Re-assuring hand to the rescue.
We thought we were, too, until 7 a.m. on the first day when my 3-year old grandson decided pre-school was not for him. He'd already been there twice over the summer, and had enjoyed the toys and accommodations. He unnerved his mother and brother as he sat on his bed and refused to get dressed.
"I NOT go-nin" he emphatically stated, with a look, his mother relayed, on his face that could turn Miami beach into a polar cap, and his little frame as stiff as an oak tree. "NOOOOO, I NOT!. . .I NOT!
His mother and brother said they tried everything from logic to bribery, and before they called backup. --Grandma would know what to do.
"Put his clothes on him and meet me in the parking lot." I said.
His mom was to start her journey toward earning a master's degree, and this was her first day of classes too. I arrived early and waited. When the car pulled in, the faces of mother and toddler were a study that no camera could ever capture. Hers was lined with stress, frustration, and worry; his with the scowl of a person about to serve a sentence for a crime he didn't commit.
I stifled laughter, assured her that worry was not necessary, wished her well, and sent her on her way. I firmly gripped his hand and led him into the little school with my stomach well on its way to knitting a shawl.
Was he going to scream and cry? Throw a tantrum? What next? This adorable boy could be a force to reckon with when he put his mind to it.
I led him to a shelf laden with little cars and trucks, and reminded him that he'd played here before. He chose a yellow truck. I took that as a major sign of recognition, and a giant step toward manhood. As he played, I spoke with his teacher, telling her of his earlier diatribe with his mom and older brother.
She looked confident enough; I assured him I would be back to get him at lunchtime and grateful that no tears were present.
I left and immediately and availed myself of the services at the church directly across the street. Appealing to a Higher Power couldn't hurt.
After Mass, I called the school. All was well. No tears or screams. A good time to do grocery shopping and pick up a special treat for lunch, but as I roamed the aisles, time hung as heavy as a rock around my neck, and half an hour later I was back waiting in the school parking lot.
Longmeadow resident and veteran writer Phyllis St. Pierre is a Bay Path College graduate who likes "the sheer joy of writing."
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