Schooled

The temperatures are still in the nineties, but fall is in the air. Maybe it’s that compost pumpkin we have growing out in the backyard. Could be that it’s football season. Or that my wife is back at school and my son has started his new school.

His school. I scoffed at first, thinking they were just dressing it up, calling it an early learning center because it sounds better than “daycare.” You know, like how you call a nursing home "assisted living". I knew what was going on.

But then I came to orientation. Yes orientation. But it really is something. I’m still getting over the whole thumb imprint scanner that checks him in. The little knee high water fountains. The little town setting of the classrooms. There's a library and a chef. This is a little different from the daycare of my youth, where I still remember playtime ending when the woman stubbed out her cigarette. 

Yep, it's definitely pretty sweet, this place, with plenty of smiling faces around. If it’s all a cover to hide a daycare fight club going on in the back, it's a sleek and snazzy operation--I haven’t been able to prove a thing yet. In fact, I have to admit, (and this may sound familiar), that my wife was right about the whole thing. It’s organized and neat and I’ve even hung back and peeked in through the window like a real creeper. 

They offered me a chair.

But so far it looks like this place checks out. Even when I linger around it doesn't seem to bother the teachers. Unfazed, they offered to let me come in for story time. (On further thought, I'm thinking she might have meant that I should actually read the story than sit and listen Billy Madison style).

But things are good with our little guy. It took him a few weeks to get going, but now he’s off and running. At dinner he tells us about his new friends. In the car he sings new songs. He's even getting his left from his right. Letters, numbers, all that stuff. I think were on the cusp of Algebra. He’s turning into an actual little kid right before our eyes.

I guess it’s worth the organs I’ll have to donate to keep him in there. But so far so good.

Sick Day

It happened again. Just like last year. My wife goes back to school and my kid heads back to child care. Where he caught a cold. During the first week. Again.

I came to the rescue, entering his little classroom during “free time” (basically when kids are free to run amuck). My mission was no cakewalk. I stepped over and around the knee-high critters, dodging germs and fighting my way through a whirl of little bodies.  Then I found my kid, eyes closed and pitiful, snuggled up in a bean bag chair with his thumb stuck in his mouth.

I touched his knee. He brightened up when he saw me. I scooped him up and he latched on to my neck and nodded to the teachers. Poor guy. On the way out he nuzzled his warm head into my neck. “I missed you Daddy.”

Some Motrin and snuggle time and little dude seemed to be coming out of his spell. We lounged the rest of the day, vegging out and eating cereal while watching Curious George on the couch. Mom came home that evening and I puffed out my chest with a sniff. That’s right, I’ve got things under control.

By the next morning things were good again. He was chipper and alive and looked to be as good as new. He had to stay out so I’d already called in work, so I took advantage, mapping out a day for us to enjoy.

We’d hit the children’s museum, maybe catch a ball game or et out. We could sing Twist and Shout in a parade! Yeah, so the day I had in mind may have been similar to Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. But still, the morning was beautiful and we all the time to enjoy it. Although my perfect day and reality were bound for a collision.

 Because I pictured the day like this….

Instead it was more like this...

I had a feeling things were going awry when my car wouldn’t start. I’d let him play in it during the morning and killed the battery. No problem. My neighbor bailed us out with a jump so we were on our way, off for some fun. We set off into the morning warmth, ready for anything. But only an hour into our adventure he looked up at me and said that he was ready to go home. 

No ball games. No parades. No trying to reset the mileage on Dad's Ferrari. Sure buddy.

So we went home. And whatever bug he’d caught had a good hold on his temperament. He through a fit. No, he became possessed by germ demons. He was miserable. Inconsolable. He kicked the dogs and slapped at me. None of this was in my plans.

Nothing was according to plan. But itwasn’t about me. It was about a little boy with a cold who needed me.  He was tired. So I tried to get him down for a nap. And tried…

Nothing worked. In an instant he flipped from jolly old boy to scare-a-priest-with-my-demon-screams raging. This was supposed to be nap time. A reprieve from duty. This day was turning out to be work. I rocked and rolled. I read him books. I hugged him as he went ape sh$3, wiping his nose and clawing at the pillow. Oh boy.

Finally I got him in his room and down for his name. For maybe twenty minutes. Then came the screams.  I offered him a snack. We took it easy for a while. I gave him medicine. He got his second wind. 

We did a few activities in the basement. We painted a planter I'd built. We tinkered, then we waited for Mom to come home. And waited. He grew impatient. I got flustered.

I love my son. He’s the greatest. But on days like that he was so much work. I believe Mr. T put it best.  Parenting is hard damn work. Wasn't him? Well someone said it...

But there are rewards.

I didn’t have that big day I’d planned, but looking back there were so manly little moments. Like when I helped him out of the car, and with his grubby little hand in mine he said, “I’m having a fun day, Daddy.”

