Vignettes: Failing

You know it's good when it gets a place of honor next to my
Walking Dead comics and my Jane Austen movies...

For my birthday, J bought me the first season of Games of Thrones on DVD. No matter I’m on the fourth book—I jumped up and down and squee-ed like a girl in the middle of the living room. There’s nothing I like more than getting J hooked on a TV show (like the Walking Dead) and then telling him that if he wants to know as much as do, or if he wants to know what happens after the cliffhanger, well, then he should read the book!

Because, let’s face it, I’m mean and conniving. And too cheap to pay for HBO.

We watched the first two episodes on my birthday—but J fell asleep in the middle of the second, because he’s been working long hours all week on huge project. Then, I was off yesterday, with lots of free time and no motivation… so I watched some more.

You know, just to make sure they stuck to the story line…

So, last night, when J came home from work ready to watch more of a show he’s already hooked on after 1.5 episodes, and found out that he’s now 4.5 episodes behind me in a ten episode season…

Don’t worry. I went back to the second episode for him. Now, THAT’s love.

***

K is at that point—a point all 15 year boys hit, I fear—where he’s part know-it-all, part arrogant jerk, and part bumbling idiot. 

He’s one of the younger kids in his class, so he hasn’t been gunning to get his learner’s permit nearly as hard as I did at his age. He envisions that all of his friends will be willing to pick him up and take him wherever he wants to go; no matter the price of gas or where we live or that an intermediate driving license pretty much keeps teens from doing this exact thing for the first six months of their driving privileges.   

Or the fact that I have problems with anyone driving my children around—much less teenagers I don’t even freaking know!

All of this to say that he’s not too worried about taking his written exam. Surely not worried enough to actually read the book, or study for it, or anything…

Given that I will be expected to provide him with a two ton chunk of metal in which he can careen himself into others- injuring everyone involved—and with higher insurance rates to boot-- I’ve been pretty adamant that he needs to study and take this driving test thing seriously. I figured this summer would be spent with his head buried in the MO written test book, and then a good chunk of it would be found behind the wheel in a driver’s ed program (let’s face it, the professionals should get him to a place where I can tolerate being in the same car as him—as a passenger—before I begin teaching him the finer points).

This has not been the case. 

So, yesterday, I took a gamble. I placed my parenting experience on the line. If K thought he was such smart shit, he could just go take the written test, then. My gut told me this would be an eye-opening experience. He really needed an eye-opening experience to take this seriously. Of course, it could backfire on me, and he could pass… and then bug me to drive all weekend long. But I didn’t think this would happen. I was praying this wouldn’t happen. 

We went to the examination center, prepared with all of the correct documents and accoutrements. He was given a small white form to fill out by a wizened, elderly woman who’s likely sat behind that same desk for the last fifty years. When K couldn’t even remember his address, she raised her eyebrows at me in a way that said, “Okay, Mom. I see what’s going on HERE.”

After helping him fill out the form, and then taking his picture in that awkward way that only the DMV can do, she directed him to the computer he would take the written test on, and began to usher Ant and I out of the room. Her final words were, “Mom, we’ll see you and Brother in about 15 minutes. He’s only allowed to take the test twice in one day.”

And take the test twice, he did. And failed both times, thank whatever deity you may prefer. And promptly came home and stuck his nose in the damn written test book. 

***

During our trip to Florida back in June (which was a lovely trip I have yet to write about here, sheesh), somewhere, somehow, the boys started speaking in a Russian accent. I don’t even remember how it started, but everything was in a Russian accent. Then it was saying ‘Russian’ things. Then it was mocking the GPS on my phone in a Russian accent:

“After making U-turn, travel 7,539 miles to Mother Russia.”

J made the fatal mistake of laughing at them the first few times, and then it was all Russian, all the time. It got old real quick. Especially since Ant’s Russian accent is like a bad Cold War movie from the 1980s with story-lines of nuclear bombs going off when he snaps his fingers and K’s Russian accent sounds more like Sammy Davis Jr than anything. 

Once we returned home it settled down significantly, and thankfully so: the stereotypical and poorly performed impersonations are one of the more embarrassing parenting failures of my life.

Then, along came the Olympics. Oh, the Olympics, with its ever-present annoying commentators who like to reminisce about the ‘good old days’ when it was all US vs. USSR, all the time. Now Ant speaks in a Russian accent so often that I think he may be forgetting how to speak like a Missouri hick.  

School starts in 12 days. This should be interesting. 

Tell me; what have you failed at recently?