My son and I got a 66 on his history paper. He didn’t want to tell me. I had to weasel the grade out of him. When I suggest he talk to his teacher about our grade, he refuses, even after I threaten not to help with his next essay, due in a week. Stuffing the paper into his backpack, he says anyway it’s dad’s turn to help. This makes me suspicious so I ask what grade he and his father got on their last paper. His father is in the next room watching Jeopardy, shouting wrong answers. My son says they had an easy topic. So? I say. We got an 84, he says, his gaze sliding away. I don’t know how to deal with this information. Is the next paper easy? I ask. You don’t know until you write it, he says.
I’m ahead in the Jeopardy competition so I say, “It’s your father’s turn,” and I leave it at that.
I’m ahead in the Jeopardy competition so I say, “It’s your father’s turn,” and I leave it at that.
