With one joke, my day is shot to hell.

Today my son laughed so hard, he threw up. And really, if you’re going to throw up for any reason, isn’t that the best one? I got the call from school that I have dreaded since his first day. Your son threw up, the school administrator said. But he’s fine! Just a bout of uncontrollable laughter! So you probably don’t need to come get him. But of course I did, how could I leave my poor post-vomit boy at school? Wouldn’t he be tired, or sore, or freaked out?

In short: no. If he was upset about anything, it was that I dared show up and ruin his good time. The teacher recounted to me how the other children barely registered that one of their own had just upchucked all over the lunch table. One of them—put down your corn dog when you read this—continued to eat the grapes that Henry had just thrown up on. I hasten to add that they were not the actual soiled grapes, but the few pristine grapes remaining in the bunch. I ask you, who could be so totally unfazed? Only a bunch of preschoolers, that’s who. Those adorable nitwits.

Anyway, on the way home Henry cheerfully shared with me the hilarity that caused his sickness. Are you ready? He and his best friend had invented Peanut Butter Man, “which were like our fingers walking across the table.” And Peanut Butter Man had a special gun that squirted peanut butter at bad guys. “It’s a peanut butter gun,” said Henry, sensibly.

“No,” said his friend, “It’s a penis butter gun.”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAHhhhhhoooblluuuuugh.

The End.

It begins.

Henry: I have to tell you something. My best friend William French [not his real name—Eds.] had a cold today.

Me: So he wasn’t in school?

Henry: No. I just said that.

Henry: Actually, I was just kidding. About the cold. I was kidding! Do you know what really happened?

Me: No, but you’re going to tell me, aren’t—

Henry: I have to tell you something. So. Today we went to see Star Wars at the movie theatre.

Me: You went to see Star Wars.

Henry: We went to the movie theatre to see Star Wars. And on the way out William French hit! A! Pole! Like a wooden pole. He hit it.

Me: How did you get to this theatre?

Henry: We all got into a giant, monster size Toy Yoda. We went to see Star Wars, and on the way out William French saw a big wooden pole and he hit it with his hand, like a karate chop with his hand, and he broke it! He went hi-YAAA and broke it all in half.

Me: This story keeps getting better and better.

Henry: And now I have to tell you the very scary part. He had a Big. Wooden. Piece. Stuck in his hand. And the nurse had to take it out.

Me: The nurse at the movie theatre?

Henry No, the teacher who is also a nurse. She had to pull it out of his hand with giant tweezers. And he shouted, AAAH! But then it was all right. His hand was just fine!

Me: Wow.

Henry: You know what? I was kidding! William French just had a cold.

Me: That was a good story!

Henry (whispering): Actually I’m kidding about the cold. Everything else was real.

Let's get physical.

I’m beginning to think Henry’s preschool teacher doesn’t like him.

I know what you’re thinking. “Someone not like Henry? Impossible! I will hurry to her classroom and beat some sense into her!” And so I am glad I never told you which school he goes to, because I’m beginning to think you’re a little nuts. That said, I am also puzzled as to how someone could not like Henry. Yes, he can be… challenging. He knows what he wants, and he’s not easily swayed. Sometimes his motives are baffling; there’s a lot more going on in his head than he lets on. Also, he can be shy in group situations. I can imagine that when you’re faced with eleven children clamoring for your attention, the enigma in the corner might not be your favorite.

But my God, woman! Have you seen his cheeks? Have you ever looked into those blue eyes of his? Have you no soul?

He got through his transition into the World of Preschool with flying colors. But then, about a week later, whenever I arrived to pick him up, the teacher would greet me with this preschool-teacher frowny face that made me want to kick her. When I asked her what was wrong, I invariably got such comments as:

“Henry was a little sad today.”

“Henry was low-energy.”

“Henry didn’t want his snack.”

“Henry was low-energy, and sad.”

“Henry was a little…quiet today.” Frowny face. “I think he was tired. And he wouldn’t eat.”

You have to imagine all of this conveyed in this high, babyish, mock-sad voice. I’m not sure why she does that. Because oh, the urge to kick.

Anyway. So, okay. My child is apparently sad! And tired! That’s not her fault, is it? That doesn’t mean she hates him? Although when he gets home, he’s whirling about the apartment like they gave him crack! Except, whoops, that couldn’t have happened, because according to his teacher he’s a certified snack-hater.

