Calum has been taking a babysitting training class. Of course he didn’t volunteer to take the class. Of course, it was a group of moms manipulating one to get another into the class. Yup. We evil moms. However, like Fortnightly (a social dance class), Calum did it because it was my wish to see my son dressing up in suit and tie and dance with girls in dress and white gloves. He did complain about dancing with girls, but in the end he started to like it (mainly about wearing tie). I believe he will have a story to tell when he is older. The point was not that he learned social etiquette but he was there with his buddies and they tried something new. Like I often joked, “I know you are all forced to do it but you can be miserable together.” The fun part was they were in together!
So babysitting class. It was a good skill to have. Some of Calum’s friends have already doing some odd jobs during summer; taking care pet fish or taking in newspapers for neighbors when they are on vacation. As he and his friends are turning 12; the legal age to babysit, some of them start to think about babysitting not only to make money but also to show they don’t need to be babysat anymore. Unfortunately, Calum never has monetary incentive so money couldn’t make it take the class. It took four moms emailing each other back and forth for the whole week and made sure everyone signed up.
It is a 4-week course at the community center close to home. Every time after the class I would ask what he learned and what he could apply on his sister. Nothing. Boring. He always told me. Besides, he was assigned to readings. I am not kidding. Chapters of reading.
One morning I was very irritated; lack of sleep, chaos in the morning. Rosie howled when I took her spoon away after she dropped her food including yogurt on the floor many times. Finally, I lost it. I screamed and yelled, “what do you want?”
Calum took a look at me, walked to his desk, picked up his babysitting training folder and seemed like searching for something. I glanced at him and thought he might have some wisdom to offer at this critical moment.
He asked, “mom, this is called temper tantrums, right?” “Yeah!”, I was still angry. He looked up the index of the book, read for a minute, and said, “Rule #1. Don’t yell or shout at the kid”. “Mom, you are doing it all wrong.” He then instructed to remove dangerous objects in the room. Try to reason with Rosie. Etc. Etc.
Bemused. My anger eased and listened to my 11-year-old teaching me how to be a mom. 
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