Every year, parents engage in the time honored tradition of dropping their kid off at the first day of school. We are no different, and I dropped off Malcolm today and I ran out of there as fast as an elementary school kid runs home on the last day of school. I was a little excited about getting a break for part of the day, and I thought about all the wild and crazy things I was going to do with my time. Sadly, my hopes of dining on Hooters wings and playing endless rounds of golf gave way to the reality of dealing with bills and getting some modest exercise. (Hooters, mark my words, you will see me soon, very soon.)
The first day of school is also enjoyable because of the carnage lying around at Malcolm’s school. 
For some of these kids, being dropped off at preschool is the first time that they have left their parents, and they show it. The place was teeming with kids crying and parents trying to soothe them into all the wonderful things there are to do at school. There were young kids in their parent’s arms wailing at the top of the lungs and bigger kids shrieking and clinging to their parent’s legs. My favorite is the kids who are old enough to use dirty tricks, “Why are you leaving me here, don’t you love me anymore?” It didn’t look much better when I picked up Malcolm, as many of the kids were still wailing. One little girl looked especially troubled and, judging by the look of the school’s principal who was holding her and had the distant look in her eye of a heroine addict, the little girl had been crying the whole day.
I don’t really enjoy seeing others suffer, but I do use such circumstances to make me feel good about Malcolm. Doesn’t every parent do this? Malcolm went off to school last year and ran into the room and didn’t even say goodbye. This year was no different. I rack it up to our concerted efforts to make Malcolm feel comfortable in any environment. I am sure the parents I laughed at today would say it is because their kids actually like them, and Malcolm probably doesn’t care very much for his parent. With a father whose chief dream in life is to eat a bunch of chicken wings at Hooters, I couldn’t really blame him if he didn’t.
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