Demise of the Dinosaur

The other day I overheard one of Adam’s teachers lecturing a group of his classmates on the proper etiquette for playing dinosaurs. Yes, apparently there is a right and a wrong way to play with dinosaurs – at least within the confines of the Fireflies classroom. I was not witness to the original paleontological faux paux, but by the tone and context of the conversation at hand and I am guessing one of these young pre-schoolers had had the audacity to growl. Gasp. They all sat there, wide-eyed soaking in the lesson on how growling dinosaurs are scary and how it would be more appropriate for these prehistoric beasts to be strolling for food or taking care of baby dinosaurs.

I had almost wished that my child had been one of the poor souls having to endure this lesson on “friendly” dinosaur play because then it would have been my business to tell her – in a diplomatic, non-growling type of way – that she’s full of shit. Dinosaurs growl, they fight. Has she never seen Land Of The Lost? There is nothing “friendly” about dinosaurs – except maybe Barney but that’s a completely different life lesson in tolerance and acceptance. If you don’t want the kids growling, don’t give them dinosaurs. It’s like giving them race cars and telling them not to make tire-screeching noises.

I guess maybe I’m a little more critical of this because I have a boy. Boys are loud, boisterous and love things that crash, destroy, fly and growl. This is ingrained into their souls and brains and almost anything, from carrot sticks to a piece of gravel, put into their chubby little fingers will be turned into some kind of flying machine shooting lasers at the bad guys within a matter of minutes. And to squash this imagination, to condemn the essence of what being a young boy is, to me is senseless and detrimental. Not to mention it is lessons like these along with other such hits as – everyone wins and everyone gets a turn that is making my son a passive, wallflower weenie that doesn’t understand that no one on his pre-school soccer team is going to “give” him a turn. He needs to take it. Just like he is going to need to take that college scholarship if he wants it, take that job promotion and take that chance on the girl of his dreams. Of course I want my son to be friendly, forgiving, sensitive and empathetic, but very little in life will be handed out. We need to take it. And sometimes we even need to growl to get it. Go get it , Adam.

Godfather - The New Generation

So apparently last week at school Adam came across a dollar in his pocket that had taken a ride throught the washer after a trip to The Dollar Store. After several times of asking him to keep his money in his pocket, his teacher told him that next time he took it out she was going to take it from him. His response. . . . .

"If you did, my dad wouldn't be very happy about that."

There's something kinda creepy about veiled threats from a three-year old.

Good-bye, friend!

I hate good-byes. Hate them. Not the good-byes at the end of an evening with friends, or even the good-byes at the end of a visit when you know you won't be seeing the person for several months. It's the forever good-byes that leave me feeling something akin to a dull ice pick has gouged clear through my heart. Even when its not me that's really doing the good-bying.

Today is Adam's best friend's last day at school before he moves to Illinois. They have been friends since Nick started at 6mos old. Can a 6mos old really have a "friend"? I can honestly say, yes. Adam and Nick have intentionally played together since they could crawl to each other. They would chase each other around the highchairs on their chubby little knees and as they got older give each other hugs, unprovoked, several times a day. They have spent five days a week for three years together playing, painting and napping and have learned everything from walking to talking to pooping on the potty within each other's sight. In essence, they are brothers.

So last night Adam and I made Nick a personalized Lightning McQueen keychain out of foam craft beads as a going away gift. While I watched Adam clumsily thread the plastic string through each letter of Nick's name I thought whether or not to try and explain about Nick moving away. Should I try and tell him in three-year old terms what was coming or just wait and see if he asks about him. I went with the proactive approach since experience has taught me Adam usually takes things pretty well if he has time to roll them around in his head a few times. "So, tomorrow is Nick's last day at school." He continued to thread the beads. "Nick and his mommy and daddy are moving to a new town". More beads. "After tomorrow, Nick won't be in your class anymore". His little hands stopped, and he looked up at me with this bewildered, sad face and said matter of factly, "But I will miss him" as if making this statement would clear these crazy thoughts of moving from everyone's head. "I know you will sweetie, so will I". But the saddest part for me isn't that he'll miss him, it's that after a week or two, he won't. A three-year old lives with very little past and even less future. They are completely in the moment. So even though Nick has been his pal, his playmate, his co-consipirator for three years, little more than a flicker of memory and a scrapbook page documenting their brotherhood will remain. I know Adam will make other friends, even Adam knows this. . . within minutes of finishing the beaded keychain he was talking repeatedly of Sean, another boy in his class, but still that wickedly dull ice pick haunts my heart when I think of the budding friendship that will be lost. . . . and the possiblility that for even a moment my little boy's heart might feel the same way.