The New Routine

The routine. Parents, you can relate. Every morning it’s the same thing. Get the kid up. Get kid fed. Dress kid. Get kid to school.

But there's a new wrinkle in this routine. (Well, more of the same from the last post). But usually by the time we pull up to daycare, my little guy is all about his Daddy. Hugging and clinging to me, that big, lovable smile on his face that brightens my day. I take him to his little classroom, give him another hug and kiss, then head to work.

But something transpires between the time I drop him off and the time I see him again. When I leave him he’s or fuzzy little guy, when I see him again in the evening he’s um, not a big fan.

If you’ve ever seen the movie 50 First Dates, it’s kind of what I’m dealing with here. I have to start from scratch every evening. He makes me earn it. Because my kid—the same one who's hugging me when I drop him off—doesn’t want me around when he comes home. Nope. He wants me away. Far, far away. 

We’re talking restraining order away.

At first I suspected foul play. I thought maybe my wife was throwing me under the bus on the way home. You know, nothing obvious, just some subtle jabs to keep her spot secure. But then I realized that I wasn’t being rational. If I’m going to stay ahead of my two year old I need to remain rational. 

Hmm. Could it be that I’m the drop off guy, thus the one responsible for making him leave home when he could be watching Curious George on the couch. Light bulb time. Maybe there's something to that. 

But it hurts all the same.

Here I am rushing out to the driveway, picture it in slow motion, arms spread, ready to take the little bundle in my arms when--record scratching across the soundtrack--he waves me away.

 "Get away Daddy.”

Ouch.

Dinner is more of the same. But I've got material and, slowly, he warms up to me. (I've got an endless arsenal of slapstick comedy at my disposal, if all else fails I can just run into the doorway, respect be damned.

A little smile peeks out and I've got him. He's all mine until bedtime, or breakfast the nest morning. 

But tomorrow is Saturday, so there's hope. No hauling the little bugger off to school. 

I'll keep you posted.