4-29-02, Side Streets, Kimra Traynor Herb
The Blue Folder Tells the Story
By Kimra Traynor Herb
IPS Features
When I reached
for the blue folder yesterday, my youngest son burst into telltale tears. The
blue folder, that beacon of good or bad behavior news which he brings home
daily, indicated in code that once again, my son had failed to be "a good
rester". But wait! There was more! Not only had he not managed to live up
to code on resting, but an additional mark was made for "did not tell the
truth". I tried to get the story out of him.
"Okay."
I said, trying to be mommy-like (people keep having to remind me that I am in
charge around here), "what is all of this about."
His answer was
an unintelligible mangle of sobs. Tears streamed down his face in rivers and he
couldn't catch his breath.
"It says
here that you were not a good rester." I prompted. "Were you up
running around or something?"
"N-n-n-n-ooooo."
He snuffled, though his crying jag.
"Well,"
I continued, trying to crack the case, "obviously you did something wrong,
or you wouldn't have gotten the mark."
He cried at the
top of his lungs for a few more minutes and then finally managed to croak out:
"I laughed."
Oooooo, I knew
it. Some other little kid (you know, a bad one, one who isn't mine.....) made my
baby laugh and got him into trouble. I just knew it. "Oh," I replied.
"So who made you laugh?"
He had
momentarily gotten ahold of himself when he realized that I wasn't livid and
that perhaps he wasn't in as big of trouble as he had imagined while laughing on
his mat during naptime. "No one made me laugh; I just laughed by
myself."
So much for my
conspiracy theory. "So there you were, laughing like a loon at nothing on
your mat, and then what happened."
He gave me a
stony look. "Nothing."
"Not
nothing." I answered, "Something. Because your teachers marked
"did not tell the truth" in addition to the not resting part."
Tears began to
flow again. I felt a little bad to grill him when he was so obviously
distraught, but knew in my heart of hearts that the day would come when he hit
adolescence and I would need all of my pre-set power to keep him into control,
so I continued. "What did you lie about?"
He winced at the
word "lie" and shrugged his shoulders.
"Let me see
if I can figure out the story." I said. "You were lying there, on your
mat, giggling like a loon. Then the teachers said, "IS THAT YOU
GIGGLING?" to which you replied, "Uh-uh, it's not me, Mrs. Smith and
Mrs. Cash, it must be some other kid laughing himself silly because it sure
isn't me." Was that how it went?"
"Something
like that." He squeaked out, through his tears.
I asked him why,
in this second semester of school when the napping options had been opened up to
include reading and writing instead of just resting, had he opted to lie quietly
(or not so quietly, as it were)?
"I just
felt like resting." He replied, getting a furious look on his small face.
"And laughing." I reminded him.
"Hmmph!"
He breathed.
"And lying,
don't forget lying." I prompted him.
"MOMMY!!"
I sternly
reminded him that he was expected to behave himself at school and at home, but
most of all, he was expected to tell the truth, NO MATTER WHAT, always and
always. (I was a serious child-liar in my day so I know first hand the trouble
he could get into if he decided to go down that dark and twisted path).
He promised that
the next day would yield happier results on the old blue folder chart, and that
even if he didn't TOTALLY manage to behave himself, he would come clean
and make sure he didn't have the seriously damaging code for not telling the
truth, the whole truth, so help him God. Before he left to play, he turned to me
and asked, "Mom, when you were a kid, did you ever get in trouble for
ANYTHING?"
What to do? I
couldn't lie to the kid, right after my saintly monologue on the merits of
telling the truth! "Sweetie, when Mommy was little, I never, ever had a
mark in my blue folder for not telling the truth at school."
He looked at me,
hard, and apparently decided that I was telling the truth, which I was. I never
had a blue folder.