Settle Down, Francis

Let’s get this right out of the way at the top of this essay. Daycare isn’t bad, and it’s actually GOOD for your kids. The problem with daycare is all of the Moms there, but we’ll get to that in a minute. But for all of you that feel bad about sending your kids there need to shut up. And I’m not talking about sending them to Grandpa’s every day; I’m talking about an actual pre-school. Let me present the 3 most important reasons why you need to send them to daycare as soon as humanly possible:

Integration
Kids need to be around other kids. Staying home with Mom all day, while she ignores them watching the View, and ordering wreaths from Target online isn’t going to do them any good. Your kids need to be around other kids, if for no other reason, so that they can learn how to interact with other kids. How to play nice. How to work in groups. How to follow directions. I’m convinced that one of the reasons I can’t stand being around people is because my mother kept me home until the age of 5, and didn’t schedule any play-dates. I was raised like veal. Sure, if you’re like my son, you’ll probably bite someone for not sharing a Transformer, but at least it’s gonna give your kid a sense of what the real world is like.

Germs
I’m of the opinion that exposure to germs is a good thing for kids. It builds up an immune system, so that they’re not always getting sick at the drop of a hat. Going to daycare exposes them to saliva covered Legos, and assists in this immunity building. And guess what, they’re not exactly scrubbing for surgery coming out of the bathroom. I’m 35 years old, and I KNOW I ate dirt while I was outside playing with Voltron. And you know what? I don’t get sick. I don’t. I’m also convinced that because the lot of you have kept those brats home with you, that you’re the reason why my kids can’t bring peanut butter within a 30 mile radius of their schools. There were no peanut allergies when I was a kid, you tell me where that came from.

Life
You need to get your life back. This is another one that I get a ton of shit about. I know you think your kids are the most important things in the world, but they’re not, they’re only part of it. Guess what, you need to get back to work, and earn a wage, and come back to the land of the living, and interact with adults. I’ve talked to older parents who spent their whole life catering to their kids every stupid whim, and when they move out at 18, they don’t know what to do with themselves. Plus, your kids aren’t going to remember you dropping them off somewhere so you can go to work. Do you remember anything from when you were 3? I don’t. And don’t lie, you don’t either. I was at my son’s daycare the other day, and one of the hens asked another if she was going back to work, because this was her son’s last year there. “Oh, NO”, she replied, like she had been asked if she was into anal, which judging by her walk, I’m sure she was.

The flip side to all of this is that just because you bring them to daycare, you really need to work on being a lot less of an asshole. I recently went to an early morning Halloween Parade at my son’s daycare, and it really is a good thing I don’t own a lightsaber, because I would have taken all these Moms out in an extermination that would rival the Jedi Purge.

When I pull in to the school, I go to park, and I realize that the thing that pisses me off every morning about these people is worse today because they’re all there. Every single one of these Moms drives an enormous SUV that you could fit the entire Third Reich in. I’ve seen most of these women, they’re small little things who spend their free time doing yoga, and power walking, so they look completely lost driving these tanks. I know most of them only have 1 or 2 kids, but for some reason, they need to maneuver through my town in these things. I guess they need to bring as much shit with them from home as possible, just in case one of their precious needs to play with Dora the Explorer RIGHT NOW.

As I’m walking in, there’s a Mom bringing her son in (late, which I would later find out why), and he’s struggling with her. She yanked his arm, and remarked, “Settle down, Francis”, which made me laugh because it reminded me of Sgt. Hulka from Stripes. In any event, she’s pulling this poor kid, dressed like a Buzz Lightyear who’s seen a LOT of space combat into the school, where the kids are supposedly ready to show of their costumes. She’s clearly frazzled, because I’m sure this little setback in schedule wasn’t in her plan for the entire day.

Walking into the school, it became immediately apparent that I was the only male there. My wife had dropped Will off at school earlier, and delivered his classes cookies, and treats, so I was off the hook for actually bringing in something. As I walk into the main classroom, there they are, and every one of them have those bugged-out crazy eyes. You know what I’m talking about, they look like they’re in a constant state of surprise. I swear these are the same women from the bus stop, but I try to put that out of my head. I decide that, even though I don’t know any of these women, I’m going to at least smile, and try to integrate myself into their conversations. I scan the room, they’re broken into 3 cliques, and they’re all yapping.

Ok, fine, let’s see which one of these conversations I can integrate myself into.

Overheard conversation 1:
“Well, Francis couldn’t decide what to be this morning, I bought him 4 costumes, and he couldn’t make up his mind, and we just fought, and fought about who he wanted to be.”

