The boy’s back in day care now that school is out. This is his fourth day with his new group, which I can only assume has a mess of other new kids in it as well since just about everyone just got out of school. Today was the first day I’ve picked him up, though. As I walk in, he and another boy are a a table playing with a bunch of plastic dinosaurs. He looks up and sees me.
“I need just four more minutes, Daddy,” he says. And the simple fact is I ain’t really got shit to do at that particular moment, so, sure. “You have two,” I say, because it’s not like he can tell time anyway. And I let him play for a couple of minutes and kind of observe the rest of the kids, and then nudge him toward the door. He doesn’t move immediately or anything, but he complies quickly enough that I don’t have to ask twice.
“You must be a really patient dad,” one of the teacher says to me. And at first I feel like it’s either a compliment or a sign that these folks spend the day dealing with angry lunatics, but now a couple of hours later I kind of want to spend some time interrogating the boy to see if he spent the day driving them insane.
On the way home we take the new car through a car wash. Apparently the local sparrows all got diarrhea while I was at work yesterday and were able to figure out which car was the new one, so the thing is a huge mess. I’m a little nervous about it because he got really scared the last time we went through a car wash and I’m hoping it doesn’t happen again.
At some point he asks why I’m driving so slow, and I explain that I’m not controlling the car– that there’s a track I’ve driven onto that is moving the car for me and keeping it at the right speed for everything to work.
“Oh. Is that like alien hand syndrome?” he says.
“Sort of,” I say.
Someone explain to me how the fuck my five-year-old knows about alien hand syndrome, please?