mardi 15 décembre 2015

A couple of lines on fatherhood

I love to be a father, but fuck, sometimes, I'm pissed off about all the shit I have to worry about.

My kid must put his glasses. He must hide his strongest eye 2 hours per day to exercise his weakest eye. Otherwise, he may have cross-side eyes one day and finish his life alone or worse, get an ugly cross-side eyes girlfriend.

His teacher is an old hag which seems to work in slow-mo mode. She said to me that my son had no problem to learn but he was whimsical (losing his things in his desk). She said to me that he masturbated in class. Well, at 6 years old, it's not old perverse masturbation with both hands in the pants. It's just that when he's excited (when he's laughing for instance), he tends to put his hands on his little pee-pee.

At the recommandation of his teacher, we went to see some speech therapist (orthophoniste en français) to see if my son had understanding problems. He made many exercices there and at home too, and fuck, I have to say that this shit was not bad, but how the fuck a 6 years old little boy should know how to sequence 4 images of a story with a magnet or a popcorn machine when he hasn't used or even saw any of these things in his life? The speech therapist was kind but she told us some fucking statistics about how retard my son is on some aspects and it made me mad.

Fuck you with your fucking statistics. My son knew his ABC when he was 1 year old and he now knows all the planets on the solar system and he even knows that it's raining acid on Venus. You may tell me that fucking Rain Man knew much more things and he was a fucking autistic. Yeah, right, but my son isn't a fucking retard. He's just clumsy and he has my fucking genes which means that he'll never be the football hero of his college.

Today, it was his last appointment with the speech therapist. I thought we would inherit a recommandation to consult for the long term at the low rate of 100$/hour. But, thank god, it looks OK to stop here (but to continue to practice at home).

However, the final recommandation of the speech therapist was to NOT USE IRONY WITH HIM (written in capital letters in his diary).

Fuck, irony is my life. Since he's a baby I feed him with irony. Have I ruined his childhood? How could irony be so wrong? It's how I manage to stay alive.

And still today, his fucking teacher wrote in his agenda that he lost his cisors. She wrote "his attention is very fragile" (exact words used many times by the speech therapist. That fucking bitch was only waiting to use somebody else's opinion to avoid any responsability in kids problems). Fuck you old hag, it's me that didn't put those cisors back on his schoolbag yesterday.

Oh. By the way, I should double these troubles. My girlfriend didn't have a miscarriage. She lost blood for some days. But there's a baby in that belly.

I should be father for a second time next summer.

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