School of Hard Knocks

To get the cut-rate price package at Mike’s preschool, Brent or I have to volunteer once a month in the classroom to be the parent-helper. As parent-helper, you help the teacher keep a wily group of 3 year-olds under relative control, take kids to the potty, wash hands, assist with art projects and make sure that nobody runs off during recess.

This might sound funny for a mother to be saying, but I really don’t like kids very much – especially those kids who are not mine – and so I was dreading my first turn as parent-helper. In fact, I was dreading it so much that my husband volunteered to go for me. But when I saw Mike’s little face fall with disappointment at the idea of his dad going, I decided to suck up my intense dislike of children and go complete my parent-helper duties.

The dreaded morning finally came. I packed up my cupcakes and napkins and off Mike and I went. Actually, Mike literally danced out the door, holding my hand, and jumping up and down with the excitement of my being at school with him. On the contrary, my stomach was churning at the thought of dealing with a bunch of little children, only one of which was mine, for several hours.

In reality though, being a parent-helper wasn’t nearly as bad as I anticipated. In fact, I might even go so far as to say that I enjoyed myself. I got to see how Mike spends a couple of mornings a week, which is the only time that the child is ever out of my controlling grasp. I heard the weather song and the clean-up song and I finally got two of Mike’s new little friends – Asa and Elsa – straight.

Best of all, I got to see firsthand how Mike is handling his first-ever experience with other kids. I was delighted to see that my exceedingly tall, exceedingly verbal do-gooder space nerd actually does a pretty good job of navigating the ins-and-outs of social life with his peers – as much as any other three year-old does.

I also quickly came to realize that Mike’s “schoolkids”, as he always refers to his classmates, were not the marauding bunch of bacteria and virus-laden monsters that I assumed they were, but instead were actually a really nice bunch of kids, most of whom were polite, smart, and funny – in that three year-old way of being polite, smart, and funny.

Except for one kid. Within five minutes of taking off my coat, it became clear to me that this one kid was a bully. Throughout the morning, he did nothing but prove me right over and over, by picking on every kid who was quiet and shy.

This, much to my chagrin, includes my own son. I gritted my teeth as I watched the evil child knock over anything that Mike built with blocks. I had to hold my tongue as I watched him grab toys out of Mike’s hands. I resisted the urge to grab the little beast and spank him as I watched him push Mike out of the way.

After school was over, I asked Mike, “Does that nasty little monster always act like that?”

“He has to take a lot of time-outs at school,” Mike said to me.

I wanted to tell Mike, “You’re bigger than he is. Kick his ass the next time he knocks over your block rocket!” But I didn’t. I just said to Mike, “You might want to stay out of his way.”

A couple of months later, I was back at school again, this time for a meeting about planning the Christmas party. Mike was busy playing away when the Evil One walked up to him and pushed him so hard that Mike flew backwards across the room.

“Did you just see him push me?!” Mike asked his buddy, Nick.

Again, I resisted the urge to say something to the teacher. But after the meeting, I said to Mike, “I saw that little boy push you today. Has he ever pushed you before?”

“Yes,” Mike said. “And he hits me too!”

That did it. I was seething with anger.

“Well, the next time he pushes you or hits you, I want you to push or hit him as hard as you possibly can,” I told Mike. “If you hit him back, I bet he’ll stop hitting you.”

Mike, whose idea of playing rough involves rolling around on the ground by himself and shouting, “TACKLE!”, looked horrified.

“Hit him,” I said to Mike. “HARD.”

He assured me he would, but over the weekend, I had some time to consider my son’s personality. Mike would never hit or push somebody – no matter what they did to him. It just isn’t in his nature. So I decided to take matters into my own hands.

Since I would likely be arrested for doing to that beastly little child what I wanted to do to him, I decided to speak with the teacher. I told her what I had seen and explained to her that, for the first time ever, Mike hadn’t wanted to go to school – because he was afraid of this other little boy.

The teacher informed me that they were meeting with the child's parents that night because other parents had voiced similar concerns. That afternoon, a board member from the school called me to hear about my concerns and said that the monster would be “taken care of.” I rubbed my hands with delight, imagining some kind of Mafioso hit resulting in a shallow grave in the plains of Eastern Montana. Nobody picked on my kid and got away with it!

The next day school day, Mike literally jumped up and down when he saw that the evil one's coat wasn’t hung up.

“He isn’t here today!” Mike shouted with glee.

