device for intentionally driving parents beyond the extreme outer limits of parental patience.
And so it was, that when the box from Ohio was opened, out came... a new, tinny little snare drum.
"Mother!" my wife screamed at Grandma, "How could you DO this to us? Can't you hear it in the background? It's bang, bang, bang all day."
"I know, dear," Grandma said calmly, "but every little boy should have a drum."
"I told you we already had a drum in the house and. I've tried to accidentally drive over it twice, but Billy rescues it at the last minute. He could have used this one at YOUR house! You should have warned me it was coming! It's driving me crazy!"
"Well, you used to have a drum," she said, practicing her newly acquired, grandmotherly demeanor, and then administered the coup de grace: "and I didn't mind."
"I don't believe you!" the daughter shouted. "You're just trying to get back at me! What did I ever do to you that makes you want to... (hand over the mouth piece) BILLY! Will you stop banging that drum! (back to mom) Mom, I've got to go. I can't promise this little present of yours will make it until Christmas. Bye."
Grandpa walked into the kitchen in Ohio just as Grandma was hanging up the phone. "How are things in Chicago," he asked.
"Just fine," she replied. "They got the box and little Billy is having fun."
"That's nice."
"Yes," she said, with a knowing smile and a devious little twinkle in her eye. “It is.”
Two Hours of Bonding
"Don't worry, Honey," my friend Bill told his wife Nancy, "I know you need your night out with the moms. I'll take the boys for a couple of hours. We'll have some fun."
You need to know that Bill is a senior executive with a large retail group in Texas. His work is his life. He has buyers all over the country asking him for advice. He gets to tell marketing people and manufacturers and suppliers and store managers what to do. And everybody listens. Yet, it is this corporate executive, this marvelous manager of men, who is about to take his sons, two and four years old, respectively, people who rarely listen to what he says, out for a night on the town. Inwardly, he is terrified.
"I've got it all figured out," he explained to his wife as she hurried by him for the door. "We'll go out for some pizza and then we'll go over to the pool. That'll wear 'em out. Right, honey?" he shouted as the car streaked out of the garage. Right, he said to himself.
True to his word, he strapped his fine blonde sons into the car with an encouraging "Let's go, men, just you and me."
"Right, Pop," the four year old said.
They went to the local Pizza Joe's and checked into a cozy high-backed booth. The boys were seated across from each other of course because if they sat together, they'd be wrestling like Popeye and Bluto under the table in less than a minute. This way, Dad was at least able to order before the war began.
"...and, oh, waitress," the executive said, "I need you to bring a basket of rolls and some milk for the kids while we're waiting... a small glass of milk." She nodded her understanding, like "You didn't have to tell me that, Buster." Meanwhile, after cadging Dad's Cross pen and pencil set from the pocket where they normally live, the kids were drawing quietly and dutifully on their placemats, only occasionally trying to kick each other in the knee. Aren't we doing well, Bill thought to himself.
Then the waitress arrived with two HUGE glasses of milk, 16 ounces each if they were a shot, filled absolutely to the brim. Oh man, Bill mumbled, now we got trouble. And sure enough, mere minutes passed before the boys were engaged in a finger-pointing battle. You may have seen this in action in some roadside or campus bar... it's usually two burly males jabbing their index fingers at each other yelling "You.You.You." The kids were having a great time, but getting a little loud, so Officer Dad commanded: "Hey! Pipe down!" This surprised the younger of the offspring which threw off the aim of his latest jab, causing a forceful finger to hit the tub of milk and send it sailing across the table and onto... Dad. Head, shoulders, chest and pants. A complete douse job.
A sudden hush filled the room until Dad barked to his wide-eyed sons: "You: To that corner. You: To the other corner. Don't move." Out of shock and fear, they did as they were told while Dad dripped onto the table. The waitress and a busboy arrived with large terry towels to mop up both messes, the one on the table and the one seated there. The restaurant began to murmur. "It's okay folks," Bill said, playing the room. "We do this every Wednesday night." There were polite chuckles and soon the room returned to normal. The pizza arrived and everybody felt better, except that the milk had begun to dry to a nice crust on Bill's scalp and the gold Cross pen oozed milk when retracted. "At least I'll get to rinse off in the pool," he said to himself as they left the restaurant.
