(Not Quite) Schadenfreude
My son’s teacher is a genius. She keeps a large, toddler-height table in her classroom that can be filled with water, along with a slew of plastic funnels, boats, cups, and paddle-wheels. But that’s merely ‘neat’. The genius comes when she fills the tub with millet: chicken feed.
I can’t explain it, but a tub filled with chicken feed is more fun than should be allowed. There’s something about the texture and sound, the way it moves through your fingers. It’s like water but not, and magnitudes cleaner than sand.
The school held its annual fall festival last night. Ian’s class had a booth—a play area for toddlers—and this table was the main attraction. It was constantly surrounded by a shifting swarm of red-cheeked and wet-nosed kids, hands dipping and swirling and squeezing.
Toward the end of the evening, a pair of six-year-old twin boys—with hair to match their cheeks—were engrossed with the fowlish fodder. Their father told them it was time to leave; he could’ve just as well have told them the closing points of the DOW. He kept telling, they kept playing, even as he grabbed their wrists to pull them away. As they were led from the table, their arms kept stretching and straining for one last grasp of seed.
Lately I’ve become more and more frustrated with Ian. He’s generally well-behaved, but uses me and my wife to test the boundaries. And he does it just to do it. I’m losing patience more and more often, and it’s starting to feel as though I’ve somehow, somewhere, failed as a parent. Which is stupid. The logical, rational part of me knows Ian’s behavior is normal. Probably. But the father part of me feels…helpless.
Which is why last night was so refreshing. I was assured by the twins’ behavior. This man wasn’t a bad father. He was simply the father of two six-year-old boys. It was a relief to learn that I’m not alone. And that Ian isn’t a hooligan.
This was closely followed by the realization that I have, at least, three more years of telling my son ‘no’.
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