After class, the teacher told me that Mike had been more open and talkative than ever before and had come up to her and said, “I am having the best day in the whole world today!” The monster-in-question had been suspended for a week and was given one more chance to start treating his peers with respect and kindness.

This made me both happy and sad – happy because Mike was once again delighted to go to school, but sad that his experience with it thus far had been dampened by a nasty little boy who doesn’t know right from wrong.

But this, I suppose, is a life lesson for both Mike and me. Unfortunately, there’s only so much I can do to protect my children, and as they get older and older, there will be even less I can do to shield them from the evils of the world. They will get hurt – both physically and mentally – and my only job will to be available to them in whatever capacity they need. For Mike, he needs to learn how to navigate through our world, which is full of bullies and selfish, thoughtless people, unfortunately for all of the rest of us.

The Spirit of the Season

Trying to teach a three-and-a-half year-old about giving isn’t easy, especially in this world of heavy-duty marketing aimed right at my future consumer. When Mike told me that one day he had learned about giving at pre-school, I assumed the teacher had been able to forge a connection where I had not.

“So then,” I asked him, “what is giving?”

“Giving is what Santa Claus does for me!” Mike exclaimed. “He gives me lots and lots of presents.”

Since that wasn’t exactly the answer I was looking for, I sought for ways to share the spirit of giving with my young son. We packed up boxes of food for the food share. We made Christmas presents for his grandparents. We whipped up six different kinds of cookies and delivered them to all of our neighbors.

But one night, a perfect example of giving knocked on my door. When I opened it, a woman I had never seen before asked if I was Sara.

“I am,” I told her.

“Well, I have a delivery for you,” she said, handing me an envelope.

At first, I thought that somebody died. Then I wondered if I was being served with court papers for some reason.

“There’s more out in the car,” she said to me. Then she and a man I had never seen before proceeded to bring in seven boxes of groceries – everything from butter and sugar to juice, pasta, and salsa. There were also presents for the boys, thoughtfully selected for their ages and interests.

“Who is this from?” I asked the woman.

“They want to remain anonymous,” she said. “Merry Christmas!”

And with that, she and the man were gone, leaving me dumbfounded in my living room.

I ripped open the envelope, hoping to find some clue as to who might have done this for us. But instead, I found $200 in cash, a $50 gift certificate for Brent and I for one of Helena’s nicest restaurants, a Starbucks gift card, and a gift certificate and ride tokens for the boys for Helena’s Great Northern Carousel. The writing in the card was unfamiliar and just said, “Your love and devotion for your family is admired by all those around you. Merry Christmas!”

I was in shock – utter disbelief.

“Who is this from, mom?” Mike asked me as he dug through the boxes, unearthing candy and cookies and treats from the store he is never allowed to have.

“I have absolutely no idea,” I said to Mike. “Somebody just gave us all of this stuff!”

“Why?” Mike asked as he asks with everything.

“Because somebody cares about us and wants us to have a nice Christmas,” I said to him.

And suddenly, the concept of giving seemed to click for Mike.

I still have absolutely no idea who was so generous to our family this Christmas; perhaps I will never know. Their thoughtfulness and caring overwhelms me. But they did more than give us a Christmas gift I'll never forget; they also helped to illustrate for a little boy the concept of giving to others and sharing when you have more than you need.

Now, Mike regularly packs up toys in boxes and bags and distributes them to me, his dad, and to Peter.

“I got you a present,” he’ll tell us. “I did it because I care about you and I thought you would like it.”

Happy Holidays!

On The Way Home From Work

Mike: Mom, guess who I saw on the way home from work today?

Me: I have no idea. Who did you see?

Mike: Neil Armstrong.

Me: Really? And what was old Neil Armstrong up to this afternoon?

Mike: Oh, he was just hanging out and fixing the international space station.

Me: Wow – what’d you say to him?

Mike: I said, ‘Hey Neil Armstrong. My! You’re doing a really nice job fixing the international space station!’

All I Want For Christmas

Let me start off by saying that Mike still takes a nap. I know that there are many of you out there who have nearly four year-olds, and perhaps you think I am cruel and unusual for making this child get into bed every day at the same time and sleep for two hours. But I know that you are just jealous.

Mike still needs a nap. On the rare day that he does not take a nap, I often find him, during his nightly constitutional, with his head resting on the roll of toilet paper – that is how tired he is. So usually without fail, the child goes upstairs to rest every afternoon.

