History Fail: Part Deux

Mooter. God love ‘er.

My eldest child is very interested in learning things. No one topic holds her attention. She wants quick and dirty downloads of whatever you can give her. Ever see the (now canceled, as is my luck with things I watch on TV) show Dollhouse? Crazy company downloading personalities and capabilities into memory-less people? Or The Matrix? Yeah, that’s another good one. Well, she’s one of the people letting Morpheus stick plugs into the back of her head.

Quick and dirty, man. There is no other way.

I was a lot like her as a kid, so I totally get it. And it may have transpired into my adult life. Working in Corporate America, I’ve had my fair share of reviews. I’ve been with the same company almost six years, and I have yet to receive a review without the words “needs to slow down and pay attention to detail” in them. If I remember correctly, the same was published on my report cards. I can’t help it. Give it to me fast. Give it to me now. Let’s sort out the details later. Unfortunately, along with my fear of irrational things, this was one of the gems my eldest decided she wanted to suck through her umbilical cord in utero. And, just as my mother experienced with me, asking her to slow down is futile. Her mouth says yes. Her eyes say, “OOH, WHAT’S THAT FUZZY BUNNY BEHIND YOU?!”

One of Mooter’s greatest points of interest is History. Fittingly, for the month of February, she is most captivated with black history. Her sweet, lovable little mind cannot comprehend violence, intolerance, or racism. I love this age: the flowers; the rose colors; the hearts; the L-O-L’s. She’s such a tree-hugging hippy. It’s one of the things I love most about her… and makes me want to lock her in the tallest tower surrounded by moats. And dragons. Lots and lots of dragons. That girl = death of me. But you gotta love ‘er.

Around this time last year, Mooter was just beginning to learn about Martin Luther King, Jr. and by “learn” I mean regurgitating a host of misinformation. I love my kid, but retention is not one of her strong suites. The ease with which she embellishes is so fluid, it would almost make sense for her to just skip college and become a con artist. Maybe her version sounds better. Hell, sometimes it sounds good to me. It’s wrong. But it sounds good. It is one of the reasons I’m almost positive I see a future writer in her. I should know.

This month, Mooter was conflicted with which point in history she wanted to tackle: black people or dead presidents. Given the conversation we had one night after work and school, I’ll let you determine which she chose…

Mooter: Mom. Was Abraham Lincoln shot in the back of the head when he was in a theeter?

Me: ‘Theater’. And yes.

Mooter: Was it the same man that shot Martin Luther King?

Me: [pauses] What?

Mooter: The man. The bad man. He shot Martin Luther King AND Abraham Lincoln. Right?

Me: No, honey. Those were two totally different men. Two totally different times.

Mooter: But why did they shoot Abraham Lincoln? You said they shot Martin Luther King because he was black, and…

Me: Young lady. I said no such thing. I said Martin Luther King was shot because he wanted to change things, and that there are people in the world who want things to stay the same.

Mooter: So why did they shot Abraham Lincoln?

Me: ‘Shoot’, and because he wanted things to change, and –

[In the distance] HI [insert Mooter's real name]! HI, HI! SEE YOU TOMORROW AT SCHOOL!

Mooter: BYE ALEX! BYE SOPHIE! BYE MITCHELL!

Me: [waiting] Um… did you want me to finish?

Mooter: Mom? What’s for dinner?


You’d think that was the end of it, right? I mean, I’ve been blown off by an eight-year-old with the attention span of a sneeze. What more do we have to talk about other than pork chops or chicken? Conversation over. End of the history lesson. Yet another attempt at the mother becoming the teacher ruined. I should be used to this. This, my friends, is parenting a young person at its finest.

A week later over dinner with the entire family…

Mooter: Mom. Our teacher taught us about George Washington for President’s Day. And you know what she said?

Me: What’s that, kid?

Mooter: [pauses] Wait a minute… George Washington was a president, right?

Me: Yes.

Mooter: OK. I knowed where George Washington was born. Want me to tell you? Wait a minute… where do they have the earthquakes at?

Me: California.

Mooter: Right. George Washington was born in… Beverly Hills. Where’s Beverly Hills again?

Me: [in shock] …California, and George Washington was not born in Beverly Hills because there was no Beverly Hills when there was George Washington and you are not going to make me believe your teacher told you that.

Mooter: [loudly] MOM. YES, HE WAS. MY TEACHER SAID!

Me: I don’t care how much you try to pin this on your teacher, she did not tell you that because it’s not right.

Mooter: BUT MOM!

BFam: Seriously, Moo. That’s enough of that. You’re making that up. There was no Beverly Hills then.

Mooter: BUT HE WAS!!!

BFam: Hey! No, he wasn’t and that’s all I want to hear about that. How are you going to argue with people on things you know NOTHING ABOUT?!

Me: I can’t wait to get home. I’m pulling up everything I can find on George Washington and making you read it. I should make you do a book report on it.

Mooter: I don’t need to do a book report. My teacher already told us!

BFam: [insert Mooter's entire government name, and BFam's bulging neck veins, here]!

Mooter: [heartbroken] …but… my teacher –

BFam: ENOUGH.

Booger: Cann’i hah sum mower shokuhnit mulk?

[silence]

Mooter: Well, at least I knowed he was borned in Washington, D.C. Because that’s how he got his name.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how history is driving families apart.