Four costumes? You bought a 3-year-old boy FOUR fucking costumes, and you’re going to let him pick which one to wear? THAT MORNING? Uh-uh, sorry. It goes 2 ways at our house:

“What do you want to be for Halloween?”
“I want to be <insert shitty character here>”
“Perfect, let’s go find or make one.”

Or

“What do you want to be for Halloween?”
“I don’t know”
“You’re wearing last year’s costume.”

Guess I’m not joining this conversation.

Overheard conversation 2:
“WellMadisondoesn’tliketoeatalotofthingssowemakeheraseparatemealatdinnertimesoit’slikeIhavetodo2differentshoppingsbecauseshe
justdoesn’twantanythingthatweeatbutit’sokbecauseIlovetocook,Imadethepumpkinbreadthismorningdidyoutrysomeit’smyownrecipeit
tookmetwohoursjusttomixitbutImadeaseparatebatchforJade’sclassatthesametime.”

Jesus Christ. Even if I wanted to get a word in, it’d be impossible. She must be a blast at home. I kept waiting for her to ask me if I wanted to go in the back room and do some coke.

Overheard conversation 3:
“I should sneak out now, because he’s going to cry when he sees me leave.”
“I can take him home with me, if you want.”

This seemed like a conversation I could at least relate to. Unfortunately, their backs are to me; so I’ve got to sneak in a laugh, or an “I know” just to integrate myself into the conversation. I finally saw my opportunity when they were talking about Miley Cyrus, and how their husbands can’t stand her. That’s when I said, laughing, “I’d have to agree”.

Big mistake.

I didn’t say it loud enough to scare them, but all three of them jumped like Scotty just beamed me into the room from the Enterprise. They looked at me, and one of them actually asked me if I had children that went to the school. As if I just randomly show up at schools to watch kids I don’t know parade around in costumes. It’s probably because I didn’t have a suit on. All the other mornings that I drop Will off, I see every other Dad in a suit, which I guess signifies that they’re professional. I don’t wear suits, I actually turned down a $70,000 job once because I’d have to wear a suit everyday. I felt out of place being the only Dad to see my son in his costume, which, by the way, I JUST SAW HIM IN IT AN HOUR AGO. I really should be father of the year. I’m the only dad here, while all the other dads are at work, wearing suits, fucking their secretaries because they can’t stand their spouses, because they’re TOO INVOLVED IN THEIR KIDS LIVES.

Now the kids are finally parading through. Apparently the 2 most popular costumes for 4-year-old girls this year are Dorothy, from the Wizard of Oz, and Slut.

There’s Will, the only cool kid at this place, dressed as Darth Vader. They won’t let him carry his lightsaber, because they’re afraid someone will get hurt. You can’t give a kid a lightsaber, and not expect him to swing it around, and I’m pretty sure nobody’s going to get hurt, but ok, maybe it’s a good idea. When I opened the package the night before, I swung it around, made lighsaber noises, and knocked over a glass of wine. As they’re parading through, the flash bulbs are popping off like Will Smith at a movie premiere, and the video recorders are recording EVERYTHING. I’m not sure how many pictures you need of your kid dressed up in their Halloween costume at school, but judging by these people, it seems like 300 is a good number.

Oh, I forgot to mention. Some of the Moms are dressed up. I missed the memo where parents were supposed to dress up, it was probably in that 46 paged tome of a newsletter they send home every month that I don’t read. One of the Moms is dressed just like her daughter in the popular Slut costume, and she really shouldn’t have because it’s just sad. There’s another Mom here who would look great in that costume, but she’s over on the other side shooting more photos than Annie Leibovitz to notice me trying to imagine her in that costume.

Will doesn’t like people looking at him. If you even look at that kid sideways, he attacks, which is part of his charm, and why I don’t worry about him on a daily basis. So when he notices me there, he looks at me, not surprised I’m there, not happy to see me, not glad that I’m part of the fun. He looks at me and says:

“What?”

Will’s got the right attitude. “What?” As in, “What the fuck are you doing here, Dad, did Mom tell you to be here? I’ve watched enough of ‘One of These Things is Not Like the Other’ on Sesame Street, and you stick out pretty bad.”

So I left. I made my appearance, and Will was right.

So the next time you’re at daycare, and there’s one Dad there, do him a favor and shut the fuck up about your busy lives, and your complicated situations. We don’t care. And next time, Dads, if you see me standing there, feel free to come over to me and talk about what a waste of time this is, how annoying these Moms are, or if you want, we can talk about Battlestar Galactica (the new one).