Braeden had a large poetry unit he was turning in. He had carefully printed the pages then assembled and illustrated them. He'd punched holes in the pages and placed them in a binder.
Then he proudly showed me his work.
I pointed out a few typos. He said he wasn't going to fix them. Braeden's perfectionist tendencies are slightly less than mine.
And that's saying something.
So I circled them with a bright red colored pencil so he had to fix them. (It was one of those times when you aren't sure if you're being the good mother or the bad mother or both.)
He wasn't happy with me. He wanted to be done. He reminds me of me.
I indicated one place where he had the wrong usage of a word.
"What?" he said.
I explained it.
He thought a second, then said with a smile, "Let's just hope my teacher is not as smart as you."
Emma said, "Well I'm sure your teacher is at least as smart as Mom."
It's hard to maintain my humility around Emma. I'm working at it, but it's hard.