The Day I Met Peter

A sad anecdote for a rainy spring evening . . .

A new kid started yesterday. It happens that his name is Peter. Even though we only share a name, I feel a little bit of a connection with him. I don't know why.

Today in our day care portion, he came up to me and asked "When is my mom coming?" with tears in his eyes. You have to expect this from the new kids. I got down on my knees and said "She's probably on her way to pick you up right now, Pete. You see that clock over there?" I pointed to a microwave which sports digital time. "When those numbers turn to 6:00, the school is closed. She'll be in here before then, so you'll only have, at most, about two hours to wait."

He said "When the clock is 6:00?"

For a second I thought he could tell time. I forgot how I figured out that he was like any other three/four year old, though.

He asked "Can I watch it?"

I said "Sure."

He proceeded to sit cross-legged on the hard wood floor and watch the microwave. I could have turned on the microwave, paused it, and left a consistent display on there and he wouldn't have cared. This instrument obviously brought him comfort in the prospect that his mom was coming to get him.

He sat in front of the thing for an hour.

I finally called him over "Pete, man, I'm getting worried about you. Why don't you come over to the carpet where I can see you?"

He started to cry. "Nooooo! I can't see the clock from there!"

"I need you over here, bud. I can't see you from where I am."

He cried, and I had to do the 1-2-3 count, much to his disapproval. He would've just sat there otherwise until we went downstairs to play in the jungle gym.

He started playing a little with the other children, loosening up, to my relief.

The reason this got to me was because it reminded me of myself at his age. I used to do the same thing, wait in front of the window, just watching the cars go by, itching to see my mom coming up to the front door of whatever child care center I was presently in. I cried, I thought she would die on her travels without me, leaving me alone. Her mom died when she was young, so I took it as a sign that my own mother was going to die when I was young, as well.

I got a weird out-of-body experience out of finally knowing what my care givers probably thought during these events. Thoughts of "C'mon, kid, just play a little with the other guys," or "Wuss", or "I don't care, he needs to be by me, no matter what he says or does."

This kid will be an analyzer, a possible worry-wart, have a sense of humor, but he'll have emotional thoughts cloud his judgement most of the time.

In other words, I think this little Peter will turn out a lot like me. And I'm now the thoughts of the people who dealt with me as I grew up. It's kind of a strange experience.

Mogwai -- "Helps Both Ways"