Big Ugly Man Doll

Well, there’s no denying it, not that there ever was, really.  But still:

Tonight was "Back to School Night" – you may have had this joy yourself; going to the school of your precious lil child, bringing back the memories of your own second grade: the world-wide smell of something undefined, yet unaccountably nasty, just out of reach of the senses; the short sharp sweet rush of pain as you jabbed the staple into your thumb for your first peircing; the gut-wrenching sight of the school pizzas in the vomitorium.  You know you were there – and yep, sure enough, you spot that third pizza from the left, still with the gouge out of it from being dropped on the floor.  No one’s eaten it – that slice of tomato-topped pressboard has been there since 1977.  

But this visit’s not about you.   It’s about your knees, and your child’s desk, and your orthopaedic surgeon.  The first time you bash your knee, you wonder if you can get him out of his golf game in the morning.  By the time you leave, you wonder if you’ll be funding his vacation to Torrey Pines.

No no, wait, it’s not about your knees!  It’s about meeting your child’s teacher, seeing how his or her first 3 weeks have been, and what the class will be doing for the rest of the year.  In my case, it’s about having the cute, young, unmarried teacher tell me, "Oh, your son is very excited about school and is great in class – in fact, you should read what he wrote the other day!" 

She is standing right next to me as she hands me the paper, and I read the notes of the Son of the Big Ugly Man Doll, which I will now quote in their entirety.

The teachers at [school] are brilliant!  They rock!  They’re hot!  They’re awesome!  I love math.  It is fun because it is hard!  The harder it is, the happier I am!  I like dear [sic] time, not because it is fun, but because we have to read.  In fact, I read all the time.  Even at night!  I like to read all kinds of books.  School is filled with interesting things.

Yep.  They’re hot, and the Paris Hiltonesque hottie teaching him is standing next to me giggling.  "He really ‘gets it’," she tells me.  Yeah, that’s sort of what I’m afraid of.  Incidentally, I think dear is read spelled backward, and it makes more sense that way. 

"The harder it is, the happier I am."  Buddy, I couldn’t have said it better myself. 

May his second grade be better than mine.  In fact, I think it is already. 

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