It’s Valentine’s Day. Somehow, between numerous medical appointments this week, I managed to find a bit of time to secure a lovely bottle of Port for IZ and some small chocolate tokens for the boy. What I didn’t do, is remember to parent.

My child, bright and ridiculously advanced for his age in things like physics and computer science, has a little trouble with the time-space continuum. He is notorious for not knowing what day it is, or what month for that matter. And while he has a general grasp on seasons and holidays, I think that has more to do with his watching television than any sense of time.  Don’t ask him which direction north is either–despite the fact we live on a river that gives our geographic location away–he still can’t point to Washington State. And the child gives his father a run for his money in the time slippage department. In Boy Wonder speak, 1 minute has to the potential to turn into an hour and be followed with the exclamation, “I have not been in the shower for 35 minutes!” 

He gets this from his father. They are both completely clueless in the navigation department, unless they’re in Disneyland. Otherwise, neither one of them should be in charge of where we are. Or what time it is. Or be the keeper of the agenda, calender, or schedule.   

His father has learned to write things down. After forgetting to attend my surprise 18th birthday party, he’s vowed to never get caught in this position again. But for Boy Wonder to be so organized, he’d have to come up with some sort of reminder gizmo–and then keep up with it. I’ve seen the kid’s room. It’s not going to happen. 

So, it falls on me to remember to remind. To gently coax, “Hey, it’s almost Christmas, do you have something planned for your dad?” Or, “You know, you should really write a card to your Aunt, it’s her birthday next week.” 

And usually, I excel at this process. But somewhere in the midst of numerous medical appointments this week I forgot my number one priority as a parent, “Keep your budding astro-physicist grounded.”  Even when I had the chance last night, while hanging out in Safeway finding words to keep the shock value of gastroenterology at a minimum,  I missed my opportunity to avoid an emotional crisis. I kept saying, “You’re the kid, you don’t have to give us anything, ” and “Really, it’s our job at Valentine’s Day, not yours.” In all the chaos of the week, I failed to anticipate that he would feel terrible this morning not having something for us. I forgot that my child, just like his mother, suffers from an overdeveloped guilt complex.  Instead, I quipped, “If you really want to get me something, you could clean that bathroom of yours.”

Clearly, I’m not the Rocket Scientist in this family.

So, it’s Valentine’s Day. And with a stiff upper lip and a spray-bottle of Clorox, my child cleaned his bathroom this morning. But not before he handed his father and me this poem. 

 

Sad Valentines:

       At last the say has come, but I have nothing to give.

        Loudly my soul cries, but tears never reach

my   Eyes.

        Never have I failed you before,

        Today marks a first.

        I hope to compensate, I hope 

it     Never happens again.

inst Ead I give you two hugs, smiles, and kisses, and I will be sure to

       Soap my bathroom. 

 

My mother’s heart is breaking. But as his Language Arts teacher, I have to admit, I’m pretty impressed.