It is the end of an era.
I no longer have kids in kindergarten.
Yes, Parker graduated and is heading on to the wide-open world of first grade. As I sat in the church sanctuary beaming with pride, I looked over at my wife, who apparently had just watched “Schindler’s List” or something, as she was just a boo-hooing.
Not that she was alone. Having attended quite a few graduation ceremonies over the years, I have seen plenty of moms get weepy when the moment comes. And it’s a chain reaction-type thing.
One mom starts to get a glisten in the eye. Another sees it and gets a little more teary. And then the tear dominoes begin tumbling, and before you know it, it’s the sobbingest place this side of an onion cutting competition. (Yes, I did just manufacture an onion cutting competition. But I think you can agree it would (a) bring lots of tears and (b) be kinda fun to watch from a distance.)
In fairness to them, I did feel a little (OK, a lot) of sentimental rumblings inside when I saw Parker walk up on stage at his graduation. He’s our little guy, and to see how much he has grown – physically and emotionally – this year is amazing.
He has developed a love of reading and math – and schoolwork in general – but has kept that sense of wonder I wish we all could keep forever.
As he heads to first grade, I thought I would reflect on a few things looking back and forward:
— I may never have to make a school lunch again. Parker will eat anything – anything – and he is pretty sure that getting to go through lunch line will be only the coolest thing ever.
— He will be at school with his sister, who will be in fourth grade. I have told her that there is one thing an older sister has to keep in mind – you can’t do that to her brother. Only she can do that to her brother.
— I will miss the drop-ins. During kindergarten, it’s easy for parents to just drop in and see the class. Not so much once you get into elementary school. Well, I suppose you COULD just drop in, but I think the stigma of having your dad be the root-cause of a school lockdown would be a heavy burden for a kid.
— The Dude is going to have to vastly change his sleeping habits. He has always gone to bed pretty well. But starting next fall he is going to have to get up WAAAAAAY earlier than he is used to. And I have seen him when he wakes up early. He’s an angry little critter when you force him up early. In fairness, he’s just not ready to face the day without 8-10 cups of coffee.
— This is the time where the Keep-It Box deposits get fewer and fewer. The Keep-It Box is a big plastic bin we keep under our bed. Whenever the kids have something we want to hold onto (drawings, tests, the late Bubbles the fish), we put it in that box. Kindergarten is really the peak of take-home stuff that will make you wispy for the good ol’ days in about 10 years when you are arguing with him over why he cannot go on a 12-day road-trip with his friends to Argentina, and how his friends’ parents clearly love and trust them more.
— He’s about to head full-on into the big time, with bigger classes and a wide diversity of folks he will interact with each day. And that’s the best thing possible. The world he’s heading into? A big place with a wide diversity of folks. Same can get boring.
— This will probably be the year he starts into sports. We have offered him the opportunity several times. The closest he got was a few practices of basketball. He said he would rather hunt bugs. Maybe he’ll play this year, maybe not. There are only two rules going forward: (a) If you commit to doing it, see it all the way through and (b) dinner’s for winners. Oh, wait, scratch (b). I believe that’s supposed to be “Have fun.”
So we’ve a big year ahead of us. Of course, before he does any of the first grade stuff, it’s summertime. Let’s not worry about all that other stuff yet. Let’s go hunt some bugs.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Possums and bunnies
One thing that I can say for certain is this: Sometimes in life, you miss the possums and bunnies. And it will be OK.
I base this on two recent events that occurred with my son. The first happened last Friday night, around 10:30. We were driving home (late night at the dog track with the kids. Or perhaps Relay For Life), cruising down South Boundary at a rip-roaring 20 or so mph. From the left side of the road, I saw a small gray furball scurry onto the roadway.
I slammed on the brakes, trying to give the little possum time to get across the road. Representing the possum community with extreme intellect, the little guy stopped, looked at my van and made a sharp left turn, so he was now traveling down South Boundary rather than crossing it.
