Edward is doing very well at Taekwan-do. He loves it, and he is quickly moving through the ranks of the Little Dragons. As they progress, the kids get stripes on their belts, and once the belt has all the stripes they move to the next color belt and start over. Edward got his yellow belt after only a few months of training, and he is now halfway to a green belt. Last week he got a new stripe, and yesterday he got another one. This kid is on fire!
Each belt and stripe requires some sort of informational knowledge, as well as a physical skill. The last stripe required him to know his home phone number, of which we have none, and a certain sideways top-of-the-foot kick. I taught him my cell phone number, and we practiced that kick over and over, until he was finally able to pass his test and get the stripe. His instructor always lets me know if there is something that he doesn’t know that we need to help him with, like the phone number, and yesterday I got some new information.
“He’s doing great!” she said, as he came scampering out of the large room and into the waiting area. “He just needs to know his parents’ names for his next stripe.”
“Okay, thanks!” I said, before looking down at my four-year-old son. “Wait, don’t you know our names?” I asked him, somewhat incredulously. He just grinned and shook his head. We would work on this in the car on the way home.
“What’s my name?” I asked him, as I pulled out of the parking lot.
“Daddy!” he said enthusiastically.
“Yes, but what’s my other name?”
“Daddy!”
“Yes, but what does Mommy call me?”
“Daddy!”
“What?! No! Mommy does not call me Daddy! Well, I guess sometimes she does, if she is talking to you about me, or… Okay, well, what is Mommy’s name?”
“Simone!”
“Yes! That’s right! Mommy’s name is Simone! And what is my name?”
“Simone!”
“NO! That’s is Mommy’s name! What does Mommy call me?”
“Simone!”
“What?! Mommy and I do not have the same name! My name is not Simone. What is my name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do! You know my name! Just say it! Say my name!”
“……….”
This was not working. Hmmmm. How else could I get him there? “What do people call me at church? What does Pastor Mark call me?”
“Daddy!”
“Pastor Mark does not call me Daddy.”
“Yes he does…” This was accompanied by some giggling from the back seat. I was losing this battle.
“What does Pastor Rachel call me?”
“Daddy!” More giggling.
“Okay, when Mommy is not calling me Daddy, when she is just talking to me about something, what does she call me?”
“Simone.”
“And can you think of any other name that you might have heard anybody else ever call me before?”
“Ummmmm….. Poopyhead.”
Clearly this round went to my son. We could no longer continue the lesson over the roaring laughter echoing throughout the car. But the joke is on him. I’m not the one who wants another stripe on his belt. Someday he will come crawling back to me for help, and when he does, he’d better know my name. And it is NOT ‘Poopyhead.’