Really Big Eraser

Kallan is working on her homework last night and yells out, “Mom?  Is there gross food in Canada?”

“I am sure there is gross food in Canada, but I don’t think they are known for their gross food.  Why?”

“Just wondering.”

She holds out her Passport Book for me to sign.  She is supposed to be keeping track of how many minutes she is reading every night.  At the end of each month, there is a “Passport Party,” and the class celebrates with snacks from a different country.  This month they are “visiting” Canada.

Last month they visited The Philippines, and Kallan was less than impressed with the party food.  Lumpia, according to Kallan, are “nasty little rolls of disgusting.”

Hence the worry about possible Canadian culinary grossness.

I sign Kallan’s reading passport.  Kallan and I have a small running battle over this passport, because I refuse to take it seriously.  I am of the strong opinion that keeping track of minutes read and rewarding children who log the most reading minutes is stupid and counterproductive.

As far as I am concerned?  The reward for reading?  Is the fucking reading.

The end.

Over the years, I have opted the girls out of every “Reading Contest” that has come along.

Maj has always agreed with me on this point.  She is a reading  fiend, by the way.

Kallan, however, is still annoyed that I refused to take her to Pizza Hut to get the multiple personal-pan pizzas she won for reading books back in 1^st Grade.  To which I say?  Handing out small greasy pizzas as a reward for reading is so stupid I do not even know where to start.

Anyway.  Kallan is supposed to log reading minutes.  I am not doing this, but the form needs to be filled out somehow.  So we have come to an agreement . . . I will give her credit for 60 minutes of reading per day whether she reads or not.  Some days she reads much much more, some days not at all.  I do not care.

So I sign her passport.  Hand it back to her.

She sighs all heavily, “This is all a lie, you know.  I don’t read 60 minutes every night.  Some days I read a lot more.”

“And some days you read less.  I don’t care.”

“Other people’s parents keep track of every minute.”

“Other people’s parents have not given this issue enough thought, then.”

“Other people’s moms just follow directions.”

“That explains it, then.  I am the questioning sort.”

“My teacher would like it better if you just did what she said.”

“You think?  I already spoke to your teacher about my feelings on logging reading minutes.  You were there.  You want me to call your teacher and explain it all again?  I would be happy to do that.”

“No,” Kallan says as she hurriedly sweeps the passport into her backpack, “No need for that.”

She pulls out a book-report form for me to check.  She has drawn a lovely picture of her favorite scene in the book, discussed why she would recommend the book to others, provided information about the author, the title, the setting, the characters.  Written a short summary of the book.

Uh oh.

I lay the paper on the table in front of me.  Look at my younger daughter, who is trying not to make eye contact, “Ummmmm . . . Kallan?”

She is stuffing her things in her backpack, eager to be done with homework for the evening, “Yeah?”

“The book you read for this report . . . could you get it for me?”

She is instantly suspicious and alert, “Why?”

“I want to look at the inside jacket.”

She puts her hands on her hips, “Why?”

“Because I am thinking that when I look at the inside jacket book summary, I will see the exact words that are written here on your paper.”

Kallan is all crabby and stomps her foot, “Augh.  Why do you have to be all noticey?  The teacher doesn’t care.  I promise you.  She doesn’t care.”

“Alrighty, then.  I won’t care either,” and I hand the form back to Kallan, “Clearly this is an issue I should be taking up with your teacher.  You are just the poor innocent plagiarizing bystander.”

Kallan is yelling now, all angry, “Fine!  I copied out of the book.  And fine!  I am not supposed to do that.  And Mother?  Other people’s mothers are not as difficult as you are!”

“Other people’s mothers are not trying hard enough, then.”

She looks at her paper sadly, “But I did a lot of work on the rest of the book-report form.  I don’t want to re-do the entire thing.”

“Then you are going to need a really big eraser.”

“But if I erase that whole section, I will lose points for being messy.”

“So then you have a choice.  You can redo the entire report or you can erase and take the hit for being messy.”

“Can’t we just let it go this one time and see if the teacher notices?  I do not think she will notice.”

“Nope.  And if you do this again?  And I notice? You are getting an F.”

“You are not in charge of my grades,” Kallan announces as she stares at me in challenge.

I bring my face down to her level, “Imagine me.  At your school.  In the hallways.  In your classroom.  Announcing in a loud crazy voice that you are a cheater and demanding that you get an F.”

She stares at me, eyes flashing, “Everyone would think you were insane.”

I stare back at her, “And guess what else?  Everyone would know that you are a big fat lying cheater.”

I stand up, “Your call, babe.”

She sighs, “Where is the eraser?”

Her paper?  Looks like shit.  A huge erasure mess beneath her new angrily scrawled summary of the book.  But the words?

Are hers.

I’m guessing C+.

I will keep you posted.