My son, the redneck

Today was my conference with Mark's teacher. It was before school, so Mark was off to Kid's Club for a little early morning playtime. That is, until I realized he had five unfinished math pages (and two spelling) left in his homework packet (all due tomorrow).

So I parked him outside the classroom instead. "Get to it," I said, handing him the packet. He was already grumpy about getting up early, and man, did this push him over the edge.

The conference went really well. I am happy to say that Mark's doing very well in class, and that the letter E (for Excellent) was liberally sprinkled throughout his report card. I was most happy to see those Es in the behavior sections--I don't think Mark's ever received an E for behavior or listening before!

But that wasn't my only surprise. Mr. Robinson showed Mark's improvement from his noun pre-test to his post-test. In the pre-test, he couldn't describe a noun. In the post test, he correctly identified it as a "person, place, or thing" and gave some examples. I scanned the sheet--he'd named his principal (person), San Diego (place) and beer (thing).

Yes, beer! My face turned bright red, and I sunk down a bit into my seat. I quickly flipped the paper over, hoping Mr. Robinson hadn't noticed it (duh, he graded it, OF COURSE he saw it). I said a silent prayer to the god of vices (Bacchus?) and hoped no others revealed themselves in his classwork.

I fumbled to change the subject. "Well, um, how's his writing?" I asked.

Mr. R told me what I already knew--Mark's got a lot of potential, but he's sloppy. (Hi, ring a bell?) He handed me some writing samples.

I scanned them, grateful to be away from the beer sheet. However, the blood instantly rushed back into my face as I read over a paper called "The Gun Day." It was a narrative describing a day he'd gone shooting with his Uncles Scott and Brad. It was descriptive, passionate, and completely false. (He's never held a gun in his life, much to his dismay.)

He should have called it "The Big Lie Day," which would've been more accurate. At least he was smart enough to include the line, "My mom did not go shooting with us, because she does not like guns."

Mr. R was so impressed with Mark's printing that I didn't have the heart to tell him the story was made up. I chalked it up to creative writing, although I will insist all future writings must be non-fiction, unless specifically noted otherwise.

I left the conference happy, very proud of Mark's improved behavior. I was all smiles, ready to congratulate him, until I saw his empty chair. The only sign of him was the backpack on the desk.

"Hmmm, he must've gone to the bathroom," Mr. Robinson said, but I knew better. I knew my little beer-swilling, gun-toting redneck was not on an innocent potty break; he'd skipped parole and was out playing with the other little hoodlums on the playground.

Which was exactly where I found him. I marched him over to the benches, where he sat on a time-out, fuming. I realized I'd probably star in his next writing sample, in a completely unflattering light.

Whatever. As long as he spells my name right (M-E-A-N M-O-M), I'm cool with it.