Toy Day is Over

On the surface, “Toy Day” sounds like a sweet concept. Twice a week, the kids get to bring a toy from home to share with their class. No weapons, no monstrosities (I had to veto a pop-up Thomas the Train playhouse this morning). Other than that, the rules are pretty open.

G, for his part, has created an additional rule: You must never (ever!) bring the same toy twice. Can you imagine the snickering? The disgusted looks? The whispering of, “Didn’t he bring that Backyardigans guitar last week?!”

As my son gets older, status has become more of an issue amongst his peers. And Toy Day has become THE DAY to improve that status. I mean, what is cooler than being the kid who brought The. Best. Toy. – am I right?

Every Toy Day morning is stressful, as G calculatingly hunts down the perfect item, the one that will set him apart from the heard. Usually, this process takes about 10 minutes, but it can take up to 30 minutes. Today, however, it took an HOUR.

It didn’t help that I was already about an hour late to work to begin with and not in any mood to double that. No amount of prodding, cajoling, suggesting, or threatening would speed this process up. In fact, it seemed to spitefully slow him down. I was desperate, so I enlisted the Ex to help. Nothing. Finally, I got the now angry preschooler into the car by promising him that there was bound to be something really awesome buried under the mess in the backseat. When we were loaded into the car, it was quickly discovered that all that lay buried under the mess was more mess.

G was not pleased. “You are going in the garbage can,” he informed me.

He proceeded to pout and inform me of other places I could expect to go during the ride to school. He did this as we walked to his class (read: his teacher and I dragged him), and as he waved (still pouting) as I rushed off.

This has led me to the conclusion that Toy Day is a very bad idea. I might talk to his teacher about canceling it altogether; however, I’d make her sign a non-disclosure first, forbidding her from ever letting G know that I was the evil mastermind behind it. If not, I don’t think I’d ever get out of that can.

It Feels Like the First Day of School

Except it isn’t.

I’m the fool in this situation, undoubtedly. G has been going to the same preschool for nearly four years. I should have remembered that his school is ALWAYS closed the day after Labor Day. But, being the Bird Colonel of the Observant Army (thanks to the Ex for THAT moniker), I did not. Instead, I woke early, showered, got myself and G ready, packed a lunch, packed my laptop, packed a new set of clothes for him, and packed us both into the car and drove to school, chattering about how exciting the first day in his new class would be.

And then I proceeded to drive us back home again. Seems as though the ‘Grand Old Duke of York’ would be a more fitting title for me. (Reference? Anyone?)

I’m of course stressed (I have to work from home) and G is of course thrilled. Truth be told, he’s a bit unsure about the new classroom – the last before he heads off to kindergarten next fall, I might anxiously add. Our conversation about it went like this…

Me: Yay! Room 6! Are you excited?

G: No, I don’t want to go to Room 6.

Me (thinking it must be on account of the new teacher or the new environment): Why not?

G: Because of the towels.

Me: The towels? What towels?

G: The ones in the bathroom.

Me: But you use the same bathroom as you did in Room 5.

G: Yes, but we use different towels to dry our hands. I don’t like them.

And there you have it. Room 6 towels are inferior to those in Room 5.

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