"Who Needs Pictures?"

This week was picture week at Connor's school. I was informed about the pictures, but, judging by the sudden abundance of sailor outfits, pastels and suspender-shorts (with white socks and loafers), I apparently missed the memo that advised parents to dress their children to look as if they belonged on one of those Anne Geddes greeting cards.

At Connor's school, there is a drop-off policy called "carpool," in which the parents pull up to the front door in the morning, and their kids are pulled out of the car by a school staff member, (maybe the correct term is "car-pull"?) which allowed me an up-close look at many of the other kids' horrid outfits. By now, most of the kids are accustomed to the process of being yanked out of the car by a stranger, but Connor is still having a tough time with it. On Tuesday, as he was crying, snot running down his chin and begging to go back home, a horribly dressed child hopped out of the car, of his own volition, next to us. As Connor kicked and screamed, I wasn't sure who I felt worse for: Connor, with his eyes full of tears and arms reaching out for me, or the boy next to us, with a green jumpsuit on and a lace-lined collar.

"Welcome To The Working Week"

I have spent the last year-and-then-some doing my best to convice Stacey (and myself) that I was unfit to work outside the home. I had a good thing going at the house with Connor. Why screw it up?

But, somewhere along the way, I exposed myself — not literally... well, yeah, literally, but I've since paid my debt to society for that offense.

Anyway, due in no small part to this blog, and my continued efforts to secure freelance writing work, Stacey has surmised that I am, in fact, capable of doing more than providing mediocre child care for our son.

Are you happy now, all you bloodthirsty, ravenous-for-a-new-update zealots?!

Plus, in my efforts to dissuade Stacey from sending me back out into the adult world, job application in hand, I convinced myself that I never wanted to work again. I left a job that I absolutely loved (as a managing editor for two monthly publications) for a job I instantly loved even more (raising my son). It seemed like finding another job I liked equally — or could even tolerare — was an impossiblity.

Turns out, I was wrong.

I've somehow weasled my way into a limited role at a large monthly music magazine as a part-time, deadline copy editor. The work is non-demanding — copy-editing, proofreading, fact checking — but it's fulfilling in a way that raising a child can never be. I'd certainly still prefer to be at home with Connor full-time, but if the alternative is a job that I enjoy as much as this one, well, that's an alternative I think I can live with.

"Learning to Fly"

As of one week ago today, Connor is attending school twice a week, four hours a day. Since this is basically his first experience being left with anyone but family, I'm not sure who had a more difficult time adjusting — Connor or his mom.

Here is the up-to-the-minute update of how Connor and Stacey are handling this new adventure thus far.

Open House: Stacey took the day off, and we both took Connor for an open play day in his classroom. Seeing the classroom gave me shudders — reminding me how much I despised school, and also reminding me of how long a journey Connor has before he's done. Sorry, kid.
He played well with the other kids, but freaked out when he wasn't ready to stop playing with a particular toy. Rather than make a scene and upset the other kids, we left...after making a scene and upsetting a few kids.

Day #1: Many parents of other first-timers like Connor stuck around after dropping off their kids to see how the wee ones fared without their parents at their sides. After 10 minutes, nearly every parent was gone, but I was there to stay, given very specific instructions by Stacey to not even step out to use the restroom. So, I camped out with my laptop, video iPod and a magazine, and hunkered down for the long haul. One hour after dropping him off, Connor melted down and I had to take him home.

"He's a sympathetic cryer," the program's director told me, as if this was an issue I was supposed to have resolved previously.

Day #2: We'd been 'talking up' going back to school and Connor seemed a bit more ready to go, though he still cried when I dropped him off. I prepared to camp out again, but after 30 minutes, the program director informed me that he was playing with other kids and wasn't crying.

"You're welcome to leave," she told me. "We won't let him cry very long, and if he does, we'll call you immediately."
"Thanks for the info, but I have to talk to my wife first," I told her.
"Well, you CAN leave," she responded.

After getting a half-hearted green light from Stacey, I bolted. Connor made it the whole day and all is right with the world.

Though I wasn't nearly as nervous as Stacey about this process, I am shocked that Connor adjusted as quickly as he did. Though he still cries a bit when I drop him off, he marches in on his own and never looks back for me.

I suppose I have more work to do than him with this, though. If he finds out how terrible I did in school — not to mention how long it took me to finish — I'll never be able to get him to do his homework.

Have they invented smart pills yet?

"The Separation of Church and Skate"

When I was a kid, I played organized soccer and baseball. Each season, there would inevitably be at least one overzealous parent who either got routinely thrown out of the park or should have been.

James Simpkins was a kid who always seemed to end up on my baseball team. His mother had more lip than Mick Jagger and she knew less about the game of baseball than my socks did. Either she or James got themselves thrown out of more games than Bobby Cox and Billy Martin combined. The only positive of this, though — aside from James or his mom repeatedly arguing calls with a zeal that would make Yosemite Sam ashamed to call himself 'animated' — is that there was usually only one clueless parent each season. As soccer was a bit more obscure in the '80s, a ton of parents didn't know much about the game, but most of them at least had the sense to keep their mouths shut in the stands. I said "most." One mother liked to yell out to her son, "I'll give you five bucks if you score a gold!"

That's gold.

Now that skateboarding is finally beginning to become a serious alternative to traditional organized sports, more and more parents are taking their kids to the skatepark (or dumping them off for some organized babysitting). The problem, aside from the plethora of rugrats is that the parents have about as much notion of skatepark etiquette as James Simpkins' mom did at the ballpark, which leads to a lot of unnecessary problems at the park.

If your kid is expressing in interest in skateboarding, here are a few pointers to keep your kid from getting run'd over.

-The skatepark is NOT where you go to learn to skate. That's what driveways or officeparks are for. If you can't at least stand on the board while rolling, stay home.
-There is to be NO standing around anywhere that people are skating or where you have the potential to get hit — especially if you have two or three friends camped out with you. Are you hoping that a 200-pound dude will smash into you at 20 mph?
-The first thing you must learn to do is drop in on a ramp. If you can't drop in, you will be 'that guy' standing around at the bottom of the ramp, waiting to have your insides rearranged by previously mentioned 200-pound dude.
-Skateboarding, in and of itself, is not a contest. If you are at the park to gloat at how much better your kid is than everyone else, go home. Skateboarding is about creativity and having fun. If your idea of sport involves being an asshole and talking shit, let your kid play football instead.
-Above all, just watch what the older guys are doing and copy their behavior. I, for one, don't mind the kids at the park, as long as they understand that there are other people trying to skate. I don't want to be your kid's babysitter. Wait...look at me. Do you want me to be your kid's babysitter.

That's what I thought.