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That Doesn’t Matter


I’ve been stressing about work more than I like to lately. Up until now, I have been a proponent of the “it’s my job, not my life” philosophy, hence why I’m not afraid to switch careers. But being a new teacher offers a rife of challenges exponentially beyond what I expected. I don’t forget the small victories and the intense love I have for my kids, but still, lately it’s been kind of rough.

Today the Bootie Boy reminded me of a memory: the time we went to Six Flags with Uncle Bootie Boy, and how much fun we had. The story though, it has to do with farts. Farts. Are. Hilarious. Because the little dude is 8 years old. So he is remembering the time we went to Six Flags, and my brother, Uncle Bootie Boy, and I, in an effort to not spend FIFTEEN DOLLARS on one f-ing meal, ordered garlic fries for lunch. After we ate the fries, we did that magilla gorilla ride that basically spins you around in a circle at top speed forever. Then, a garlic fry burp. Ah man, we were both so sick. Our fix-it idea was to remedy our problem by adding Dreyers ice cream to the garlic fry heap in our stomachs, because cold might sooth the gut bomb we thought. Didn’t work. We ended up moaning and groaning through Monkey Business, Scatabout, and Thrilla Gorilla, wishing we could puke and suffering despite the mint chip Dreyers, which seriously on any other day can cure anything.

The part of the story little dude loves is when we went back to Uncle’s house in Petaluma and sat on the couch, watching a movie and ripping farts so loud they sounded mouth-made, totally fake. I got a good gut laugh out of that retelling today. Then, at bedtime, I was telling little dude how much I love him, and I told him “You are perfect.” But then, because I analyze the hell out of everything, and don’t want him to think he has to be perfect and end up with issues and need therapy when he is 40 and can’t give himself a break, I added “Well, nobody is perfect.”  And he said, “You are perfect, Mom.”  Aw gee. I’m gonna remember this moment when he is 14 and thinks I’m an idiot. But still, not wanting him to think perfection is something to strive for, I say, “ No, I have things to work on. Like I really want to be a better teacher.”  He said, “Ya, but that doesn’t really matter.”  Well. I know he was just saying that it didn’t matter to him, but it was exactly what I needed to hear. I’m ready to quit worrying about it. And laugh more. So thanks Bootie Boy.

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