I took Jordan to his taekwondo lesson one day. It didn't go well at all. They were working on two things: following directions and respect. His very first lesson was a lot of fun. It was new to him, and he listened intently to everything Mr. V said to him and performed every task enthusiastically. I left there feeling incredibly proud of my gifted genius child and called everybody on my speed dial to tell them how adorable my kid was. But the newness quickly wore off and by lesson number three, my son was, once again, marching to the beat of his own drum. Not only did he ignore every simple request Mr. V offered up; he ran through the room like a bouncy ball thrown at the wall with full force. He was bouncing off the walls, quite literally. I was sitting there hoping I put enough concealer on to hide the fact that I was more than a little embarrassed. But then the bomb dropped. The f-bomb, that is. Not only was my then two year old not following directions at all, but now he was dropping f-bombs left and right in front of Mr. Respect himself. The gears in my head started turning as I thought of other words I could pretend he said... "He is really into trucks lately... We live near a pond with ducks... He had Lucky Charms for breakfast?..." But before I could come up with something believable, my sweet little boy said it again, clear as day: "FUUUUUU**!" And again, but this time accompanied by supporting words: "Shoot! Dammit! FU**!" At this point the lesson ended, and I gathered up my kids as the horror pounded through my veins. "We'll see you tomorrow, Mr. V" I said. No response. The shame hit me in the butt on my way out.
So we walked out to the car in silence and I asked Jordan to put his hands on the car while I buckled Emma into her carseat. This is standard practice for us so he actually listened. (Side note: my brother thinks I got this idea from watching too many episodes of Cops, and while I do know that the show was filmed on location with the men and women of law enforcement and all suspects are innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, I really got the idea from my sister's old babysitter. I know, quite anti-climactic.) I got Emma all buckled in and shut the door. I turned to grab Jordan when my heart began racing. Where did he go?! He couldn't have gone far... I just heard him speaking only seconds ago. Then the giggle. I turned toward the familiar naughty-toddler sound. A full 180 degrees. The sound came from behind me, but all that was behind me was another car. With my two year old giggling away at the wheel. The good news is that we live in an area where people feel safe enough to leave their car doors unlocked. The bad news was that this particular car had been broken into. By my son. How do you get your child out of a stranger's car without looking suspicious? What an awkward moment.