"Omigod, no," he grumbled as he turned into the parking lot of the community rec center where the pool office was dark. "It's closed. No shower. What'll I do? Think fast. I know! MINIATURE GOLF!" The car hardly stopped as it swung in a wide arc out of the lot. Into the night, with the plaintive cries of "Daaaaaaad, we wanna go swimmin!" ringing in his ears, he sped to the nearest putt-putt palace.
It took an hour to play one round of golf on that hot summer night in Texas. But it seemed like eons, for every time the kids dawdled over a bug on a light bulb or knocked their balls into the water holes so they could fish with the putters, or whanged the ball out of the lane and into the cup two fairways over, the game got longer. The longer it went, the more our pal Bill dried out and began to sour. "Come on, boys, let's get through these holes," he was heard urging his team on number 15. "People are beginning to wonder what died in this park."
And when at last they arrived home, mom was waiting. Old Bill's hair was stiff and flaking, his shirt and pants smelled like week-old butter. The kids were jabbering a mile a minute, wired way beyond tiredness. She watched him curiously, holding her nose and trying real hard not to laugh as he played the nonchalant. "What were you doing out there, bonding?" she said, tears filling her eyes. In response, he said only, "We bonded. For two hours, we bonded. We're all men now." He paused. "And how was your evening?"
"Fine," she blurted, doubled over in loud, tearful peals of laughter.
The Candy Days
Shafts of weak November sunshine paint eerie morning streaks on the clump of teachers waiting nervously inside the doorway at the preschool. No one speaks, though the biting of fingernails and darting eyes warn of impending danger.
“There it is! Listen! I hear it,” one whispers
“I hear it too,” another says. “They’re coming. Is the detox plan in place?”
In the distance, a high-pitched whine like the sound of a million swarming bees or a dull buzz saw tearing through hardwood, grows louder. In moments, it becomes a jumble of variegated young voices yammering all at once. The teachers press themselves against the hallway walls as the onslaught becomes imminent. One young intern begins to whimper, but nobody notices because the din turns deafening when the hordes descend.
No, it’s not the legions of Hannibal pouring out of the Alps. Nor is it the Charge of the Light Brigade, Custer’s Last Stand, the Boxer Rebellion or Pearl Harbor. It is, believe it or not, 25 children simply arriving at pre-school on the day after Halloween.
This is one of two days teachers dread more than any other during the school year. The other is the day after Valentine’s Day. They’re called The Candy Days. The reason is, of course, that, on those days, it seems the entire American population of people under the age of ten has overdosed on complex hydrocarbons used as the ingredient in a major food group for children: sugar.
There is a story of the mother who arrived in her kitchen the morning after Halloween night only to find candy wrappers all over the floor and her normally docile young son twitching, well into the smiling throes of a magnificent sugar high. She touched him and he jumped nearly to the ceiling. There was nothing else to do but catch him mid-leap in a large burlap bag and cart him off to school. Mom reasoned: he can decompress there, under the g
uidance of professionals.
The curb at the pre-school is chaos. Wild animals disguised as children in backpacks are jumping in and out of vans, shrilly hollering thick-tongued nonsense. Moms are coaxing them out. Teachers are coaxing them into the building, but it is like herding cats. With time and a gentle persuasion usually reserved only for mid-seizure epileptics, the students end up inside the building in their proper classrooms.
The teachers clap their hands to get attention. “Children, children,” they shout over the din. “It’s time to get to work.” But the wild-eyed beasties aren’t listening. They are whirling like tops, chattering like a roomful of moneys in heat. They fidget. They babble. Some drool. One veteran teacher asks her assistant: “Darla, would you kindly peel Kareem off the wall? We’re going to do some jumping jacks.”
For the next half hour, the children are encouraged to jump and shout, run in place, do ultra-fast jumping jacks and challenge each other with sit-up contests. They work hard, bouncing and flailing their arms until legs get wobbly and the arms don’t raise quite as high until finally, they collapse into tiny heaps on the rug. Then they take a milk break. They eat cheese and crackers and grapes. At the end of an hour, the shrieking harpies have disappeared and normal toddlers have returned to earth.
The intern, still in
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