Go bird go!

Today was the first day of preschool.

Not some hippie lets roll around in the mud and talk about our feelings kind of preschool, but the kind of preschool that is in a square little room covered in boxes and flash cards and toys. The kind of preschool where the teachers have seen three generations pass, they drive American cars with fake wood paneling and probably need to sneak off for a quick smoke during free play time.

Not that I'm knocking on the modern, open minded, high energy, exploratory experience that my over anxious contemporaries swear by . . . 

. . . no wait, I'm totally gonna talk some smack.

two years ago, a customer of mine convinced me to take a tour of a world renowned local preschool that was the "cats meow" of modern childhood development.

It cost $300 a month.

For two days a week.

And parent participation once a week.

But I was (and still sorta am) a bit anxious about making sure that my demon seed had all the advantages I could possibly pave.

I showed up one day for my tour. Baby Calvin in my arms. (He is 1.5 years old at this point and not eligible for another 1.5 years)

I needed to take the tour because the waiting list for this mecca of toddler enhancement was miles long and supposedly if I didn't get my application in by the end of spring, then there would be no hope to Calvin's future success. 

The application came with a $60 fee and the promise that if I didn't sign the check I was relegating my son to a career in slaughter houses, substitute teaching, or god forbid, retail.

As I made my way across the gravel parking lot, I made eye contact with a tired looking old lady sitting on the bench outside the door.

I smiled. She glared

I said hello. She glared harder and cocked her head.

I made my way to the door and the old crone barked at me with both anger and a slight measure of panic.

"What are you here for!?" she said.

Now first of all, I may talk a tough game, but seriously, I'm 5'10". Neatly dressed. I drove into the parking lot in a powder blue Toyota echo, and I'm carrying a one year old in my arms.

The only thing that would make me less threatening would be a kitten in my other arm.

On top of that, I have never, ever, not even once, been barked at while in the company of my son. One of the reasons I take him everywhere is because people just melt at the sight of babies. Especially if they are quiet and relatively cute. And Calvin was quiet as a mouse outside the home, and he's even got a little dimple on one side of his cheek when he smiles. He ruled cute.

It took me a whole beat to catch my breath.

"Um, I'm here to see Leslie for a tour." I fumbled.

"Let me get her." she barked as she sped past me and through the front door.

A few moments later Leslie walks out. She asked me why my wife wasn't there, and I told her that my wife was working. She seemed a little put off, but began the tour in earnest.

Suffice it to say, the place was a wonderland. A summer camp for enriching the information starved minds of a little boys and girls.

I wanted to go there.

Old crone aside, I was totally ready to sign my money and my time on that dotted line.

But Leslie kept talking to me about how much my wife is gonna love this place.

How much fun my wife will have with the other mothers.

How much my wife will be able to learn about young childhood development from "Bev"

"Bev" of course being the gate keeper/attack dog I met outside.

"Bev" of course being a world renowned authority on early childhood development. 

"Bev" an obvious underachiever in basic adult communication skills.

Then it finally dawned on me. Though the application clearly said "parental participation" hidden in the unspoken water mark was this:

"Hey you, yeah you, the one with the post pubescent penis, you're totally not welcome here."

This was summer camp for soccer moms, not daddies. Cool moms who let their children play in the dirt, not men who would tell a four-year old with a skinned knee to "throw some dirt on it"

Now I have related this story to several people who are more familiar with "Bev" than I would ever care to be, and the reaction is usually shock.

They have very fond things to say.

yes, they are all girls.

Be that as it may, I didn't give preschool much thought after that. But for years it has loomed.

And my parental anxiety has shifted to a much more hands off conciliatory response. Let him play with guns, I say. Except I did spend fifteen minutes waiting around the corner just in case he tried to run out and find me, and then the two and a half hours I spent biting my nails and waiting for the phone to ring with tragic news on the other end.

But it's time to push a little society on him. Send him out into the dark world with a flashlight and a juice box.

So as I went to Calvin's first day, I sat filling out paperwork. The teachers made it very clear that they don't encourage parental participation. 

"Makes the children act weird" Gwen says.

I really like Gwen.

Most of the kids were dropped off by dads. Awesome.

(Awesome except for the very real possibility that those dad's recently lost their jobs. To which there is really no good response)

I finished the paperwork and kneeled down next to my son.

"I'm gonna go. Wanna give me a hug?" I said.

"Uh huh. Vrooom." and he sped off to the play area with his blue race car.

I walked out the room hug-less.

And then a truth occurred to me.

The emotional scarring of early childhood development isn't his. It's mine.

There's really nothing "Bev's" childhood wonderland does except ease a parents pain. Makes the wound a little less deep in the beginning. Falsely sets those fears some place else for later review.

But as every man should learn from every father:

"Son . . . measure twice. 

Cut once. 

And throw some dirt on it."