You think by making it through the day without a call saying the kids are hysterical that the first day in the Tiny Twoâ€™s class was a rousing success.
I showed up to the sandbox. The yard doody lady called out Searchâ€™s name. Five kids looked up. Because there are five Searchâ€™s in his class. Yes. He has one of those names. But to keep things interesting for the teachers, they all have unique spellings. (Jokeâ€™s on you, class roster!)
So heâ€™s got that going for him. That and the newly minted preschool identifying nickname: Little Search. Since heâ€™s the tiniest one on the playground. And what guy wouldnâ€™t love to have that name attached to him. I can hear it now, â€œYouâ€™re killinâ€™ me smallsâ€¦â€ (Yeah. I went there.)
I barely got a second glance from the two Tiny Twoâ€™s related to me.
Many mothers lament the despair they feel at leaving a wailing child behind. (Searchâ€™s look back this morning was more reflective of the woes of ineptitude demonstrated by his parent as he was dropped off at the new class.) The wailing would come later. When it was time to leave.
Evan did not feel this way. Evan came sprinting out of the gate like heâ€™d be on his mark, ready and set since his mommy dropped him off. Sadly, I am not Evanâ€™s mom. He was corralled. Poor Evan.
Finally, two little two-foot PigPens approached me. When the dust finished swirling and settled (right onto the white dress I had ill-advisedly worn on preschool pickup day), I was able to peer beneath the grit and grime to determine that there was a very high likelihood that these two were the tiny children Iâ€™d birthed two years ago. So I decided to take them home.
Both boys immediately began mewling, â€œbaaaaaaaa.â€ Hmm, Iâ€™m not completely fluent in toddler just yet. Christian preschool â€“ now lambs of God?
It apparently means, â€œup.â€
In any case, the last time I tried to carry both of them, one of them got dumped on the preschool pavement. I reminded them â€“ â€œGod gave you two legs. Use them.â€ Guess what suggestion didnâ€™t go over very well?
Major. Muppet. Meltdown.
Fellow parents came and went. Eyeing me. I was that parent. Standing there. Calmly surveying the carnage spewed by two terrible twos. “You’d think they’d be excited to go home after a busy day” type comments lobbed my way.
It was a battle of wills. Unfortunately, in a brief fit of insanity, I gave my son a name meaning â€œspirit of battle.â€ And also, karma is a bitch. There were equal odds on who was the favorite in this fight.
Destroy had slunk off to the empty ball pit in the corner, and was leaning up against the wall â€“ throwing a lone leftover ball up against the wall repeatedly.
To my left, we had Steve McQueen stuck in the Great [Preschool] Escape solitary confinement. To my right â€“ A Clockwork Orange.
By the time we got to the car, Search and Destroy had morphed into a tag team of WWE wrestlers unwilling to submit to the ultimate defeat of carseat straps.
More families passed us by. Polite little children smiling happily as they helped mommy or daddy buckle them in safe and sound. Their parents looking side-eyed over at the crazy shaking MomMobile as I yelled, â€œPut the duck down and sit still! â€ (It didnâ€™t make sense then, either.)
Followed by a wail of, â€œNO PANTS!!!â€ (I may not speak toddler fluently, but that one came through loud and clear.)
Then a sippy cup was hurled the length of a football field in an enhanced effort to exhibit displeasure. â€œI am two and I DONâ€™T have to like it!â€
Weâ€™ve all grown up being told not to cry over spilt milk. Can I get a clarification on *poured on purpose* milk?