Quin is on his way into Kindergarten

What a meandering trail we've traveled. With rocket shoes on a wet tile floor. I'll only ask once and then my whiny interrogation is over: How in the Hell is Quin in kindergarten?

Sarah had me sneak peaks over the classroom windows. It was his kindergarten evaluation and we weren't allowed in, which is good, because like all parents our kids seem to do better when we're not around. We were late to the orientation, but just by a few minutes. Quin didn't mind at all, and neither did Otto, they were just excited to be going to a big school, one with a gym and a cafeteria and built with those same pale bricks that built every school in the 60s and 70s. They bounded in front of us and Sarah and I sped walked towards the elementary school that wasn't coming any closer. It seemed to fall away with every step, and with that, our child's future in peril by my sleeping in.

But we arrived and found smiling middle-aged women still able to fake it around yet another sweaty, overprotective set of doe-eyed parents. Mrs. Knoll took Quin's hand and they departed as if they'd made a date he couldn't wait to go on. That left Sarah and I to alternately fill out paperwork and stare at the door wondering what could be going on. Quin sometimes cracks under pressure, would he crumble? Was he curled up in the corner and sending the clear message that he wasn't ready? You know he's only four. Maybe he's not ready. I bet he's not. No, he's not ready. We're certain of it. We only want the best for him.

I gave up on flogging our progeny and decided to peak into the low hung kindergarten windows. I rose on my toes, with at first my bald dome visible, and then furrowed brow before finally getting my eyes in place above the pane to scan the room. It dawned on me that just seeing that could set Quin back a year. He didn’t, so I took in the details: the little chairs around little tables, shelves of art supplies and colorful bins full of toys. It took me back to a place where I drew and colored and ate graham crackers and never knew I'd be so head-over-heels about someone who can't pee without taking his pants clear down to his ankles.

It was at one of those tables where I saw Quin engaging in a casual conversation with a woman fifteen times his age. She spoke to him, and then he responded--a novel idea but one that, for me, is hard to come by without clapping in front of his face followed by a lecture on listening.

My toes asked me to stop so I dropped before going back up for more. This time he was writing. He can write? I asked myself. He had a classic #2 pencil and he seemed to be taking instruction from the teacher. Who in the sweet Christmas was this kid? I've been fake-writing his name in greeting cards with my left hand because he routinely refuses to do it. I wanted to beat on the glass and warn the woman that that kid could be a doppelganger.

Sarah, just a few inches shy of my 5-foot nine and three quarters, begged me to get a tiny video clip. And so, being the douchiest parent of all time, through a window I sneaked a video of a child doing a closed screening. There's so much wrong about that, but here it is:

Quin would emerge as if nothing had happened and, according to him, that's what went down, "Nothing.” I wanted to pick him up and hold him against a wall and shout whisper, "Tell me everything that happened in there!" But I'm not crazy like that. The teacher said that he did "great" and that she did not yet know which class he'll be in. They mix the top and bottom performers, she explained, so the class has a combination of all types of learners. I wanted to know more...Did he beat the kid before him? Was he more than you could have ever imagined? How did he do versus the Japanese?

All we got was that it was positive. That'll do.