The Indignant Kindergartener.
Henry is shocked—SHOCKED!—that I dare move around in space and talk to him and have the gall to ask him questions. He learned from someone (I'm still searching for the source, and I will find it, oh, and how that person will rue the day) to answer every question with the handy phrase "Of course I (fill in the blank)." The above should be stated in weary indignation, as if the questioner should really know better by now. "Did you have a good day at school?" I might ask. "OF COURSE I didn't!" This is usually followed by violent eye-rolling and the occasional drop to the floor. His horror that I would dare ask such a question renders him incapable of bearing his own weight. His legs have simply given out from the shock. And yet here she comes again, with more questions! "Did you have gym today?" The eyes roll around and around. "OF COURSE. And it was BORING. All we did was WALK in CIRCLES."
Even if the response is positive, the affect is the same. "OF COURSE I had a good day at school. I only had the BEST DAY EVER. AAAAAAH." "And what made it the best day ever?" I might ask. "Obviously, that I WAS THE BEST KID," he booms, "And of course I ANSWERED EVERY QUESTION RIGHT." Then he throws himself to the ground because he can't believe he has to WALK with ME. GOD.
On the other hand, he's answering my questions this year. He can act as tough as he likes, but I'm still getting the precious, precious info. I realize that being excited to hear that "Nicholas STEPPED on my FOOT during LINE-UP" is pretty pathetic. But seriously, it's the most he's told me since the day he entered preschool, all those many years ago, when he wanted to marry me but didn't want to tell me what they ate during snack time.










September 16, 2008
Reader Comments (54)
Sometimes I have to show him what an appropriate response is, or say that the 'Of COURSE' (or whatever the phrase of the week was) sounds mean or whatever.
He probably doesn't know how it sounds when it comes out of his mouth, but most kids do know what hurt feelings feel like.
Like I said, YMMV.
One is an emotional information miser who Doesn't Want To Talk About It. Ever. Except perhaps after delaying bedtime until she's wrung out, exhausted, and teary.
The other is a always sunny and happy, except when he's not. He always answers "GREAT!" to every inquiry, and then I get ambushed by the notes in his backpack stating he "cried easily" or "had a rough day."
Here's what we did: We'd each tell 3 "stories" about our day and the other had to guess which one was correct. So she might say "Josh threw up during gym. OR I saw a dog with only three legs on the playground. OR The new girl tought me how to spell my name in sign language." And then I had to guess which one really happened.
Hey, it's not much but it's somethin'.
Her little sister is totally copying the too much/too little info behavior, but hasn't figured out the snotty teenager attitude yet.
you kill me.
The book ruled all that kind of sarcasm, eye rolling, etc. as "backtalk." It never occured to me that this was a crime for which I could issue punishment. But I tried out the book's advice, and it made the backtalk go away. Sure, it still rears its head, but then I just revert to the book's teachings, which are shockingly harsh in today's parenting climate and therefore shockingly enjoyable to administer.
What's the technique? Well, you have to have some fun things scheduled, or at least having something going on that the kid wants to do. Because when they roll their eyes or speak rudely to you, you just sigh and say, "You know, that kind of talk makes me feel bad and it really tires me out. Because you spoke to me that way, I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to take you to Imelda's house tonight." Or whatever.
No warnings or nothin'. I looooove it.
OK, and now I have broken the cardinal mommyblog rule and dished out advice. I'm sorry! But I did love that little book.
Bunker Monkey's preferred method of responding is, of late, "Whatever."
I'm so sorry, did I accidentally birth a teenaged girl when I wasn't looking? I know the kid was eleven pounds, but really, this is just too much.