But every once in awhile, we have an afternoon nap like we did yesterday. Those days when I tuck Mike into bed and tell him to have a good nap and he looks at me and says:

“I’m not going to sleep today.”

In spite of Mike’s insistence that he’s not going to sleep, I, the mean mommy, force Mike to stay in bed and rest. Usually he just sits in bed and talks to himself and sings and does a range of launch countdowns. But yesterday, Mike was performing acrobatics, jumping up and down, standing on his head, and waiting for the trapeze to come his way so he could do a mid-air triple flip and swing back to the podium.

I went upstairs a couple of times and told him to be still and close his eyes and rest. And every time Mike replied: “I’m not going to sleep today.”

It wasn’t long until I heard the chandelier in the dining room, which is directly below Mike’s bed, rattle. I went upstairs and saw Mike’s bed railing on the floor, his kid-sized rocking chair tipped over and a poster ripped off the wall. Mike was standing up in his bed, obviously shaken, but O.K. as far as I could tell.

“What is going on in here?” I asked him.

“I’m sorry Mom!” he said and then he started to cry. I went over to tuck him back into bed (because for mommy’s very precariously-balanced sanity, we do not mess with nap time) and that’s when I saw the blood. Blood all over. Everywhere.

I carried him downstairs and started the process of trying to determine where the blood was coming from while Mike sobbed uncontrollably and started to hyperventilate. Then I looked inside his mouth.

And the places that once held two of Mike’s teeth were bloody and already swollen and bruised. And his teeth were shoved back up inside of his gums.

That’s right – teeth – back inside his gums. Did a shiver just run down your spine? Really, who knew that you could hit your teeth so hard that you could shove them back inside of your gums? Allow me to pause for a moment while I chalk yet another bit of trivia up to motherhood.

I called Brent because he was at work with our car and then went to wait, while holding onto Screaming & Sobbing Mike who had an ice-cold rag stuck in his mouth to try to stop the bleeding, for transportation to some kind of emergency facility. Brent made it home in about 3.5 seconds and as soon as he walked in, I told him, “Call the dentist.”

Note: This would be the very same pediatric dentist that I recently wrote about with his free-for-all office of videogames, movies, train sets, aquariums, and toys.

On the phone, Brent explained the situation and the dentist said, “Meet me at my office in eleven minutes.”

A neighbor came over to watch Peter while Brent and I loaded Mike, complete with bloody rag in his mouth, into the car and sped off to the dentist’s office.

At the dentist’s, Mike dutifully sat still in the chair while watching a movie on the TV that was in the ceiling (for which I am now secretly thankful), while the dentist poked and prodded and took X-rays.

Prognosis: Mike didn’t break his jaw, but those teeth are a bit of a mystery. The little tooth nubbins are very loose and the gums surrounding them are black and blue, bloody, and swollen like you wouldn’t believe. Will the teeth come out of the gums and go back to where they are supposed to? Will they turn black? Will they cause an infection? Will they need to be pulled?

To learn the answer to these questions, we are supposed to go to the dentist every other day for the next two weeks. Read into this: $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$.

Meanwhile, Mike is on a strict diet of very soft food that essentially must be cut into small enough pieces that he barely has to chew. We also need to clean his mouth out approximately 27 times a day with this prescription mouthwash that makes Listerine taste like cotton candy. (Please, if you do not have a three year-old, I urge you to find one and get them to swish something around in their mouth that tastes like lighter fluid on fire so that you may experience, albeit briefly, the joy in my life.) And, if we see Mike touching his teeth with his hand or tongue, we have the dentist’s permission to shock him with an electric cattle prod.

The dentist assured us that if these teeth do have to be pulled, then it will not cause any long-term facial deformities, orthodontic problems, or speech impediments. To which I felt like saying, “Hello? I can write you a check for that instead of taking out a second mortgage on my house so let’s pull them and all move on a little more quickly.” But I think Dr. Rencher was already planning to call my husband once Brent returned to work to report me to the child abuse hotline. So I said, “Yes, let’s try everything we can to save those teeth.”

Thankfully, Mike has a very kind grandma and grandpa who will send him lots of presents for Christmas this year. Because if it was up to mom and dad Santa, Mike would just have to be thankful for his two front teeth because that will be what we can afford to give him. Merry Christmas Mike! Here’s another set of x-rays and how about a big glass of Periogard?