My sons

I have spent various snatches of this morning attempting to organize my and Jack's desks. We traded because I needed a desk with drawers and he wanted a white desk to better go with the new vision he has for his room. A win-win, but it prompted the removal and unpacking of half a room (because we also switched the location of his desk and dresser); I am flabbergasted by all that child has managed to sock away in there since we moved in in February. And I thought Oliver was the hoarder.

Anyway, I got out my label maker, turned it on, and was greeted by the last phrase printed: USS Anus.

People, I am still laughing. I have no idea which child wrote that or for which ship it was destined. #boys

I would also like to share with you the latest persuasive writing exercise by which I was tested: a 4-part manifesto on all the reasons Jack needs yet another Fitbit.

Let me first say that unless your child needs to track his or her steps for health purposes, a 4th grader does not need a Fitbit. As such, T and I insisted that Jack purchase his own Fitbit, and so he searched and found a "bargain" one. It arrived, and we returned it one week later. You really can't cheap out on some things.

The second was a branded FitBit from the very low end of their price spectrum. It's the one you clip to your pocket rather than wear on your wrist. Jack swore this was the best choice because "then I can still wear the watch I bought at Cinecittà. I don't want to wear two things on one wrist or one thing on each wrist." Fair enough.

For who knows what reason, my dear son has recently gotten a burr in his butt about needing a new Fitbit. "I'll pay for it, Mom," he wept recently. "No, son, this is where I save you and your hard-earned money from yourself. The answer is no."

Which resulted in this:

He's good, isn't he? Even though my answer remains a resolute "No!" I admit to being momentarily swayed by all the sweetness and light. 

Hilarious and compelling results of persuasive writing study in school

For the past few weeks, Jack's third grade class has been studying persuasive writing. I am thrilled about this for several reasons, the primary one being that Mr. J tends to think, "You should do X because I like it." is a sufficiently compelling argument for anything. 

I have suggested that it's not, but as all parents know, your own children often do not hear you in the same ways they hear other trusted adults, like teachers. Reason #981 that I have zero interest in home-schooling the boys.

That Mrs. B and Mrs. T have said persuasive writing is cool and useful has made it so, and I have enjoyed recent examples of this work directed just to me.

Exhibit A:
I received this email from Jack last night around 7. He typed it while I was in the room but instructed me to avert my eyes until he'd finished writing and closed his desktop.

dear mom,

I want to know our iTunes password. Most people in my class know there families. I promise to tell you before I buy anything and won't buy anything inappropriate. So please, I want to know it before 5th grade.

    love, your responsible son, Jack

My favorite things about this note are the generous amount of time I have to accommodate his request and his earnest statements about how he'll interact with our iTunes account. Unfortunately, as we over the weekend received a call from a for-profit university specializing in Gaming because Jack had given them all our family information whilst online ("But Mom, I thought they would just share some information with  me."), I do not yet think he's ready for iTunes access.

You should have heard the caller's voice when I said that Jack was but 8½. "Oh, I see. Yes ma'am, we'll take him off our call list right now."

It took Tom and me an hour to stop laughing.

Exhibit B:
This note, tightly-wrapped around some Legos for heft (the kid is a good engineer), was thrown down the stairs to me last night after a slight, shall we say, tantrum after my suggesting that because he'd already had two dinners, he really didn't need another. 

This note is less skillfully composed, but he got the damn baguette -plus dipping oil!- so I guess it worked. 

I spent another hour laughing about this treasure which I intend to save forever along with the other thrown-down-the-stairs notes (his preferred tactic of reaching out because we have a rule that once we have done the final tuck-in, he's not allowed back downstairs).

Kids.