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[Second in a series.For those just joining us, we are following the parenting adventures of 16-year-old Fudgeteen and his bouncing baby sack of flour, otherwise known as this week's psych class project.]
After breakfast this morning, our newly minted parent went to his room with a sigh. "Since I have to put together all my stuff and all the baby's stuff, I'm not getting back to sleep."
Responded Grandma (stifling a grin): "Welcome to my world."
This was the big day -- his first outing at school with the baby, who he had decided to name Ray, or as he put it on the birth certificate, "Raymond Sunshine [Last name]." Our little Ray of Sunshine was born April 1, 2009 (the teacher said it could be any day this year), he was born at "General Hospital," and the physician was our family doctor, though Fudgeteen said some of his classmates credited the doctor who co-wrote the psych textbook.
Ray, Fudgeteen and I got out the door early today, and my son got his first try at being the one to place a baby in a car seat instead of BEING the baby in the car seat!
We had quite a collection in the car -- Ray and his car seat, Ray's cozy blanket-lined basket, and Fudgeteen's well-stocked bookbag and lunch container. I'm glad the teacher didn't require a diaper bag!
Flour-baby parenthood, Fudgeteen found out almost immediately, is fraught with danger. First period, he later informed me, "Some kid stabbed right through another kid's baby!"
He also heard about the classmate on one of the sports teams who couldn't get to a game, but got 20-odd synchronized text messages from those who did: "I'm going to kill your baby!"
I think this school needs Law and Order: Special Infants Unit! I totally understand why my son suggested Kevlar for flour babies, but I had to point out what every parent has to learn sooner or later: You can only protect them so far.
Even under the best of circumstances, parenthood isn't easy. For instance:
Apparently an occupational hazard of being a flour baby is that your flour can sift down from your head, and your parent will, throughout the day, need to -- well, reposition you. This resulted in Fudgeteen's French teacher coming upon a girl trying to whack her baby's flour levels into readjustment. Said girl was instructed to quit beating her baby.
Fudgeteen mentioned he ate lunch today in a gifted teacher's classroom rather than the cafeteria. This conversation ensued:
Me: "How come you ate there?"
Fudgeteen: "It didn't seem right, taking a flour baby into a lunchroom."
Me: "Why?"
Fudgeteen: "Think about it. You want emotional trauma? There it is!"
Fair enough. Far be it from me to put my grandson in therapy for the rest of his life, having nightmares about being turned into a ginormous chocolate chip cookie.
My son also noted it is "very difficult to eat your lunch while holding a baby" -- especially, he said with a faint glint in his eye, "while the baby grabs your lunch."
Well, yes.
Grandma must brag here that a number of people, including teachers, saw little Ray, said, "Awwww!" and commented on how cute he was. Hey -- just like his Dad!
There was quite a mix of babies in his class -- most were duct taped; Fudgeteen said it was the teacher's suggestion to "protect the baby from opening up at random in the middle of class." Yeah...I hate when that happens.
Some babies had faces. Some babies were clothed, some not. With the Oscars in mind, I asked for a red-carpet report, and my son mentioned one dressed like a "miniature Pope or bullfighter." The baby's name? "Chastity."
Teachers throughout the school seemed to enjoy the babies -- to a point. Fudgeteen's trig/pre-calc teacher told her class, "I'm introducing you to Descartes' Daycare." She walked to the closet, flung open the door, and indicated that anyone spending too much time on their baby would soon find that baby in Descartes' Daycare -- which, she noted, was not a cheap establishment.
The
