The End of Freedom

No, not my freedom, Gentle Reader. The boy's freedom. He's now a prisoner of the public school system and, after he ends his education, he'll be a prisoner of the labor system.

Happy first day of school, kiddo!

The Boy's Last Day of Freedom
It was a bloody one, actually. I was three miles into my seven-mile run Monday morning when one of the daycare attendants came up beside me as I trotted along on a treadmill and let me know that the kiddo had hurt himself while playing in the playscape and had a bloody lip. Of course, I hopped off the treadmill to go check on him. I did ask if he'd cried at all when the accident happen and, as I predicted, the attendant said no, the boy had shed no tears. No surprise: The boy can bean himself good and not blink. He's a Timex: takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'.

In the few minutes it took me to get my sweaty, peeved self (I do not like to be interrupted when I'm running) to the daycare, the kiddo's lip had stopped bleeding, and he told he he'd slipped while playing. I bit my tongue when he said this because he'd insisted upon wearing socks in the daycare so that he could "slide down the slide." Uh-huh. But then I did say something really dumb: I asked him if he wanted to go home. With little crocodile tears glistening in the corners of his eyes, he nodded. And with all eyes on me, how the frig could I deny that request?

Yes, Gentle Reader, it was ultimately my dumb ass that asked the question that ended the run.

Later, after treating him to lunch at Sonic, the boy had me twisting in the wind again. I'd treated him to a 14 oz. Sonic Blast with M&Ms for dessert, but after a dozen or so small bites--hardly getting into the ice cream itself--the boy declared he was finished and ready to ride his bike back home. So there I am with about 14 ounces of ice cream I don't need to eat, especially since I didn't get in my full run, but there was no way in hell I was just going to pitch it and there was no way in hell it was going to make it home in any kind of state to be "remade" with a visit to the freezer and eaten later. Yes, Gentle Reader, I wound up eating most of it on our walk home. I did get him to take some more bites, but not too much. Grrr....

First Day, Shmirst Day
I didn't sleep much the Monday night/Tuesday morning because I was a bit nervous about the boy's starting school. I think I've voiced a few times in this blog my trepidation about him joining the ranks of public school students thanks to the state of public education, and that concern was only minorly allayed after meeting his teacher. (She strikes me as a highly competent, down to earth woman who has her own concerns about the state of public education, but it's not like she can just pitch what she doesn't agree with and do what she knows is right.)

The boy, on the other hand, actually slept later than usually Tuesday morning. The husband woke him up about an hour before we needed to hit the pavement, and he seemed in a chipper enough mood. Choosing a food for breakfast wasn't the usual tussle (thank the FSM for small favors), and the boy didn't pull that "but I can't!" crapola when it came time for him to get dressed.

The highlight of the morning for the boy: strapping on his backpack "because Anakin had a backpack too, but it was black, not red like mine."

The highlight of the morning for the boy's mother: Being able to walk out of the room without blubbering or looking all lost like some of the parents I saw because, well, this whole "being left behind" thing is totally old hat for the boy. Every morning he'd get "left behind" at daycare. He knows that Mommy and Daddy have their places to be and that he has his place to be--it's just that now he has a new place to be in the morning.

Aftermath
After finally being released to walk the two yards from the corner of the building to where his mom was waiting, the kiddo didn't announce that he had no intention of going back to school, that he wanted to go back to his old school (i.e., daycare) or that he wanted to keep staying home with his mom. No, my monkey boy took the banana I brought for a snack (we'd been warned that the kiddos would probably be hungry since there's no afternoon snack any longer) and was wolfing down on that as we promenaded home.

Good news: He has a new friend, who happens to be the kiddo who sits at the table with him. (They're at a table by themselves, which is probably a good thing for my Chatty Kathy.)

Bad news: Because nap time, which only lasts the first 6 or 9 weeks (we've gotten conflicting info in the take-home documents), is barely half an hour, which is a fourth of the time he was able to nap at daycare. So, naturally, the boy wound up crashing in his room about an hour after we got home. Not such a great thing. We've already readjusted his bedtime so he gets more sleeping opportunity, so keep your fingers crossed, Gentle Reader, that that adjustment helps.

I took some video footage of the boy yakking about his first day, but I haven't had time to do anything with it since I had a fabulous massage/physical therapy session this evening after supper to relieve my achin' hamstring (and SI and QL and quads and rhomboids and so many other body parts that don't appreciate me overworking them). I'm hoping perhaps to get onto the ancient Mac and whip out a few videos to post online for you to enjoy, Gentle Reader. In the meantime, enjoy some photos.