Poetic (in)justice

When I announced I was adopting a child, people heaped praise on me. They'd squeal with excitement, hug me, and scream, "Good for you!" We'd smile at each other for a moment, and then, quietly, seriously, almost like they couldn't help themselves, they'd add, "Being a mom is hard work."

I knew parenting was hard--I just underestimated how hard. I assumed everyone meant it was physically hard work--i.e., catering to a small, demanding child's every need (and there are many!) 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

What no one ever told me is that, in reality, 99% of the hard work is not even physical--it's mental.

Take, for example, the conversation regarding what will henceforth be known as the "Poetry project." Mark's assignment was to write, type up and print a series of poems for English class. (See, I already flunked the project by referring to it as "English" class, not "Language Arts.")

Mark swore it was ready to turn in. 

I asked again Wednesday morning, and was assured--again--the project was complete.

That afternoon, I arrived on campus for the school sports award ceremony. Mark immediately ran to my side, and asked, "After this, can you take me to Staples? I need to get--"

"Whoa!" I said, holding my hands up defensively. "How about 'Hi, Mom, nice to see you?'"

"Sorry," he said. "I just don't want to forget..."

The ceremony started, and we hushed up. But halfway through the ceremony, I received an email and saw that Mark's English grade had dropped TWO FULL LETTERS. Two! Overnight. The night after a certain poetry project was due.

Mark was lucky the email arrived during the ceremony--it gave me time to cool down, thereby saving his little life.

As we walked out to the car, I shared the grades with Mark.

"That's what I was trying to tell you," he said. "I need to go to Staples and get some magenta ink."

"For what?" I asked, exasperated.

"So I can print my pictures."

I stared at him blankly.

"The pictures for my poetry project," he explained, slowly.

"You finished the project," I reminded him.

"I know."

"You turned it in," I said.

"I know."

"So it was complete and you turned it in?" I repeated.

"YES," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Why are you rolling your eyes at me?" I asked. "And why are we still talking about this if you already turned it in?"

"There wasn't any magenta ink," he said, and I swear, my head almost exploded, spurting magenta ink instead of blood.

And then I stopped. He'd never admit he turned in an incomplete project, and he'd never understand why, exactly, this whole conversation was frustrating me so. Bless his hyper-focused little brain, he was like a drowning man refusing to admit his lifeboat was ripped and sinking. ("It's not sinking, Mom, I just like to swim!")

I could watch him go under, or I could toss him a life preserver and walk away. I opted for the latter choice, but only because I was preserving something else--the little bit of sanity I have left.
 
Turns out I worried needlessly. As always, everything worked out for Mark. I refused to buy more ink, but he found an extra cartridge at home (where it'd been all weekend). He turned in his pictures and brought his grade back up a full letter. He still doesn't understand my panic any more than I understand his, but that may always be the case.

Although, if you really think about it, maybe his excuses weren't really that far off topic after all. He wasn't lying, exactly, he was just using...poetic license.

And because it's Mark, I'm sure he'll get extra credit for that.