Quindergarten and Otto goes Solo

Quin hasn't turned five yet, but he thinks he's five, and all ages shoud come with the transformation that comes with believing your five. His underwear is too tight now, he told his mom, because he's five. Otto can have them, the benevolent blonde said. He's stronger now that he's five and, despite all evidence to the contrary, he can read now that he's five. Sometimes I tell him, "Quin, you're not actually five." But it doesn't seem to bother him. I guess official statistics become meaningless once you think you're five. Actually, I'm thinking about testing the psychological effects of just saying I can do things because I'm 38.

"I can finally fulfill my dream of become a pro football player."

"Why, because you're in great shape and were an exceptional athlete in college?"

"Nope. I'm 38."

Actually, this 38 year old has been doing very mild chair exercises to try and fix is back. I hurt it in the saddest way possible. It's wasn't football and I wasn't saving my family from a pack of cougars. I was at work, and was carrying a computer monitor when I stepped on it's cord. I did that weird thing where you stop yourself with your own progress, thus setting evolution back several thousand years. And I look the part on an early humanoid, walking slightly hunched over and sounding like I'm powered by periodic grunts. I should add that the computer monitor was one of those big ones from the 90s.

The injury comes at a bad time because Quin is now officially in kindergarten, and Otto is now on his own in preschool. I was hoping I could play and frolic and help the boys blow off some steam. Instead, I get to stare at the ceiling until the muscle relaxers put me to sleep.

What he lacks in size he makes up for in attitude.

Still, Quin has elevated our spirits in ways we thought they never could be elevated. For example, he said about Sarah and me that "school is a lot more fun when you're not there." Well, OK, stings a little, but the drugs help. I wanted to fire back how much easier life was before he was around, but I could sense that we'd won some sort of victory. And, most importantly, Sarah could feel a little less bad about shipping her baby boy off to Cruelty's stomping ground, aka public school.

Tonight, however, Quin followed up his second full day with the heart-wrenching, "Sometimes I want to cryOtto is prepared for his new life. but I also get real excited." Sarah could barely swallow her salad thinking of her little boy alone and sad and without his mom. I think in her head she sees him curled up on an icy plateau with high winds and children taunting him from the backs of hungry polar bears. It can get bad in these parental heads. We say we want the best for our child but it's hard from veering to the worst. And there's no way that I can see to comfort her. On his first full day of school, Quin was supposed to be in the after school program, but someone screwed up and he ended up in front of the school waiting for his mom to pick him up. He made fleeting mention of this before he went on to explain, with shrill excitement, ten other things that happened to him. But that one mention of waiting for a mom who wasn't there sent Sarah into a tailspin.

What did I do? I tried to comfort her. I shared with her that on my first day of kindergarten I too was left out front with no one to pick me up. It's a true story. I hung out by myself for over an hour before a neighbor of the school saw me. She called around until someone came and picked me up. Turns out my mom's Jeep had broken down and, in the days before cell phones, was forced to walk to the nearest communication. Sarah doesn't want to hear how her child's childhood mirrors mine. I'm a large man with smelly parts and libido and in no way should I even try to compete with the Evian bottles of purity that are her little boys. I should have listened to myself two years ago when I wrote this:

Unfortunately, I can’t comfort her like she comforts me. The dynamic has changed. Two little boys have their incomparable “boy mom:” The woman who understands the importance of trucks and dirt. She tips over stumps to find bugs. She discourages their experimental leaps off the patio but is there when they go terribly wrong. She’s a mom now. Words are smaller now. She's used to tears and laughter, smiles and first steps, so my familiar consolation is probably more annoying than helpful. Instead of trying to tell her things will be all right and sounding like that mosquito at bedtime, I stand by on call for when I can do something.

"On call," those are the words of a dad to live by. Just be there when you're needed, and you'll be fine. If that leads to a lot of awkward standing around, then at least look busy. That's why we have "projects" and football. They keep us distracted until we can actually be of value.

Which brings me to Otto. He was supposed to be the real emotional one during this transition. He'd just left

They've got each other's back. his cozy home daycare to be with Quin at the preschool, and then a month later his big brother left him for Kindergarten, or "five-year-old school" as it's called around here. Turns out, Otto is fine. He didn't even flinch. The month he and his brother had together was priceless. Big brother could help out the younger guy and teach him the ropes of the Rainbow Room--you know the cliques, the gangs, the pitfalls and where to put the firetruck when you're done playing with it.

Otto, though, is keen on figuring things out. He wasn't even yet one year old when he discovered a shortcut to toddler glory. Quin was closing in on three and having some trouble focusing on eating his dinner. So making a "happy plate" became a big deal. (In case you have a life with adult friends and adult activities, a "happy plate" is a plate with no food left on it.) Worried that our eldest was veering towards some behavioral issues, we really hammered the applause when he finished his food. Otto, who sat silently in his kid chair and diligently mowed through his dinner, had to endure this every night. To get in on the accolades, he too made a happy plate, but with an asterisk. After we cheered Quin for his eating endeavor, Otto grabbed everything on his plate, set it on the table, and then made touchdown arms to signal his achievement. It was as if he said in a mafioso voice, "See, there's my friggen happy plate."

It was hard not to give him a standing ovation. For one, it was creative, and two, it was like seeing the early development of a wealthy banking executive. Oh, one day to be protesting on one of my own son's lawns. Then I'll know they've made it.

So here's Otto, now the big kid at his school, walking the halls like he's got Staying Alive playing in his head, and Quin happy to ditch us for a day of kindergarten. I think those are good signs. As long as they don't mind their mom and their gimpy father crimping their style at the end of the day.

I feel ya big guy. I do.