flagrantdisregard » son http://flagrantdisregard.com Wed, 25 Jan 2012 17:47:07 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.3.1 It’s the little things http://flagrantdisregard.com/its-the-little-things/ http://flagrantdisregard.com/its-the-little-things/#comments Fri, 26 Aug 2011 06:36:14 +0000 John http://flagrantdisregard.com/?p=1951

Son: Dad, I need help.
Me: With what?
Son: I’m trying to make a peanut butter and jelly but I can’t open the jelly. It’s too hard.
Me: OK, I can help you with that.
Son: And the second problem is I can’t find the bread!
Me: We’ll find that, too. Come on.
Son: Thanks, Dad.

]]> http://flagrantdisregard.com/its-the-little-things/feed/ 0 Brain chart http://flagrantdisregard.com/brain-chart/ http://flagrantdisregard.com/brain-chart/#comments Fri, 21 Nov 2008 17:10:05 +0000 John http://flagrantdisregard.com/?p=1600 The kids have a behavior chart in their classrooms and each of them has a clip with their name on it. They “clip up” for good behavior and “clip down” when they get into trouble…

Me: So, how was school today? Did you clip up?

Son: No, I clipped down… But! But, Dad! Clipping down is good today.

Me: Are you sure? I thought clipping down was bad. What did you do?

Son: I forgot.

Daughter: I clipped up today!

Son: Dad, clipping up in her class is bad!

Me: I don’t know about that…

Son: But, Dad! Um, in in my teacher’s mind? In her brain? I clipped up on her brain chart!

I almost wrecked the car trying to keep a straight face.

]]> http://flagrantdisregard.com/brain-chart/feed/ 2 In which my son expresses his opinion about how I earn a living http://flagrantdisregard.com/in-which-my-son-expresses-his-opinion-about-how-i-earn-a-living/ http://flagrantdisregard.com/in-which-my-son-expresses-his-opinion-about-how-i-earn-a-living/#comments Wed, 16 Jul 2008 05:56:54 +0000 John http://flagrantdisregard.com/?p=1387 The doorbell rings but I’m not sure I heard it. I lean back in my chair, straining my hearing towards the hallway, and listen. I hear small feet running to the front of the house. “Who is it?” My son’s voice echoes up the stairs and through the hall. No answer. He knows exactly what that means. “Brown truck guy!”

I hear the front door open. And then, excitedly, “Dad! Dad! We got a package!”

I call back down, “Oh, good! Can you bring it up, please?”

I listen and hear shuffling. The stomping stops about halfway up the stairs giving way to the sound of cardboard sliding around, being readjusted. Must be a relatively big box, I think. Then a quick burst of stomping and he rounds the corner into my office carrying a nondescript medium-sized brown cardboard box. “What is it?” he asks breathlessly. His wide eyes are locked on the box.

“Let’s see. This looks like…” I look at the label. “Yep, it’s a camera.”

He wrinkles his nose. “A camera?”

“Yeah. The people who made it sent it to me so that I could try it out. Then I write about it. And then I send it back.”

He looks at the box. He looks at me. His expression changes from ardent curiosity to what do you mean there are no toys? “Fun, huh?” I suggest.

“No, Dad.” He turns and walks away. “Boring.”

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