"Another Brick In The Wall"

When I pick Connor up from 'school,' on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I make sure to ask one of his two teachers, "Did Connor keep his hands to himself today?"

Lately, the answer has been a consistent "yes," but last Thursday, Miss J. told me, "Connor did have trouble keeping his hands to himself today. He was hitting some of the other kids, and he had trouble sharing. He also walked right up to [one of the other kids] and kissed him on the lips."

...uhhh, which of these three items doesn't belong in that sentence?!

After informing me of Connor's misbehavior, I was also reminded by Miss J. of our pre-scheduled parent-teacher conference the following Tuesday (yesterday). Obviously, given the most recent news from the front, I wasn't expecting great things.

Stacey took the morning off of work and we both went to hear about our child's performance from the first two non-family members/close friends to ever spend any extensive amount of time with Connor without having us around. Growing up, my parents (and Stacey's, too) were called in plenty of times for impromptu parent-teacher conferences, so it was nice to finally be on the other side of the fence—not worrying about what my horrid, unspeakably mean and cruel teachers were saying behing my back, and not worrying about what my parents were going to take away from me as punishment. (During one particularly bad year, pretty much the only thing I had left after all the punishment was doled out was the "privelege" of going to school.)

The summary of our 15-minute conference is quite simple, and completely unsurprising for anyone that knows this kid; Connor is very smart, but can't sit still. He's mastered pretty much every task the teachers set before him—and those that he has yet to conquer all require sitting in one place for more than ten seconds.

Oh, I already knew he was a clever lad. On the trip home from "school" last week after being told that he was hitting, I told him he couldn't get a treat out of the awesomely named "treat bag"—which we keep full of dollar-store junk, to motivate him toward pacifisim. "But I DIDN'T hit anyone," he pleaded with me. After two minutes of this, realizing that he was getting nowhere, he said, "Daddy, I hit the other kids. -pause- Can I have a treat now?"

"Take This Job And Shove It"

After a year-and-a-half of jockeying for the position of non-wage-earning-parent who gets to stay home and hang out all day while listening to King Crimson and eating pizza, Stacey and I have decided (I was tricked, dammit!) that I will seek gainful full-time employment upon the termination of her post-doctoral position this summer.

Translation: Since I lack the internal mechanisms required for child-birth, I'm going back to work.

Stacey is worried that I'll procrastinate until the last possible moment to begin the job hunt, but I've got a rock-solid plan; Since a good many people read this blog (I know so because of the constant reminders I get when too much time has elapsed between updates, and because of the countless random strangers that have approached me at, say, Target expressing their surprise that I'm not at Wal-Mart instead.) I am banking on one—or several—of YOU to find me a job instead. Sounds like a plan, right? Besides, I've been giving and giving for free here, and have asked for little in return... except for the iPhone that I'm SURE will be arriving in my mailbox the day it's released to the public, hmmm?

You probably want to know what I'm looking for. Here's my ideal job, after staying home with Connor, of course:

1. In my professional career, I've held jobs in the fields of fast food, the custodial arts (that's a ten-cent word for 'janitor'), construction, landscape, soul-sucking corporate office, and editorial/journalism. Hmmm. Which of these industries would you prefer? I dunno 'bout yous, but I like writering and stuff. I be goods at it.

2. Of course, I will require at least a low four-figure salary. I almost typed "four-digit." That's pretty much what Stacey and I are both bringing home now.

4. No jobs that require a working knowledge of math. For that matter, I want nothing to do with a job that requires acknowledging that math even exists.

5. NO NEWSPAPERS! I have probably written more words in this blog that I will ever utter aloud in my entire life. I'm an introvert with OCD. I'm not exactly what you'd call a 'people' person. Newspaper reporters have to, like, talk to people—a lot. Sheesh.

I think that's pretty much it. I need YOU to find ME a writing-related job that pays really well , and that doesn't involve math or personal interaction. Oh yeah, that should be a breeze.

"Stinkfist"

Okay. Enough with the texts, e-mails, phone calls and carrier pigeons. I'll write something...

The sickness that has permeated this house has finally subsided. Except for one of the dogs—who is laid up from knee surgery—everybody 'round these parts is relatively healthy. Connor is on his last day of heavy-duty antibiotics, while the rest of our immune systems have been fending for themselves—quite poorly, I might add. At least I never got diahrrea.

After picking up Connor at school today, we stopped by the vet for more pain medicine for the gimp dog and then ran by the almighty Wal-Mart for a loaf of bread and a 50 cent squirt bottle to be filled with water so I don't have to drag Connor over to the sink every morning to rid him of his perpetually bad bed-head.

On our way out of the store, Connor was riding on my shoulders. He kept putting his fingers by my mouth, so I acted like I was going to eat them whenver they got close. Connor was getting a huge kick out of it, and quickly figured out an ingenious way to keep his hands far out of reach. He kept telling me, "My hands are back here now. You can't get them, Daddy."

I figured they were behind his back, but when I saw our reflection in my car's windows I realized he had both hands jammed down the back of his diaper. When I was putting him in his carseat moments later, he smooshed his fingers in my face, laughing hysterically. I don't think he quite put it together that what he was doing was gross, but he got a kick out of it nonetheless. I didn't want his hands anywhere near me and he seemed to key in on that and capitalize while I was preoccupied.

I think we'd all be a lot healthier in this house if, instead of shaking hands with people when'st out and about, we walked around with our hands jammed down our pants.

Looks like it's catching on already...