Saturday, September 16, 2006


Having finished up with my clients by 2.15 yesterday afternoon, I raced back to Daniel's childcare centre to collect the little goober in time to take him with me to a 3-o-clock doctor's appointment. Before he saw me, I stood to the side and watched him play, quite happy in his own company and quite determined to climb the little plastic hill that led inside the plastic tunnel. He was so absorbed in what he was doing that I decided then to leave him there for a couple more hours, in the company of his carers, a shitload of toys, and within a snore's distance of a nice, comfortable bed for when he needed to nap. As I was wallowing in this little picture of contentment, an eighteen month old punk appeared on the hill from the other side of the tunnel, and decided that the only thing coming between being The King Of The Castle and being just another kid on a toy was my son, so as I watched, unable to do anything from the other side of the room except to wave my arms and call out to what appeared to be several thousand inattentive carers milling about, he pushed Daniel down the slope by thwacking him on the head with the sole of his foot and when that didn't work, he began slamming the the heel of his boot into the back of my boy's coconut.

and please, feel free to use your own punctuation for that last sentence.

I can still picture Daniel's little face as he turned away from the danger, and I can still see the big ol' 'What the fuck?!' that was as good as written across it in the instant before he broke out the wails of fear and hurt. By that time, I was there, having lept fifteen small children in a single bound, and scooped him into my arms up while unleashing my death ray glare onto the kid who would be King.

According to the supervisory carer person, wannabe-boy wanted to play with Daniel, but according to me he should be doing ten to twenty behind bars for aggravated assault.

Yes I know kids will be kids and that Daniel has a few knocks ahead of him that I won't be there to protect him from. Yeah. Yadda yadda. I know all that shit, and that's why after I rescurd him, I kissed him on the nose and pretended that having his head squished by some punk in steel caps was no big deal. Daniel's going to get a lot more knocks and I'm okay with that, as long as I never, ever have to watch the beating go down again. It is for this reason, in my newly minted opinion, that god invented childcare. It's a safe and supervised environment where kids can get beaten up by their peers, without their poor mothers having to referee the scrums themselves.

We left then and we spent the afternoon in a doctor's office with only my car keys to play with. I didn't take him with me becuase of the danger lurking behind that other child's dark heart and on top of every plastic contraption, but because have you ever tried leaving your kid once he thinks he's going home with you? I made that mistake on Tuesday, after one of his carers had taken him away before I'd kissed him goodbye. I trotted over to where he was sitting and leaned over to lay on on him. He lit up like a Christmas tree and held his arms out so I could pick him up, which would have worked had an entire day passed and had I been there to take him home. Which I wasn't. Lesson learned: Daniel's childcare days have a pattern he can understand. We go there together, he stays a while and then we go home together again, so having upset that balance, dude's little face crumbled into tears, and I could hear him sobbing as I cried my own big ploppy tears into my shirtsleeves as I walked out the door.

He's wake again so on that note, the end.

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