I nudged the van forward a little, hoping to encourage the critter off the road. Eventually, he made a right turn, heading off the road, scurrying in between two piles of grass clippings. Now, keep in mind, this all happened in a matter of seconds. My daughter was in the middle of the van and was able to see the possum. My son, however, was in the back and was fairly close to being asleep so he was a little slow on the draw. By the time he had shifted and rearranged, the possum was out of sight.
And cue the upset 6-year-old.
“I...wanted...to...see...the...possum...” he said, choking back tears. It was quite evident this was the single most tragic event ever to happen on this planet.
He was still repeating the possum-seeing desire when we got home. Despite my efforts, I could not convince him that it would be OK. I even made one last-ditch Hail Mary that my wife said was not helping matters. You decide: I simply said, “Parker, you want to see the possum next time? Because the only way to make it stay in the road is to hit it. Fine, I’ll run it over next time. Dead or not seen – your choice.” OK, maybe in retrospect I could have posed that scenario differently.
Eventually, he settled for a few Internet pictures of possums, a book that had pictures of possums and a story involving King Parker of the Land of Possumia. Although he would have given it all up for seeing the possum.
The second instance involved my daughter seeing a bunny. My wife and daughter were heading off to school when it occurred to my daughter that she had left her retainer at home. Easy rule of thumb for locating my daughter’s retainer: Find where she is. Look elsewhere.
Anywho, my son and I were eating breakfast when Allie came bopping in. “We just saw a bunny!!!”
And cue the upset 6-year-old.
“I...wanted...to...see...the...bunny...” he said, choking back tears. It was quite evident THIS was now the single most tragic event ever to happen on this planet.
After several minutes of bunny discussion, I sat Parker down for a calm and reasoned discussion. I then realized he’s 6 and in a tizzy, and I would have as good of a chance of having a calm and reasoned discussion with an angry badger.
When his inner badger receded somewhat, we sat down again. I explained to him that we would not always be able to see everything everyone else did. I reminded him of all the cool things he got to see and how much fun it is to share those stories with other folks. I also told them that unless he could cry tears made of possums and bunnies, it served no purpose. He gave me a look that was clearly on loan from his mother.
When we headed off to school, Parker decided he would make up for the missed animals by finding 20 animals. As we pulled into school, he found a mockingbird for No. 20. (Other contributors to the count: horses, dogs, squirrels, a cat and a crow).
As we were pulling in, I said to Parker, “Remember, sometimes in life, you miss the possums and bunnies. And it will be OK.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.” As he got ready to get out of the car, he turned back to me. “But I’d still rather see the possum and the bunny.”
I base this on two recent events that occurred with my son. The first happened last Friday night, around 10:30. We were driving home (late night at the dog track with the kids. Or perhaps Relay For Life), cruising down South Boundary at a rip-roaring 20 or so mph. From the left side of the road, I saw a small gray furball scurry onto the roadway.
I slammed on the brakes, trying to give the little possum time to get across the road. Representing the possum community with extreme intellect, the little guy stopped, looked at my van and made a sharp left turn, so he was now traveling down South Boundary rather than crossing it.
I nudged the van forward a little, hoping to encourage the critter off the road. Eventually, he made a right turn, heading off the road, scurrying in between two piles of grass clippings. Now, keep in mind, this all happened in a matter of seconds. My daughter was in the middle of the van and was able to see the possum. My son, however, was in the back and was fairly close to being asleep so he was a little slow on the draw. By the time he had shifted and rearranged, the possum was out of sight.
And cue the upset 6-year-old.
“I...wanted...to...see...the...possum...” he said, choking back tears. It was quite evident this was the single most tragic event ever to happen on this planet.
He was still repeating the possum-seeing desire when we got home. Despite my efforts, I could not convince him that it would be OK. I even made one last-ditch Hail Mary that my wife said was not helping matters. You decide: I simply said, “Parker, you want to see the possum next time? Because the only way to make it stay in the road is to hit it. Fine, I’ll run it over next time. Dead or not seen – your choice.” OK, maybe in retrospect I could have posed that scenario differently.
