The Dreaded Valve Oil & Hurt Lungs Incident

"Ma'am," the voicemail message started.  I could already tell by the tone, this was not going to be good.  "This is Mrs. Stephens, the band teacher.  I need to talk to you about your son."

Hmmm... a phone call at a little after two on a Thursday.  Well, I've gotta' give the kid some credit.  We went almost a week without a phone call from the school!  I'm still on the fence over how impressed I should be about this "almost" achievement.  I mean, two days ago Braden called me in tears when he came home and explained that in an effort to fit in, he dumped valve oil on the aisle of the bus so he and his friends could run and slide on it... and then get caught.

Oh man!  I was mortified.  (Is that what I'm supposed to say?)  How terrible that a twelve year old boy would do such a thing!  I will immediately lecture him when I get home.  (And then I'll give him a high five.)  How dare he!  (Why didn't I ever think of that?!!)

I asked my husband to return Mrs. Stephens' call for me.  Yep, I'm a pansy.  It's the end of the school year, and I've had about all I can handle with teacher calls.  I swear they have me on speed dial.  Siri probably has my number memorized on their phones by now.

As it turned out, today's phone call was not about the valve oil incident.  No, today the call was about the fact that Braden told the teacher he couldn't perform in band because his lungs hurt. 

*sigh!*  Really?

Last time I checked, dyslexics get singled out enough to the point that these little excuses pop up.  It happens.  It comes with the territory.  It's part of the unwritten dyslexia checklist.

You see, in Braden's brand of dyslexia, the time and the notes fade in and out of view on the page.  When you couple that with the fact that he refuses to use his colored overlay, well, we have moments like these where "his lungs hurt."  And while we're at it, let's just mix that with the fact that he won't practice at home. 

Let me make a side note here.  While I could make him practice at home, I want him to find his own joys.  So after two hours of math work, spelling, and reading - all of which I already force him to do - why include practicing his trumpet, which should bring him joy?  If he enjoys band enough, he'll make the time.  If he doesn't enjoy it enough, he'll blow it off.  Maybe band is not his thing.  (It's not.)  Maybe it is.  (I have my doubts.)  But it's really up to him to decide if band is something he wants to pursue.  (But I know it's not.)

Anyhow, back to the topic at hand.  His lungs hurt too much to play, eh?  I think that as a teacher one of two things can happen: exasperation at my son's constant and myriad excuses, or a creative attempt at encouraging him to engage.  In the time it took the band teacher to disrupt class, call me, and discuss her concerns, she could have pulled him into a private area to see if he had mastered whatever it was she was looking for.  But what it boils down to is the fact that he didn't want to perform, and she can't make exceptions to go out of her way for every student who doesn't want to perform.  I get that.

After my husband patiently let her speak her piece while adding that she demands Braden write an apology note to the bus driver for the valve oil, my husband had only one thing to say:

Can we just make it to the end of the school year?  Can you do that for me?  I assure you: he will not be in band next year.  So you really don't need to worry about him.  Can we just finish the year?  Please?

Well said, babe!