Note to self: Never, ever volunteer to chaperone a field trip again.
Another note to self: Scrap plans to become a teacher when your kids are both in school full-time and you can have a life again.
I chaperoned a field trip yesterday… a first-grade field trip to our local zoo.
It was, without a doubt, one of the most painful experiences I’ve had in the past year, at least.
I spend a lot of time wondering if there’s something wrong with my 6 year old. He’s crazy 99% of the time; he doesn’t listen to a word I say, ever; he thinks he’s always being “wronged,” that people are always blaming him for things when, in fact, he’s a perfect angel and never does a thing wrong (uh huh. And I’ve got some ocean-front property in Arizona); and he’s highly emotional and cries if I look at him the wrong way. So, naturally, I worry. I worry that I’ve done something seriously wrong in the past 6 years, that I’ve somehow scarred him and made him this INSANE little boy. And I worry about his future… if he’s this nutty NOW, I really can’t begin to imagine what puberty is going to be like for him. And I’m fairly certain that neither one of us will survive those blessed years!
But, after spending 5 hours in the company of dozens of 6 year olds, I actually felt some relief. Damon appears almost “normal” compared with some of these children. Actually, almost ALL of the boys in Damon’s class seemed halfway normal. The girls, on the other hand… Wow. They are little nightmares!!
When Damon pushes me to the edge with his hormonal insanity, I always find comfort in Avery. She’s so sweet and always HAPPY. I love that about her.
Today I looked at Avery and shed a tear. Because, after my experiences yesterday with 6-year-old girls, I think it’s inevitable that Avery is going to be a little nightmare in just over 2 years.
So, needless to say, chaperoning a field trip is wayyyy at the bottom of my list of things to do in the future. I tried to be a “good mom” and do the Good Mom “thing.” And I think Damon was glad to have me along for the field trip from Hell. But it’s going to take me a good long time to recover from it.
(And if I never hear another person call me “Mrs. Witschey” ever again, it’ll be too soon. My sister-in-law can have all of that glory herself. I found it very creepy…)