Thursday, November 12, 2009

Where You Are Is Where You're At

One look from my son, and I can feel an entire decade's worth of my life has been spent well.

It was awards day for 4th graders, and I came to show my son that I didn't think that only his sports accomplishments are worth my time.

The principal went through great pains to make a big deal out of all the kids who were about to be called up for perfect attendance.

My son looked back at me, smiled and shook his head.

He's heard my feelings on perfect attendance before: It's fine if you get it, but children also shouldn't feel like they have to go to school if they're sick. And they shouldn't feel like they failed if they didn't make it.

I even believe that it's a good thing to take your kid out of school for something special. (I know for a fact he'll trade that perfect attendance certificate for having been able to go to that Thursday night game to see us beat #4 Ole Miss).

That said, there's reason I'm here. My son looks back at me to look for reassurance at mocking perfect attendance.

I wonder if I've done the right thing. But ... whatever.

So the principal extols the virtues of perfect attendance -- the challenge of the swine flu cast against kids who could fake a fever but choose not to.

Then, in search of a knowing nod of heads of the parents in attendance, he tells the children, "I know you don't always want to be here, though I can assure you that your parents always are ready to have you off to school."

My reaction to that is the same as if someone had told me, "Squirrels store nuts for the winter."

It could be just as meaningless to me.

Until my son turns around. Looks at me, smiles and again shakes his head.

In that moment, after nine years of being a father, I felt as if I have accomplished something. That my life has been meaningful.

My son conscientiously objects to the idea of anyone suggesting, even for jokes, that his father wants him to be somewhere other than with him -- ever.

That look made me feel like a winner, even if we didn't take home the perfect attendance certificate.

2 comments:

Cindy-Lou said...

your writing always touches me.

Rusty said...

Perfect Attendance. It reminds me of the sterling-silver telephone dialer. For the person who has everything.

Experience, life experience. Yes, that is what matters.