It’s official. I’m an embarrassment.
On this, the 12th day of third grade, my son has conveyed that my lovey dovey ways are no longer welcome. No hugs and kisses at the bus stop. No more notes in his lunchbox. No stickers on his snack, unless they are specifically Minecraft or some kind of super hero.
“How did you like the note I put in your lunch on Friday?” I asked, this morning. I’d been slipping knock-knock jokes in there since last year and it had become our thing. I imagined that he’d read the jokes aloud at lunchtime to his friends and all the kids would laugh.
“It was…funny,” Luke replied reluctantly.
“You didn’t think it was funny?” I could feel my eyebrows rise.
“It’s just…it’s embarrassing.”
To this statement I made a genuine, audible gasp. This kid still sleeps with his blankie and stuffed monkey. He’s not that old yet, is he?
“Once in a while is ok, Mom,” he reassured me. “Just not every day.”
I was crushed. What am I saying? I am crushed. Second grade was all giggles and love notes and That was a funny joke today, Mommy.
I am a plague. Third grade, for me, is a blood bath.
Defeated and heart-broken as we walked to the bus stop, how was I to face being shunned by my beautiful, blue-eyed boy? Simple, really. Remembering that I’m one of the worst dancers that has ever grooved on planet Earth, I busted out my moves (Saturday Night Fever-style) until that bus pulled away.