Have you ever seen that Mastercard commercial in which some dad is desperately searching for whatever it is his kid is good at? That's the story of my life with my kid.
He's, um, not quite the student I hoped for.
His piano teacher gently suggested he may have been too young when he started lessons at six.
The band director at his school sent me a scathing note once asking, "Does he really practice at home?" She eventually suggested he move to chorus.
His karate instructor was way put off by his lack of attention. Dropped that.
He has my "knock-knees," so my sister's plan to put the kids in a track program hasn't worked all that well.
He was a bed-wetter and also had an episode of encopresis in the summer of 2005 that had me ready to pull out my hair before I realized it wasn't purposeful.
He has yet to learn his times tables after a year.
Did I mention his last progress report?
And on and on and on.
So anyway, he just came in here and said, "Mama, look what I'm really good at?" "What?" I say, all falsely bright, but hopeful. He whipped out a paddle ball thing and showed me how he can hit the ball for an extended period without it dropping off the side of the paddle.
So, see, all my worrying was for nothing! We now know his talent!
While I'm being all ha-ha now, let me tell y'all, I have cried many nights (and days) because everything with this child has been a struggle. I worry about his future because he has repeatedly learned the lessons of failure and has very little motivation now to try anything. He's been getting failing grades because he's doing this covert act-out thing in which he does his schoolwork and refuses to turn it in. As of the Friday before Thanksgiving, he had 21 zeros--work he simply did not return to the teacher--so you can imagine his grades. The teacher sent me a note today--she found 14 of those assignments, completed, balled up in his desk. We completed a couple more tonight.