The Little Man Blues

…or maybe it’s just the weather.

No, I think it’s mostly The Boy. Gonna have to start calling him The Little Man soon, since that’s what he’s becoming. Which was the plan all along. An unfortunate side effect of The Plan is heartbreak, however. (Ah geez, I’m pretty sure I’ve written this line before, maybe even this disclaimer.)

We only have the one kid, so we only get a single trip to the circus. And what a wild ride it’s been.

The son of a bitch is old enough to read now, so I’ll skip over the first year or so of his life, when he was a hilarious delight who did everything you’d want an infant to do except sleep and defecate.

But those were the nights that he and I sat together and watched then-newly acquired episodes of “The Johnny Cash Show” until sunrise, hours later. After a while, when anybody but the host would show up onscreen, The Boy would point accusingly at the TV and insist, “Cash! Cash!” It was one of his first words. So was “Daddy.”

(Of course every kid’s first word is “NO!” Little bastards.)

Year five was magic. The Missus and I both recall feeling especially blessed when he was five. I’d have to go back and read blogs from that period to tell you why, but that would smack too much of research. I think it was because five was the last year of purely unconditional mutual love; as soon as we started putting conditions on our approbation, the drama began to occur.

Thus it was that year six was a relative rough ride. It was then that we discovered we’d dropped the ball on making sure he was keeping up with his peers, both skills-wise and socially. I mean, the way we raised him would have been ideal for my generation’s childhood, but then, I did not have homework in first grade or metal detectors at school, either.

So we kind of screwed the pooch on that one, but upon discovery of our mistake, took immediate action to bring him up to speed fast. He learned to read in no time. The bike was slower progress, but there was a much greater chance that he would fall and hurt himself on a bike than lounging on the couch, reading “Henry Huggins.” We took him to swim classes every year we’ve been out here, and he can now stay alive in the water. The Missus plans to teach him to swim properly this summer and I’ll bet they do it.

The best thing we’ve done, though, is enroll him in taekwondo. It took two tries, but the second time it stuck. Now he’s got a green belt and a black dobock and looks pretty damn sharp:

He’s demonstrating courage, moxy and resolve that so far is limited to the taekwondo mat, but is a happy revelation nonetheless. He not only wants to do his own classes, he’s itching to get out there and help with the lower-rank belts’ classes. The instructors are terrific with the kids and he and I both feel welcome and happy there.

New first-grade behavior includes going ballistic almost every morning when directed to begin preparing to leave for school. Things get thrown around, foot-stomping occurs, veiled and open threats are hurled, he’s even pounded on me a few times when I couldn’t stop laughing at the spectacle of this very even-tempered child completely losing his shit. (Hint: It only makes the kid angrier when his tantrum is laughed at instead of addressed with the disrespect and volume with which it is issued.)

But it’s all been good. He’s always been good. More than good, loving. He only stopped blowing kisses goodbye this school year (damn you, first grade!). All of his first written words consisted of variations of his name and “love.” He’s so damned loving he’s completely passive and reactive, and an outlier among his peers. That’s why we got him into martial arts.

Tomorrow is his last day of first grade. It’s no big deal to him, but to us it’s another page turned, another step on his journey to not needing nor wanting to be with us.

[It’s The Plan. Must stick to The Plan! The Plan is everything…]

I hate change even when it’s good. If I won the lottery, I would resent the hell out of having to leave the house to accept the giant check. Anyone ever heard of direct deposit? Good Lord, it’s 2013.

Change when it’s hard is especially disorienting. I go to pieces. This time it should pass more quickly than usual; a few days after school ends, The Missus is going on a business trip and I’ll have 10 days alone with The Boy. Just like last summer, we are going to establish a regimen that involves a laundry list of self-improvements (for him; my ship has sailed) and personal victories to accomplish that will hopefully have become routine by the time The Missus returns and will continue throughout the summer.

As of tomorrow, The Boy will be a first-and-a-half grader and another day closer to the first time he tells me to go fuck myself. My cup is full of equal parts gratitude and dread.

But the cask in the cellar is all gratitude, baby.