I’m a mom, and I may have never really gotten “into” the tech world. Sure, I don’t know about the latest start-ups and apps. I don’t have any investment capital or a lot of connections to the “scene.” Heck, the most I know about computer chips is not to eat ‘em!
But look out, Silicon Valley, because my son Carver is only 9-years-old and already disrupting a 27 person classroom.
Yep, you heard that right — nine.
He’s throwing mulch. He’s throwing fits. He’s smashing chairs and he’s sitting on pumpkins. He wore his swim trunks on the fall field trip. He wore his blue jeans into the pool.
He just doesn’t raise his hand — he raises both hands and tries to initiate the wave, even though no one thinks it’s funny anymore.
What was Mark Zuckerberg doing at age 9? What about Ellen Musk, huh? Jeff Beffos? Not even Travis Kaepernick sold his first Craigslist hamster until he was 11.
I wish I could say that, like most parents of gifted children, Carver’s knack for disruption struck me immediately. I mean he was quite the kicker in the womb, and at four-weeks old it did take six grown men to wrestle him down into the baptismal font.
But speaking frankly, my husband and I had always considered him a bit of a dud. It wasn’t until his teacher used the d-word that the pieces fell together. Now, whether he’s carving the word “PISS” into his desk or simply blasting the self-narrated George W. Bush audiobook during super-silent reading period, I know my pint-sized prodigy is disrupting Ms. Hamilton’s third-grade classroom with 100% of his heart, 100% of the time.
Some people try to tell me my son has a problem. They think a boy his age shouldn’t be bringing an axe to show-and-tell or Grubhubbing Bonefish Grill catering off his teacher’s PayPal account. They say a lot of things, and after a while it hurts. It gets under your skin. You find yourself questioning every single decision you’ve ever made as a parent: Did I read to him enough? Did I listen? Should I not have chugged exclusively sour apple snow cone juice during the pregnancy?
But at the end of the day, the naysayers are just jealous or bitter. My son is a shooting star in a summer sky. He’s pushing Dick Van Dyke off the rafters in an elementary production of Mary Poppins!
And my husband and me? We’re darned proud. So hold on to your wind-powered hats or what not, San Francisco. Because in a few years my little Carver will be running the place. He’s already interrupting his female peers at a sixth-grade level.