just a few of those words

"Gorgeous boys." I said that to myself as I walked out of Otto's room. I was doing the final check before going to bed, and there's nothing more beautiful than a sleeping child. I don't want to sound like I'm less fond of them when they're awake. But seeing them sleeping: eyes closed, dreaming, and the hallway light across their soft faces, my lord, it could kill a person. I've set a goal to write a 1000 words a night, but seeing them fills me with 10,000 more. I still go to bed. Those guys will be awake soon.

Otto got some props today. I walked in to daycare and was writing down their checkout time when I heard a familiar whimper. It was Otto, he'd heard me talking to a teacher. He was upset that I was in the vicinity and not holding him. There's not a more flattering gesture in the world.

I turned around to see him being held by the infant teacher. "Infants?" I wondered aloud. The teacher said, "I don't know why he's in here, but he's been with the little guys all afternoon." Otto has graduated from the infants, and now totters around with nine other one-year-old boys in what looks like a shrunken mafia. Their bellies stick out, they kiss each other on the cheek and the territorial battles are epic.

All this cuteness and here I am, the asshole.  You never think you're going to be the crazy asshole parent, but it happens. Before you know it you'll desert your neighborhood, your local family, your principles just to get to an area with better schools. And I never thought I'd be the guy interrogating overworked daycare teachers. But I did.

"Why is Otto with the infants?" I asked the assistant manager. "Has he been demoted?" I lightened my tone when I realized how ridiculous and serious I sounded.

"No, actually, he was a role model today," she said and breezed down the hall. Everyone and everything moves at the daycare. Nothing remains still.  The teachers seem to ride on the waves of little people energy. Even if they'd rather get off and rest, they can't help but be whipped around by the swirl of activity. Just being in there ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes at night is exhausting.

The assistant manager slipped into another classroom.  I stepped out of her wake and into the toddler room. I had to pick up Otto's daily progress sheet. His is pretty basic, he eats and he naps. Sometimes there's some detail about finger painting or discovering sand or some such, but his life is pretty awesome. And, according to the toddler teacher, Otto's skills were put into action. Apparently he was in the infant room because there's a baby boy who doesn't eat all that much. So, they brought in an expert. Another common item on O's daily report is something like, "Ate three bananas and five helpings of tuna!"  He has indeed impressed, and I think sometimes even scared, the ladies. Several times I've picked him up in borrowed clothes. They'll explain that he went through all his spares during a particularly passionate exchange with yogurt. The guy loves his food, and now he's a role model. My man.

I was happy that I asked why Otto was in the infant room. When I get home Sarah wants those details. And getting all the minutiae is important. It's the modern version of  the man slaying a dragon for his damsel in waiting. I would prefer killing a dragon.  But since those days are gone, the only way for a man to impress his woman is getting the entire story behind a workplace pregnancy, a friend's family drama, or proving he's pressed the daycare provider for the best possible situation for their child.

I'm always proud to tell Sarah when I've gotten to the bottom of one disturbing anomaly or another. For example, Quin took one of his mini monster trucks to school and thought he lost it. I followed up and found it in his cubby. Dragon down.

I wish I could go slay something for the boys, too. But we have bigger beasts to kill. College. Orthodontics. Whatever Otto eats.

The day blasts by and again I'll only be a few minutes from bed. I brush my teeth faster than I used to so I can go check on the guys. In two years Quin has slept in his bunk bed twice. Otherwise he's on the floor by the door. I'll crack it open to see him twisted into his pillow. He's three-feet long with less body fat than Formica.  When he sleeps he's ten-feet long with a trailer and takes up an entire room.

Otto will be out cold. He either sleeps like he's been dropped from ten stories, his arms and legs spread out, or curled up on his side. Either way is the cutest possible way for a human to rest.

Gorgeous boys. I'll go to bed now, and sleep on another 10,000 words.