I didn’t think too much of this the two teacher’s assistants came up to me after class, and told me what a delight he is. “He sings the Star Wars theme all day! He’s so cuddly and affectionate and funny!” “Yes, yes,” I panted, “Give me more.” They handed me a list of various things he had said throughout the day. Apparently he spent the day shouting, “Surrender, Earthlings!” They found this hilarious. Because they’re human.

Then the teacher walked by, and I said, “He had a good day, huh?”

Frowny face. “Well…” she sighed. “It was hot in the room. Everyone was a little low-energy. It wasn’t just him.”

After that I just avoided her at the end of the day. But I couldn’t help but notice, when I dropped him off, that her behavior toward him was a little… chilly. I wouldn’t say she was cold, but there was a definite nip in the air. One morning, he was unhappy, and I didn’t want to leave until I got him settled in. The teacher headed for him. I waited for her to join him, and instead she gave him a tight smile, and then turned and sat down with two other children, who were already playing with one of the assistants.

And at the last pick-up, she approached me. “Henry was very physical today. We had a physical day,” she said. Oh, I thought, she’s telling me there was a lot of running and jumping and playing? So I should put him down for a long nap?

“Yes,” she said, “there was a lot of pushing and shoving and bossing around the other kids.” “HENRY? WE’RE TALKING ABOUT HOW YOU HAD A PHYSICAL DAY, DIDN’T YOU? REMEMBER, WITH THE PUSHING AND THE SHOVING? AND WE DON’T DO THAT AT SCHOOL.”

On the way out, I said to him, “So you were pushing other kids?”

“I had to,” he said. “She told me not to yell.”

His logic is impeccable. What choice did the boy have?

Of course, on the one hand, I’m glad to know he was “physical,” and I don’t fault her for sharing a concern, blah blah blah, but on the other hand, would it kill her to once share something positive with me? One thing? Would the turning of the frown into the upside-down position cause her pain?

I have separation anxiety.

Henry started preschool last week, and it’s been a tough transition.

Not for him. For me.

We’re still in “phase-in” mode--the classes are only half the size and half the length, and the parents are in the next room enjoying bad cake and insanely bad coffee while the children warm up to the idea of school. For the first couple of days, I sat there chatting with the other parents while one kid after another was escorted into the room for a few minutes of reassurance from his or her parent. I dreaded the moment when Henry emerged, weeping, from his classroom.

Then I waited.

Then I was wondered why they were keeping him in there.

When he probably needed me.

Time passed. I couldn’t hear any crying. I had already been admonished by the teacher for entering the classroom, so I held off. I wasn’t happy about it.

“What do you think they’re doing in there?” I asked one of the parents, who looked at me like, what do you think they’re doing? Getting facial tattoos? Being forced to consume the still-quivering brains of a dying rhesus monkey?

The faint strains of “The Wheels on the Bus” could be heard from their room. “I’ll just bet they’re singing,” she said slowly, patting me on the arm. If I had at that moment opened my mouth and drooled coffee cake all over my chin, I don’t think it would have surprised her one bit.



One of the parents had to enter the classroom to deal with her heartbroken child, who apparently loves her mother more than my son loves me. She came back to tell me, “I heard your son telling two girls that he’s a ‘puzzle master’?”



“That’s my boy,” I said.

“It’s great that he’s doing so well in there,” she said.

“Yes,” I agreed, choking down more coffee cake.

By the third day the teacher told me I didn’t have to stick around the school. “He’s doing so well,” she said. “We’ll call you if there’s a problem.”

The school is two blocks from my home. I could have gone there. But I was sure there was going to be a problem—I was so sure! So I went to the library and tried to look at books and wondered why my stomach hurt. I checked my cell phone 27 times or so. It seemed to be working, but it never rang, so I worried. And returned to the school.

“I just can’t get enough of this cake!” I said to the two puzzled babysitters in the room with me.

When he finally came out he seemed so happy that I was of course suspicious. “How’d he do?” I asked the teacher. My eyes pleaded for a full and detailed report of his every move and thought, but she was deftly avoiding eye contact. “He was great!” she said. “See you next time, Henry!”

“Did you have fun?” I asked him, “What did you do? Did you make friends? TELL ME EVERYTHING.”

And he said, “They called Malcolm a rubber boy and he was bouncing and Lizzie said you’re a rubber boy and he was bounced and then the little bear went up into the cave and had a nap without the big bear.”

“Wha--?” I said.

“I want lunch,” he concluded.

Tomorrow he’s going back, and I might go home, maybe. But I’ll have on my running shoes, you know, just in case.