“Hey, that looks like a video game,” he said as casually as he could muster. Video games are few and far between in our house, and the ones we do have are strictly educational. The Boy immediately started lobbying for me to buy it.

“I don’t know, buddy,” I said, scanning the print on the cover. “It says here it’s for ages 7 and 8. You’re only 6. It might be a little hard for you.”

“I’m a good reader,” he squeaked, hopping up and down. “It will be easy, I promise! And besides, 6 is almost 7! It’s 7 minus 1, and 1 is hardly anything! Can we get it? Please, can we get it?”

It was only three bucks, and besides, it was educational, right? I decided to go ahead and spring for it. The Boy ran to the computer as soon as we got home.

“Stay right here,” he commanded. “I might need you to help me. Because I’m not 7 yet.” I pulled up a chair and popped the disc into the drive. It installed without a hitch, and soon the screen was filled with spaceships and planets and letters.

The first game had The Boy spelling words to repair a space bridge. For every three words he spelled correctly, he got a new piece to fit onto the bridge. The hunting and pecking was laborious, but his spelling was great.

“You’re doing a really good job,” I encouraged.

“Hush, Mama, I need to focus,” he snapped. Then he added, maybe a little gratuitously, “F-O-K-S — focus!” Fortunately "focus" wasn’t one of the bridge words.

I sat and watched him through a few more words and then slipped away to enjoy some time to myself. I think from now on I am going to start pitching books and schoolwork and maybe even household chores as being for 7 and 8 year olds. Apparently that makes them more satisfying. Possibly baths, too. I am making a list.

I was disappointed to rediscover that the Good Samaritan Thrift Store is closed on Sundays. I never remember that, and I am surprised and crestfallen every time. It’s bad enough that the Goodwill is gone, and now there’s only one thrift store there at all — but there are effectively none on Sundays. I only grumbled about it for a minute, though, because I remembered Maxway, which is almost as good as a thrift store.

This time, the toy section at Maxway was much smaller than I remembered. I think maybe the last time we visited, it was near Christmas, so there were lots more toys? We were about to leave empty-handed when I spotted an awesome find in a summer clearance bin. A pair of swimming goggles with an elaborate purple triple forehead fin attached. For two bucks? How could you not buy that? “I’m going to look just like a Barraki,” The Boy breathed, stroking the purple fin in admiration. It did have kind of a Bionicle thing going on. It was a keeper.

We hustled up to the checkout counter with our great find. The cashier was blasé, like he sells purple forehead-fin goggles all the time. Maybe he did back in the summer, but I’m willing to bet he hadn’t sold any lately. I pulled out my wallet, and Tad reached for a nut roll from the display box on the counter.

“Let him ring that up if you want it,” I snapped, because he was totally bogarting the nut roll. 

“I need to read the ingredients first,” Tad replied. He still hasn’t forgotten the horrific pretzel-bomb incident of 2011.

“You allergic to something?” the teenaged clerk asked, reaching for the display box.

“Yes, seafood,” Tad said, because he is a smartass.

“Hm.” If the clerk was amused, he didn’t show it. He put the box back on the counter and took my money. “I think it’s made with tilapia nuts.” 

Tilapia nuts? BAM! Take that, Tad! Out-smartassed by the Maxway cashier! You don’t last long at Southside Plaza if you aren’t quick on the draw. We left satisfied, with our fin goggles, our tilapia nut roll and an appreciation for service with a snark. Southside Plaza always comes through.

“He was still a little challenging,” his teacher reported. I was relieved to hear that, because if anyone ever told me that he wasn’t challenging, I would have to look under his bed for the alien replacement pod. Fortunately I don’t think that will be happening anytime soon. “He did raise his hand consistently,” she continued, “but he gets offended if he isn’t called on right away.”

“Stunned and offended,” Tad agreed. We have been experiencing this all week during our practice quiet-time sessions.

After class we headed to Willow Lawn for some R&R. As we were cutting through the Staples to check out the shops in the back, a little girl pointed The Boy out to her mother and identified him by name.

“Oh, he must be in your acting class,” said her mother, and The Boy waved and continued skipping down the aisle.

“What’s your friend’s name?” I asked him once we were out in the parking lot.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. But I noticed that she knew his. I guess the teacher isn’t, oh, I don’t know, constantly calling her by name and telling her to be quiet.

Have a great weekend. I hope we will, too.

Before the first class, I thought it might be a good idea to brief the teacher on his, um, personality.

“I just want to warn you that he can be a little over-enthusiastic about new experiences,” I said tactfully, hoping she would read between the lines.

“Enthusiasm is always appreciated,” she responded with the optimism and good cheer of someone 20 years younger than me who hasn’t met my kid. That was encouraging, anyway. 

“Well, he’s got enthusiasm for sure. But sometimes, in groups, he’s loud. Like, really loud. It can be an issue.”

“He should fit right in with the theater kids,” she said nonchalantly, and I allowed myself to be lulled into thinking that everything would be just fine.

I waited in the lobby during the one-hour class, along with a gaggle of other parents. I could hear the children singing and talking and clapping merrily. Once in a while, I would hear The Boy’s squeaky little voice rise above the rest, usually making a random off-topic declaration about himself. It wasn’t constant, but it was definitely a thing.

When the door opened after the first class, the teacher made a beeline for me, holding The Boy firmly by the hand.

Uh-huh.

We had a somber talk, with The Boy as a witness. The word “disruptive” was used. Plus a few more adjectives that I could definitely pick out of a lineup. I knew all of these things about him, but it’s still fairly mortifying when it’s a stranger telling you about your kid, and he’s the only one out of 16 who requires a personal escort and a pre-emptive parent-teacher conference. I drove home with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I felt like a failure. And I felt doubly bad about the fact that The Boy was crying, knowing he’d messed up, and I wasn’t doing anything to make him feel better. But I wasn’t sure he should feel better. I had zero confidence in my own instincts at that point. The whole thing was an exercise in misery.

We’ve spent the past week practicing not interrupting and raising our hands. We set a timer and have "quiet time." From the amount of coaching we’re doing on the topic, you would never guess that this is a kid who attends lessons and group classes four or five days every week. It occurred to me, as Tad and I were discussing it one night, that it’s always at its worst at the initial class or lesson or whatever. Once he knows what to expect, and what is expected of him, he calms down a little. Which doesn’t make it OK, but it made me less certain that he’d be disinvited from the class after his second visit. I mean, he still might, but I felt like we had a fighting chance.

Yesterday the teacher sent me an email. She used some positive adjectives, which was diplomatic. She suggested a three-strikes-and-you’re-out setup, with the “out” being a few minutes in the lobby with me or Tad. It was a good plan. I wrote back agreeing to it.

I then added that we had been practicing quiet listening at home, and that Tad and I had discussed the issue and that it really did seem to be worse when he was in a new situation. “It’s like he has this compulsion to blurt out his whole life story on the spot, as if he needs you to know everything about him right away.”

I stopped typing and read what I’d written. I realized I had just described myself exactly.

I am not sure if that makes me feel better or worse, but it definitely explains where he got it.