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Welcome to the Rest of Your Life

It’s been a while since I posted anything here — just about four months, to be precise, which is about 10% of Weevy’s life. Not good. So without further ado….

Weevy is now an adorable, talkative, relentlessly imaginative three-year-old, in nursery school five days a week, three hours a day, with friends I don’t know and knowledge of things her mom and I didn’t teach her (she told the missus the other day that baby bats were called pups — neither of us knew that).

So at Weevy’s school, they give each kid in the class a different job every week, complete with a little “My Job Is…” sign that they wear around their necks on Mondays, I guess so the parents can figure out what their kids are doing. God knows that whenever I ask Weevy how school was, it goes something like this:

“How was school today?”

“Good.”

“What did you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, did you read any books?”

“Yes.”

“Which ones?”

“I don’t know.”

And so on.

Last week, Weevy’s job was “Line Leader.” Quite an impressive title, until you realize that it basically means she stands in front of the line when they have to go to the gym or down the stairs or whatever. Not the most demanding of jobs, but hey, it includes the word “leader,” so I’m impressed.

Last Wednesday, she came out (our reunions are always joyous — she’s still too young to be sullen, thank goodness) and I asked the usual question: “How was school today?” Instead of the usual response, I got this:

“Um, good. They took my job away.”

What the fuck?! I tried to remain calm.

“You lost your job? What happened?”

“I don’t know.” (Pause) “I was crying.”

I never quite got the full, unadulterated story, but it seems she was crying either because she didn’t want to go to the potty or she DID want to go to the potty when she was supposed to be leading the line. I couldn’t figure it out, and I suppose the gory details will be lost in the mists of time.

“Well, did they give you another job?”

“No.” Her voice brightened. “But I’ll get my job back soon.”

Bless your innocent three-year-old heart. And welcome to the next, oh, 70 years of your life. Getting shit-canned at age three is a harsh entree to the realities of modern existence — an existence I’ve worked hard all my life, with my unorthodox series of jobs, to avoid. And now Weevy had been blindsided by the whole mishegoss. My heart bled for her, it really did, even if she didn’t seem to give much of a crap about it. Good for her, I say.

I’m happy to report that she did get her job back the next day. And she’s not even going to sue her teacher for furloughing her.

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