I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
March 29, 2010
>So. How are you? Good! Me? I’m fine too…
….as long as I’m not breathing or moving, anyway.
Yes, the sore back I alluded to last week is still sore. STILL. MISERABLY. SORE. Apparently, the only way to heal it is to rest and not lift anything that’s heavy, which, I’ve discovered, is 100% impossible in my world. And while it was slowwwwwwly getting better from day to day last week, that all went to hell on Friday.
That’s the day I decided to take my newly-minted three-year-old to the park for his very first preschool nature class.
I was hoping for the best, because there was an excellent chance he’d be perfectly well behaved. There also was a chance, however, that if things didn’t go his way, the scene would end with him screeching, “THIS IS NOT COOL!” (his new phrase of choice) and writhing on the floor while I dragged him back out to the car as a group of North Face-clad homeschooling mommies stared after me.
Still! Nature class! I hadn’t been since Punky started kindergarten and it had been a lonnnnnng eight months waiting for Bruiser to turn three.
So off we went, sore back and all.
Bruiser was thrilled to be back at our city park and I was thrilled to find that he was ready to follow along with the lesson. He listened eagerly to the nature guide’s commentary, turning back to me every so often to repeat with shining eyes what he’d learned. “MOMMY! OWLS EATS BUGS!” “MOMMY! LIZARDS HAS EGGS!”
On the nature hike, he deftly managed not to fall into the creek and used his plastic magnifying glass and child-sized binoculars like a seasoned junior naturalist. The whole thing was going so well, in fact, that I managed to keep my mouth shut when my sore back and I were cruelly mocked. It happened after the teacher asked for a mommy volunteer to read a story to the class at the end of our hike. After a long, long moment, a mom in back finally raised her hand.
“I thought you would volunteer to read the story,” the teacher murmured to me as we walked outside.
“Well, I strained my back,” I said apologetically.
“Oh! Of course! Everyone knows you can’t read with a strained back!” she said.
I took a deep breath, wincing at the excruciating twinge I felt as I did so. Focus…. I told myself. Focus. Focus on the children.
I held my tongue.
By the time class was over, Bruiser had done so well that I decided to let him play at the park’s playground. I’ve written about this playground before; it’s essentially two mounds of mud, a playhouse, and a bunch of small shovels. Because kids don’t play in the dirt enough, right? And the naturalists who came up with this bright idea don’t have to wash the kids’ clothes when they’re done playing, right? Right!
It had rained the day before and the playground was enhanced by a pond-sized puddle in between the two mud mounds. At first, Bruiser was doing pretty well playing around the edge of the massive, knee-deep mini-pond, but after a few minutes, he found a stick and began splashing the surface of the water, right in front of a group of preschoolers digging beside it.
“Bruiser, cut it out,” I warned. “Stop splashing those kids.”
He gave me his patented devil-may-care grin and kept splashing.
“I mean it, Bruiser,” I said. “Stop splashing them right now or we’re going home.” He waggled his rear end at me and splashed the water with the stick again. In response, I leaned over and snatched it out of his hand.
“I. Said. Stop.” I said in the lowest, deepest, growliest voice I could muster. He frowned, turned quickly and picked up a spade on the ground beside him. Shooting me a defiant glance, he plunked the spade in the water, inches away from the kids. Mud droplets splashed up on them. I gasped in horror.
And that’s when time stood still. As I stood in that moment, gaping at my son, I thought of my car, a pinpoint in a distant parking lot from where I stood. I knew the kid wouldn’t go willingly; I’d have to carry him kicking and screaming the whole way.
And then I thought of my back, which was just beginning to feel better after days of agonizing pain. I could opt to go back on my warnings, chastise him and then blithely act like nothing had happened. I’d seen dozens of parents do that before. And my back! My back would be saved!
But there was a problem with that scenario. Allow the kid to rudely splash kids with mud now and twenty years from now, he’d probably be burglarizing houses. Or dealing drugs. Or cheating on his Oscar Award-winning actress wife with some tattooed hoochie.
I knew what I had to do.
As I picked up my son, I felt a searing pain shoot through my back. “Come on, Bruiser,” I said in a low voice that was cold with fury and pain. “We’re going home.” As expected, the screaming and wailing began.
“You! Do! Not! Splash! Water!” I gasped as I trudged toward the car with my flailing son in my arms, “On! Other! Children!” Bruiser sobbed and screamed in response. Gritting my teeth against the blinding pain, I felt like answering him with a long howl of my own. Rainbow-colored waves of agony danced before my eyes.
At last, after what felt like a millennium, we arrived at the car. Somehow, I managed to unlock the car doors while holding my windmilling son on one hip. I strapped him in, then got into the car myself. This is how it’s going to be, I thought as I drove, my back throbbing. It’s going to hurt bad sometimes, but dammit, I’m raising these kids right.
And then I’m totally sending him my doctor’s bill when he’s 25.
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