Isaac has reached the point where he needs to have more exposure to other people. Being as unrelentingly great as I am, I cannot help prepare Isaac for the constant barrage of mediocrity that is you, gentle reader. Oh, it's not your fault; even the fanciest bowl of pork butt chili (you) looks bad compared to a perfect full slab of BBQ ribs (me). The points that I am making? First: God, you suck. Second: Isaac is spending a couple of days a week in daycare.
All of this would be fine except that Isaac is my kid, all smart and shit. He knows that his mom and I rock (jam) out with our cocks (clams) out, and every single time he gets left at daycare, he starts into screaming the way you would if your coffee was replaced with once-through-a-bladder-Sanka*. The experts call this separation anxiety, because the more accurate "Soul-shatteringly awful caterwauling" was already used as the title of a Joni Mitchell record. Imagine if someone used shrieking to convey that you, their most dedicated supporter and caregiver, were not only a terrible person, but a bad cooker of hotdogs to boot. This is the feeling Shannon and I are left with every Tuesday and Friday.
And then, as if we don't feel bad enough about dropping him off, he gives us a repeat performance every time we pick him up. And all this joy only costs about $100 a week. Shannon says he's getting better about it. I suspect her eardrums have been perforated. I've been subtly saying threatening things in bed the last few nights, and she's none the wiser.
*Which of course tastes 19.4% better than actual Sanka. IT IS STATISTICS!!