Eventually, he settled for a few Internet pictures of possums, a book that had pictures of possums and a story involving King Parker of the Land of Possumia. Although he would have given it all up for seeing the possum.
The second instance involved my daughter seeing a bunny. My wife and daughter were heading off to school when it occurred to my daughter that she had left her retainer at home. Easy rule of thumb for locating my daughter’s retainer: Find where she is. Look elsewhere.
Anywho, my son and I were eating breakfast when Allie came bopping in. “We just saw a bunny!!!”
And cue the upset 6-year-old.
“I...wanted...to...see...the...bunny...” he said, choking back tears. It was quite evident THIS was now the single most tragic event ever to happen on this planet.
After several minutes of bunny discussion, I sat Parker down for a calm and reasoned discussion. I then realized he’s 6 and in a tizzy, and I would have as good of a chance of having a calm and reasoned discussion with an angry badger.
When his inner badger receded somewhat, we sat down again. I explained to him that we would not always be able to see everything everyone else did. I reminded him of all the cool things he got to see and how much fun it is to share those stories with other folks. I also told them that unless he could cry tears made of possums and bunnies, it served no purpose. He gave me a look that was clearly on loan from his mother.
When we headed off to school, Parker decided he would make up for the missed animals by finding 20 animals. As we pulled into school, he found a mockingbird for No. 20. (Other contributors to the count: horses, dogs, squirrels, a cat and a crow).
As we were pulling in, I said to Parker, “Remember, sometimes in life, you miss the possums and bunnies. And it will be OK.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.” As he got ready to get out of the car, he turned back to me. “But I’d still rather see the possum and the bunny.”
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Tonsil town
The door to the waiting room opened. “Gibbons?” the nurse said to us.
My wife and I nodded and began to walk to the door. “She’s not very happy,” the nurse said.
In fairness to our daughter, if you had a big chunk of your throat carved out, you’d be a little peeved, too.
Yes, Allie had her tonsils removed, and first and foremost – save her the ice cream spiel. She feels all the talk of ice cream was cruel bait to lure her into this trap.
Her tonsils had been a problem for a long time. Poor thing looked like she had swallowed two golf balls.
She was nervous about the surgery but was also looking forward to getting a good night’s sleep and going more than a week without a sore throat.
My wife and I have gone through this several times with both kids – tubes, adenoids, hernia surgeries, tubes removed – so letting go of our children as they are wheeled back into an OR doesn’t have quite the sting it did the first time.
Sure, you still worry, but once you acknowledge that (a) it’s a relatively minor and routine procedure and (b) she is in very capable and caring hands, you realize there is really no reason NOT to finish your Sudoku.
When we got back to her room, we found that “not happy” was being gentle.
She had decided hand-to-hand combat would be a nice way to express her discomfort to the nurse. “WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?” she yelled at the nurse, who, of the four in the room, was really the least to blame.
The nurse, bless her heart, stayed cool and calm, trying to get my daughter to calm down.
My wife and I tried to soothe her (Allie, that is), but she was having none of it. It was a combination of anesthesia and extreme throat pain. And it manifested itself in abject nastiness.
“Allison,” the nurse said, “you’ll feel better if you just take a deep breath ...”
“I’LL FEEL BETTER IF I LEAVE!!!”
Her disorientation aside, it was clear she was in pain. Her head, she said, was pounding. The nurse said she was going to give her some medicine. And that’s when Mr. Syringe met Mr. IV, and a delightful and peaceful sleep fell over the land.
After a few minutes, Allie had calmed down and drifted off to sleep. I leaned back in a chair and did the same thing. (Gotta show solidarity.)
After a quick power nap, I stood by my daughter’s bed. I watched her sleep the most peaceful sleep I had seen in years.
My wife and I both remarked that we heard – nothing. No labored breathing. No snores. No coughing in her sleep.
A drug-induced one-time hit? Or a tonsillectomy silver bullet. I sure hope the latter.
