Jo gets a certificate from school for doing well.
* The award ceremony and the mamarazzi
Is it a joyous occasion for celebration? Party time? Laughter and applause?
Nope. It’s terribly stressful.
As Jo goes through her usual hour-long getting-ready ritual at home, I joyfully flit around her, telling her how I’ll let loose a couple of wolf-whistles when she walks onto stage.
She bites back: You sound like a monkey, mama. If I were you I’d just clap and give me a thumbs up.
(apparently this is the time when they find most of what their parents do highly embarrassing)
She scrutinizes herself in the mirror: You know what I hate, mama? This stupid crooked name tag. You sewed it CROOKED, mama. (turns and walks away while tossing out a sulky waiver) But thanks for sewing it for me anyway.
(It’s really hard trying to sew on slippery nylon-ish material)
* Name tag: Crooked meh?
She puts on her shoes: You didn’t even polish my shoes, mama.
(I never do)
In school, while receiving the certificate and book voucher in the school hall in front of an audience, the voucher slips out and drops on the floor. Jo quickly picks it up.
* After she picked it up
Thereafter her face is BLACK. I snap away, giving her a thumbs up, grinning like a mad monkey, she frowns even harder.
Later she tells me: I want to tear up this certificate, mama. I hate it. I don’t want to remember that my voucher dropped on the floor.