated, lost in thin air.
And with the new negotiations comes a whole different child.
His eyes turn red and are GROWING. He is mad and yelling.
"YOU ARE THE MEANEST MOM EVER. EVER. DID YOU HEAR ME? YOU'RE MEAN.
I DON'T. EVEN. CARE."
Did you sense that?
I was practically breathless. The passion that accompanied the gratitude. That we so generously have provided an iPad for his enjoyment. That I gave him extra time. That I am helping him in the rewarding path of time-management and self-discipline.
He is wiser than his years.
You guys, it's real love. The purest.
And I feel it.
Pitter freakin patter baby.
We have found our love language.
If you haven't been told off, swatted at, or got the death-to-you look from your kids recently, it's seriously time to step it up.