I cajoled. I wheedled. I whined. I told him he didn't have to run. He could walk.
I reminded him that his Mom was coming to accompany him. He didn't care.
I said his favourite teaching assistant would be walking with them. No reaction.
Everything I said failed to impress him.
Reginald von Hoobie Doobie (not his real name, but close) was a very reluctant Terry Fox walker that day.
It was a glorious afternoon. The entire school was out in full force enjoying the last rays of summer sunshine.
After the run, my Grade 3 class reconvened in our classroom all sweaty and hot. I had them pull out their journals to write about the Terry Fox Run. 'Strike While The Iron's Hot' is my motto when having young people write. The sooner the better, I always figure.
My students filled their half-and-half notebooks with crayon pictures and rows of primary printing.
I had the children pile their journals on my desk. I would look through them when school let out for the day.
I was not prepared for Reginald's entry.
"What is this?" I thought.
Reginald had drawn himself holding hands with his mom and teaching assistant. A big speech bubble filled the air between them.
"Is that an 'n' or an 'h'? Is this a 't' or an 'f'?" I asked myself. Some letters of the last two words were very ambiguous. Either way it was not an appropriate thing to say to one's mother.
My rendering of Reginald's 'Terry Fox Run' journal entry.
I took Reginald's notebook to a neighbouring teacher.
"What do you think this says?" I asked her. "'You're a butt shitter'? Or 'You're a butt sniffer'?"
"Hmmmmm," she giggled. "It's hard to say."
We KILLED ourselves laughing.
I asked Reginald about it the next day. He matter-of-factly told me it said, "I love you, Mom. You're a butt sniffer!" And gave me a look that said, "What did you think it said?"
The term 'butt shitter' quickly became part of my family's lexicon. We use it to this very day to describe someone who is being a pain in the neck.
Thank you for that, Reginald von Hoobie Doobie!
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