Last night as we sat down to eat dinner (can't beat baked potatoes), I asked the Cubscout how is day was. He got quiet and said, "I don't really want to talk about it." Red flags went up all over the place. The boy is nothing like his sister who pretty much has the attitude, "Love me or hate me, I don't care because I know I'm awesome." (you know what they say about apples not falling far). He worries. A lot. I said, "Oh yeah? Tell me about it anyway." Well, after much cajoling and Daddy using what I imagine is his "empathetic detective" voice, we finally found out that he got in a bit of trouble for not following directions on a paper (I think... because he was crying as he told the story so some of it came out a little garbled). A snappy comment may have been made, or not (again crying is not conducive to getting your message across clearly).
The mom part of me was ready to call his teacher at home and let her know his feelings were hurt. The teacher part of me knew it was a Friday in December and patience isn't necessarily a virtue one possesses all the time. But, mostly it was a reminder that everything I say and the way I act is probably internalized by someone in my class. And no one should have to use a tissue on baked potato night because of me.