I went to a parent-teacher conference for Zach the other day, at his religiously-affiliated preschool. The conference was immensely gratifying, almost as much so as Elise's (in which her teacher reportedly said she wished she had a classroomful of Elises and compared her to J.K. Rowling! *Cough, cough,* genius daughter!).
Zach's teacher says he is doing wonderfully, talking up a proverbial storm, and generally getting along great. This is especially nice because I haven't even been the one responsible for bringing him to his school, packing his little lunch, or doing the majority of the Zach-upbringing, in months--except for schlepping him around to his siblings' after-school activities, and immersing him in the requisite swearing-while-driving.
Thank goodness for family, community support, and good help when a new baby is born.
So we're (Zach n' I) driving home from the conference and have the following exchange:
Zach: (singing, making preschool-sanctioned hand gestures) Open, shut them. Open, shut them. Give a little clap, clap, clap! Open, shut them. Open, shut them. Fold them just like that!
(bows head in prayer) God is great, God is good; let us thank Him for our food. A-MEN!
Me: Oh, you're praying before you eat your sandwich, just like you do in school.
Zach: Hey Mom.
Zach: (Shouting at top of lungs) G-D DAMMIT!
In retrospect, Zach's teacher seemed to be laughing about something and looking at me out of the corner of her eyes during the conference.
It's back to the Swear Jar for me.