She woke up a short time later, smiling, reaching out for a hug. We informed the nurse that Allie’s evil twin had left the building.
Allie seemed to somewhat recall – yet not completely believe – the “not happy” response. But all better now.
Allie is now home for the next week, where we have a huge pile of rented movies, a bunch of books, her handheld video game and a huge helping of ice cream and popsicles.
I also hope to read the first Harry Potter book with her during this time, as I think she is finally at the age where the story of a child forced to live in a closet under the stairs won’t scare her.
(In case you are wondering, Parker does not mind that Allie is getting all of the attention right now. Why, you ask? Because he got to have a sleepover at Grandma’s AND was taken to school by his aunt and cousin. As he said, “It was a big day.”)
I’m just glad the surgery is over. While it may be routine, it’s a good milestone to pass. So I guess Allie was right about one thing – we did feel better when we left.
My wife and I nodded and began to walk to the door. “She’s not very happy,” the nurse said.
In fairness to our daughter, if you had a big chunk of your throat carved out, you’d be a little peeved, too.
Yes, Allie had her tonsils removed, and first and foremost – save her the ice cream spiel. She feels all the talk of ice cream was cruel bait to lure her into this trap.
Her tonsils had been a problem for a long time. Poor thing looked like she had swallowed two golf balls.
She was nervous about the surgery but was also looking forward to getting a good night’s sleep and going more than a week without a sore throat.
My wife and I have gone through this several times with both kids – tubes, adenoids, hernia surgeries, tubes removed – so letting go of our children as they are wheeled back into an OR doesn’t have quite the sting it did the first time.
Sure, you still worry, but once you acknowledge that (a) it’s a relatively minor and routine procedure and (b) she is in very capable and caring hands, you realize there is really no reason NOT to finish your Sudoku.
When we got back to her room, we found that “not happy” was being gentle.
She had decided hand-to-hand combat would be a nice way to express her discomfort to the nurse. “WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?” she yelled at the nurse, who, of the four in the room, was really the least to blame.
The nurse, bless her heart, stayed cool and calm, trying to get my daughter to calm down.
My wife and I tried to soothe her (Allie, that is), but she was having none of it. It was a combination of anesthesia and extreme throat pain. And it manifested itself in abject nastiness.
“Allison,” the nurse said, “you’ll feel better if you just take a deep breath ...”
“I’LL FEEL BETTER IF I LEAVE!!!”
Her disorientation aside, it was clear she was in pain. Her head, she said, was pounding. The nurse said she was going to give her some medicine. And that’s when Mr. Syringe met Mr. IV, and a delightful and peaceful sleep fell over the land.
After a few minutes, Allie had calmed down and drifted off to sleep. I leaned back in a chair and did the same thing. (Gotta show solidarity.)
After a quick power nap, I stood by my daughter’s bed. I watched her sleep the most peaceful sleep I had seen in years.
My wife and I both remarked that we heard – nothing. No labored breathing. No snores. No coughing in her sleep.
A drug-induced one-time hit? Or a tonsillectomy silver bullet. I sure hope the latter.
She woke up a short time later, smiling, reaching out for a hug. We informed the nurse that Allie’s evil twin had left the building.
Allie seemed to somewhat recall – yet not completely believe – the “not happy” response. But all better now.
Allie is now home for the next week, where we have a huge pile of rented movies, a bunch of books, her handheld video game and a huge helping of ice cream and popsicles.
I also hope to read the first Harry Potter book with her during this time, as I think she is finally at the age where the story of a child forced to live in a closet under the stairs won’t scare her.
(In case you are wondering, Parker does not mind that Allie is getting all of the attention right now. Why, you ask? Because he got to have a sleepover at Grandma’s AND was taken to school by his aunt and cousin. As he said, “It was a big day.”)
I’m just glad the surgery is over. While it may be routine, it’s a good milestone to pass. So I guess Allie was right about one thing – we did feel better when we left.
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