The time has come. I can’t believe it’s been two years since I started stay at home dadding for the Worm. (I barely blinked, or slept for that matter, and here we are, two years later.) And I sense that he is beginning to need a little more than what I can offer. There’s only so many times that my son can play “Here, eat this birthday cake poopie.” under the dining table with his old man until it gets a tad stale. (Not the cake, the game…I always eat the B.C.P. while it’s fresh and hot!)
We (the wife and I) made a decision to enroll the wiggly one in day care. The plan was to drop him off one day a week, and if Worm really enjoyed himself, he could slowly move up to two or three days a week. Back then, it sounded great. But the reality is setting in tonight. I picture Worm getting thrown into the den and the other wolf cubs devouring him like a steak in sheep’s clothing. And we’d be indirectly encouraging the carnage of my baby by paying for it with a check or credit card.
I’m worried about him. I don’t know how he will survive without me for a whole half of a half minus one twelfth of a day (which amounts to 4 hours for the ones that read my blog to escape from logical thought for a few minutes per diem). Only last week, we were eating dinner at the local uber-kid-friendly pizzeria and I left Worm by himself in the kids’ play area for literally two minutes. I came back to see him standing in the corner scared out of his mind and crying for his Honeydaddy.
It was two minutes! How can I leave him for 4 hours? He’d dehydrate from the fluid loss and drown in a pool of his own snivel and tears!
We’re bosom buddies without the lipstick and dresses! We’re like Bonnie and Clyde without the guns! We’re like Twins (but only if I’m Arnold and he’s Danny DeVito)! We’re inseparable! Or were. I guess we’ll find out what each is made of when we’re not glued to one another at the hip.
It’s harder for me than I thought it would be. I’m sad because I won’t be there to pick him up when he falls, to make him smile when he’s sad, or to pull his finger out of his nose. For four whole hours! That’s an eternity! Worm is my baby boy. I love him enough to make myself cry just thinking about him. But, I also love him enough to know that he must grow up. And he’s got to spread his proverbial wings. And he must learn to pull his own finger out of his nose. I just thought it would be nearer the time he would be old enough to drink alcohol. (Legally. I mean drink it legally!)
I know it’s a bit selfish of me, but I love, love, love that he looks to me for comfort and companionship. I’ve gotten used to being his whole world. But I also know that if I keep holding him so tightly, he’ll never properly relate to mankind and will have problems becoming a functional member of society. And he’ll live with his mom and me for the rest of his life, never leaving the house to do more than check our mailbox six days a week. (Ok, that’s sort of a stretch. But, it’s still a worrying possibility!)
So Worm, go ahead. Meet some kids your age. Explore! Discover! Learn! Share your birthday cake poopie with your classmates. Cut a piece for all of your friends. Go laugh and play and take those first steps towards figuring out this great big wonderful planet we live on. I’ll be here for you when you’re ready for me again…and if there’s any leftovers, I’d still love to have you share some cake with me too.
Who Can Turn Down Fresh B.C.P.? Thanks Wormie!
Me vs. Gavin 