Vacation Days

I've been joking of late about our dire need to get our son into a very conservative religious school, the kind that is not inclusive. Why you may wonder for such a reactionary statement? In our time of uber political correctness, public schools, and even religious schools that are inclusive, celebrate every holiday--with the exception of Kwanzaa and Hindu celebrations--which offers schools an excuse to close its doors. Closed schools only mean one thing for parents--hellish days of trying to keep the little ones occupied. And since we know the two most dreaded words in my lexicon is play date, that means a day off will surely bring a play date or two to keep our little one engaged. And since I don't have the luxury of working outside the home in the traditional sense, I am the one left to fend for our child's limited attention span.

Yesterday was election day, which meant the schools closed their doors. Our son had to take the ERB test for admittance into a New York City private school, so the morning was filled with that appointment. As a way to entice him to take this test, which he didn't know was a test, I promised him a visit to Toys R Us on Broadway. Right, you can imagine.

One thing about our son is his ability to accept the cruelty of his parents. Since he was very young, I've enforced the promise rule, which means he is allowed one thing, and one thing only, on visits to Target, bookstores, and toy stores. The one remarkable thing about our son is his ability to understand that the one item rule is really a rule. Therefore the process of picking the item is one long torturous event since it has to be the absolutely perfect thing he has wanted forever and ever.

Patience, a virtue, and a requirement for parenthood, is something that is needed in spades on such outings. My son, determined to get the exact, perfect toy, perused every aisle of this mammoth store with the ferris wheel in its lobby. After our third go round in the Star Wars section, my patience had worn thin and I was threatening the two minute rule, which translates into 'you have two minutes or else you don't get anything.' In all fairness, he did have items he wanted, but they were either too large for the apartment or they bordered on the violent play things that boys gravitate toward like moths to a flame, but is not allowed in this house. Yes, you can see how we torture him with such rules. So, this careful selection process was guided firmly by me telling him what was not acceptable or too big, hence, one can argue the prolonged, agonizing process.

After some final threats from me, he finally picked a Pokemon thing. It is usually when he's clutching his one item with not a peep about something else that my heart breaks for our rule-following kid. And that is when I break my own rule and throw in something else, something small to make this day even more special for him. Yes, he's spoiled. But when you see a five year old in a place that is nirvana for any child, satisfied with his one choice, well, such restraint makes a parent proud. He's not whining about something else, showing signs of a gluttony that could foretell a future filled with the need to satisfy an ever growing need for things.

Having paid for his items, we stepped out on to Broadway to make our way to 32nd for a Korean lunch. He prattled on about his new items, begging, of course, I open them on the bus or the subway. I know this innocence, the ability to make him so happy with a $12.00 plastic toy, will too quickly come to an end. And that whatever our hopes and wishes for him will mean nothing as he grows into the man he will become. The sense of how fleeting this time is for him and for me hits me in those moments when his hand is clutched in mine, his ever flowing chatter rising above the honks of car horns and ambulances shrieking. Too soon, he will be too old and independent to want to hold my hand, his chatter now staccato one word responses to my desperate attempts to connect with him. So, no matter what a nuisance it is that schools seem to close their doors every other week. In truth, I will, no doubt, look back to this time with more than wistfulness as our house stills and he goes out to seek a life wholly his own.