Helping parent II

I had the rare pleasure of not working Thursday. Carey stayed home with the still feverish (he's better as of this writing) Lincoln so I could escort Greta to Morrow Memorial Preschool. As Carey previously posted, Morrow is a co-op that keeps its costs down in part by enlisting parents to do everything from spend one day per month in the classroom to buying paper towels and snacks for the kids. On that one day per month you're called the "Helping Parent" and your child is the "Helping Friend." And that's where this story begins.

12:18 p.m. ... enter stage left, Dad wearing shorts, blue golf shirt, baby blue Crocs with white socks. Daughter in a pair of floral flowing pants and a pink T with a green tree emblem that says "Nature Lover."

Dad: We're here!

[Silence]

Greta: Where is everybody? Mrs. Hicks? Where are you?

Dad turns on the lights, examines room where he'll spend the next 3 hours. It looks like a child's version of heaven, albeit a little dated. Little alcoves filled with cubbyholes marked with plastic containers labeled in masking tape: Wooden cars and trucks, Dress-Up Clothes, Little People, Coloring Supplies, Play-Doh. Dad recognizes a Matchbox car garage he had in his toy box 30+ years ago.

Dad [unnaturally excited]: Greta, I had this toy when I was a little bit older than you!

Greta: Where's Mrs. Hicks?

12:30 p.m. ... Mrs. Hicks saunters downstairs, wearing typical Mom-wear: old jeans, a cotton shirt, both with evidence of stains. A noise begins to build at the end of the hall, where parents and kids are waiting for the signal that it's OK to enter the classrooms.

Mrs. Hicks: Robert?

Dad: If you're not Cynthia, I'll go with Mr. Merrill.

Mrs. Hicks proceeds to tell Dad the 25 things he's responsible for during the next 3 hours -- from cleaning the tables -- twice -- with dish soap then a water/bleach solution -- to guarding the "Go" bag filled with emergency contact numbers during the 30-minute playground session to dispensing the banana/yogurt/cinnamon graham cracker snack he bought that morning at the grocery store.

Dad: What do you do?

Mrs. Hicks: Discipline.

12:32 p.m. ... Mrs. Hicks steps into the hallway, peers around the corner...

Mrs. Hicks: Mrs. Hicks' class, come on down!

10 children set off running down a ratty carpet from the church's front door to the classroom, somehow stripping off their coats as they run. Dad retreats to the side of the room, hiding behind Greta.

Mrs. Hicks: Marshall, is that where your coat goes?

Marshall [looking at my shoes]: My Daddy says men don't wear Crocs.

Dad: Tell your Daddy I'd like to have a chat with him.

12:30-1:30 p.m. ... free play commences. Most kids flit from station to station, seemingly at random. Some find one thing -- Trey at the sand table -- and stay put for what feels like a long time but is probably 15 minutes. Dad introduces myself, slowly, and makes small talk with 3-year-olds.

Dad: Is that a worm?

Sabina: No.

Dad: It looks like a fat worm.

Sabina: It's not.

Dad: What is it?

Greta: Daaaaad, come on!
[grabs Dad's hand, drags him over to where Mrs. Hicks is fitting some kids with smocks for painting]

Mrs. Hicks: Just make sure they have enough paint and try to keep it off their clothes.

15 minutes pass. Dad assists two painters, washes their hands, sets their artwork in the hallway on newspapers to dry. Charlotte stops by and wants to paint. Dad pulls the smock over her head, clips a new piece of paper to the easel then follows Duncan to the wooden cars and trucks. Dad's knees ache, so he tries to sit on a kids' chair. Dad's knees hurt much worse. Dads walks back over to Charlotte, who has dispensed with her paint brush and dipped both hands into the blue paint tray up to her elbows.

Dad: Ummm, maybe you should use a paintbrush, honey?

Mrs. Hicks: Charlotte! Go clean up. We paint with brushes.

1:30-1:45p.m. ... Clean-Up. Mrs. Hicks cranks Lauri Berkner on the Sony boombox and tells everyone to clean up for story time. Marshall runs into the corner and tries to hide behind a box of dress-up clothes and a mirror. The rest of the kids dutifully put things in plastic containers. But only when instructed.

1:45-2:00 p.m. ... Story time. Mrs. Hicks loudly reads half a dozen books, none of which Dad remembers specifically, except that they were the books he read to Greta about two years ago. Dad begins cleaning up the table for the post-playground snack. Scrub the entire surface with one of those handle sponges filled with dish soap, dry with industrial paper towels, then spray with bleach/water solution and dry with Bounty.

Mrs. Hicks: Greta, it's time to ring the bell! [a "Helping Friend" task]

Greta practically sprints to the front door and grabs the wooden bell from Mrs. Hicks.

[ring-a-ding-a-ding-a-ding-a-ding!]

Ten children embrace their inner Pavlov and line up behind Greta facing the door.

Greta: Daaaad!

Dad [still trying to scrub the bleach smell out of his hands]: Just a sec!

Dad dries hands, lines up directly behind Greta like a soldier.

Dad: Everybody ready?

Mrs. Hicks [to Dad]: You forgot the Go bag.

2-2:30 p.m. ... Playground. Jungle gym, balls, two plastic Flintstone-like cars kids propel with their feet. Dad assumes spot next to Mrs. Hicks on the picnic table.

Greta [standing on top of jungle gym looking down at a pole with a corkscrew around it]: Daddy, help?

Dad: You can do this? By yourself?

Greta: I need some help. New trick.

Dad lifts Greta up, but has no idea where to put her legs. Charlotte joins her at the top of the pole.

Charlotte: I show you. [proceeds to jump on pole and slide down, dizzyingly fast]

Greta: My turn!

Dad: Put one leg here and the other... here. No, here.

Greta: Dad, that's not right! Like this... [slides down very slowly, moving lower hand-over-hand. Jumps once her toes feel the ground.]

Dad: Good job! New trick!

2:30-2:45 p.m. ... Snack. Dad opens cooler packed by Mom. 12 bananas, 16 oz. of Stonyfield vanilla yogurt, box of cinnamon graham crackers.

Mrs. Hicks: Use your manners to tell him what you want.

Marshall: Crackers!

Madison: Yogurt! Yogurt! Yogurt!

Will: Banana, please.

Mrs. Hicks: Thank you, Will.

Dad gives Will half a banana.

2:45-3:00 p.m. ... Music time. Dad begins clearing the table in preparation for its second thorough cleaning of the day. Mrs. Hicks cranks "We Are the Dinosaurs" on the Sony. Each child is given blue plastic clappers about the size of their hands. They begin marching around the table, circling Dad as he scrubs like Lady MacBeth. The song plays through, then repeats.

Mrs. Hicks: March with us, Dad! You can clean after!

The music is deafening. It repeats a third time, prompting squeals of delight from the children. Dad notices the curtains on the door pull back as parents try to sneak a glimpse of their children at play.

Greta: "We are the dino-saur-aur-aur-aurs!!! ROOOOOAAAAAAR!"

The music stops and parents enter, bear hugging their kids. Each files out the door, chattering with Mom and Dad about what they did at school. Dad picks up Greta, twirls her around, loudly smacks a kiss on her cheek.

Dad: Thank you, Biggest, for helping me be the Helping Parent.

Fade to black.