I’m being Kindergartened to death!

As I’m sure I mentioned before, we won an actual lottery and got The Boy into arguably the best K-8 school in town. (I wouldn’t ague, but I’m sure people from other schools in town would.)

Because this school is so progressive and hands-on, everything is great as great could be. The Boy is flourishing socially and scholastically, his teachers love him and he them, the after-school art program is all he ever talks about… you’d think everything would be great.

Except for, along with all the cool greatness comes a lot of extra parental responsibility, usually in the form of me having to drag my lazy ass out into the elements at least once daily to go pick him up and bring him home. That means, among other things, having to put on actual clothes at least five times a week. This week there will be six because one day I had to drive him in, too.

And at school, there are expectations—stated up-front—of a lot of parent involvement.

With which I am down, don’t get me wrong.

But today’s special event, the second in three days requiring parental attendance, kinda did it for me. I have reached my limit on public appearances for the moment and need to take a step back. I’m really glad school is closed next week. They wouldn’t dare schedule extracurriculars during vacation week, would they?

Anyhow, I wasn’t gonna go today. I had a solid-gold excuse all lined up, but then I stopped for just a moment and thought about The Boy. The Missus had already said that because of her work schedule she expected to arrive just on time, and I don’t want to risk our kid to be the one sitting there, scanning the crowd in vain, alone in a sea of happy families.

I really don’t feel ready to debut my new grille in public yet—especially at an eating-themed event—but again, this isn’t about me. I figure The Boy will be happier having a defective Daddy by his side than none at all.

Goddammit to hell. I hate it when it’s not about me.