And I Kicked the Football
I find there are three main types of parents at pickup and drop-off at daycare:
(1) The ones always in a hurry. Usually they’re having to rush off to work or trying to get home at the end of the day to have dinner on the table before their children go into a rage. They show up in semi-professional attire, their kids walking at a snail’s pace down the hallway, distracted by any artwork they see or some new, exciting scrap of paper on the floor. Overall, they’re put together but have a tinge of anxiety about them, everything is rushed.
(2) The parents that really have it together. They’re dressed well or in uniform (we live in an area with a large military population) and heading off to work. They have a sense of order and timeliness to them. Their kids are dressed nicely and walking in an orderly fashion to their respective classrooms. The key here is the parents are firmly in control of the situation.
(3) The ones that are surviving. These are the parents that show up in sweatpants or exercise attire, with bedhead or messy updos and, honestly, they don’t look too entirely different in the afternoons. They typically have slightly feral children but you can tell they have fun as a family, they’re holding it together but they’ve definitely given up on having any sense of order or propriety in their lives and honestly, they don't look all that worried about it.
For the record, I fall firmly in that last group. When Calvin was younger I was able to wake up, exercise, shower and get dressed before taking him to school. I was put together and, since he was a pretty easy baby, I at least felt like I was in control. That has definitely changed.
Having a toddler is very different and, to add to it, Henry has a devious side to him that makes me pretty concerned for his next ten years. My morning routine now consists of attempting to wake up, exercise and shower before dropoff but my record is very low. These boys are exhausting and if I can get dressed in somewhat appropriate attire prior to taking them to school, great. Messy hair, don’t care. And don’t even think I’m about to put makeup on.
We’ll make it to daycare, usually on the later side, with Calvin running through the halls being a monkey swinging through the trees or crawling around on the ground because he’s… who knows what.
Currently, his favorite game to play in the hallways is fantasy football. No, not the fantasy football you’re thinking of where he picks real players to be on his team. He is the football player as he runs, top speed, down the hall throwing, catching, kicking and getting tackled with his imaginary football and fellow players. There he is, running past other children, parents coming and going and whoever has the unfortunate timing of being there at that time. He’ll be grunting, doing a half sit up to stand from being tackled, kicking his foot up in the air and falling backward yelling “And I kicked the football!” Because, apparently, no matter what you do with a football, you have to fall down afterward.
Could I stop him? Yes. Could I make him walk in an orderly fashion through the hallways, staying clear of other people’s paths? Probably not, but I could try. But alas, he is my feral child. And if this small game that he plays makes him happy, then who is it really bothering? For the record, if the answer is you then maybe we shouldn’t be friends.