He didn't need adventure, just a shoulder to snot on. And there were also several great moments, even with my ears still ringing from those heavy-metal screams.  My heart is still warm from that little I love you Daddy I got while we snuggled on the couch. Hey, I'm a good snuggler, who knew?

He's feeling better now. But I think I caught whatever he had. Just like last year...

Slapped Around

My son is a maniac. He’s cute and cuddly and sweet and will smack you in the face. It hurts too, especially since I he got those brass knuckles for his birthday. 

I know I just touched on this recently, but I think it’s time to readdress, especially after what happened yesterday.

Here's how it went down, I hobbled into the kitchen after a full day of work, wounded and weary from punching the clock. I'm laying it on thick here, but it's my story so I'll tell it. Anyway, I felt the stress evaporate upon seeing my son's little face. And my wife, her face too of course. 

Inside, I picked up my one and only child, my little boy. I was ready to play, and seeing the little red phone lying on the table, I grabbed it and put it to my ear.

Me: Ring, ring. Hello. Oh, Hi. Yes, Simon’s right here. It’s for you Simon.

Him: Gurgling noises.

I handed him the phone, he took the call, placing it to the back of his neck because that’s just how he rolls. I looked on with proud goofy smile and it doesn't occur to me that I've given him a weapon and a clear shot. Why would it, he's a cute and cuddly, WHAM! The stars are out and I'm seeing constellations.  

Me, doing my best to censor myself: Ah, ma grump it, son of a…

That's exactly what happened. Hearing what could be considered snickering, I spun around to find my wife's face still with traces of a smile.

“Did you see that? He hit me with the phone.” My son sneered at me for snitching and I feared repercussions.

“Simon, don’t hit your father,” my wife said in a way that made me think she enjoyed me getting bonked over the head. That’s also when I realized the distinct possibility of my being the butt of countless jokes between mother and son for years to come.

But back to this thirst for blood thing. Although Mom has met Thunder and Lighting on occasion, I’m still the preferred punching bag in the house--the dogs being a distant second. I’ve been hit with a water bottle, sippy cup, wooden mallet (toy sized but still wooden), blocks, the remote control, Thomas The Train, books, and if I hadn’t ducked, a candle stick.  (In hindsight, I've played Clue and should have seen that one coming).

My wife says it’s because he’s all ego right now, that he doesn’t understand how a cast iron skillet to the face can cause some serious discomfort. I don't know about all of that child development babble, just that I'm not above flinching when he picks up a toy truck.

I tell him no, but he gives us the cutest pout lip face I’ve ever seen in my life.  But no more, I won't be fooled me by his little tricks any longer. Like President Bush once said, "Fool me once, who wants ice cream?" I know that behind that adorable little smile are five little puppy teeth ready to sink in to my collarbone.

Okay, I've managed to perhaps, maybe, might have blown some of his antics out of proportion. (Like the Mom making fun of me, she wouldn't do that).  But still, he did get in trouble at daycare for his incessant slapping, so we need to work on the keeping our hands to ourselves thing. And hey, it's not all bad news, tonight he slapped me his first high five in the bathtub, so maybe all of this hand slapping is just his way of telling me I'm all right.  I'll just have to duck...

The Drop Off...

Well, we did it.  We dropped our son off at daycare.  It was extremely difficult, more so for one of us.  I of course was the strong one, holding Mom up as she nearly collapsed in the driveway, sobbing and moaning about all that is wrong in the world.  Get it together, I told her.  Always the rock I am...

It was time for tough love, and being that I'm the tough guy type, I had to keep things afloat.

As we walked in, my eyes scanned the place for any signs of danger. One kid immediately caught my attention.  He was staring at Simon as though he were a sparring partner.  Back off kid, I’ve got my eye on you.  We dropped off his belongings, and after my wife went through every detail about any possible combination of scenarios involving our son, we made our way to the door, trying not to linger.

We had driven separately.  I gave my wife a hug before we got into our cars--one strong, the other not so much. 

I’ll bet my wife cried as she drove off.  I’ll bet she tried to stop the tears from welling in her eyes. I'll bet her lips began to tremble with each passing mile as Sweet Child O Mine hummed softly on the radio.  I’ll bet the tears blurred her vision as she drove, resisting the urge to make a wild Uturn across four lanes of traffic.  Maybe even a group of construction workers began pointing and laughing from the four door crew cab beside her at a red light. She probably had to pull over to the shoulder of the road where she buried her face into her hands, balling incessantly as traffic zoomed by on the expressway. Afterwards, pulling into work, she may have sniffled and began composing herself before walking in.  Coworkers probably asked her what was wrong.  She may have told them that it was her allergies.  They're horrible this time of year. 

That’s probably what happened…