Dylan starts school next week, but I have homework.

My assignment: To share Dylan's "general behavioral characteristics" so his teacher will better understand what makes him tick, and in some cases, explode.

I'm not sure if I should be brutally honest or consider this an exercise in creative writing.

The first one is easy-- Is your child very active, moderately active or inactive? I added some exclamation points after "very active" and was left wondering if there is such a thing as an inactive 5-year old.

Question 2:  What circumstances commonly cause conflict between parent and child? What is hilarious about this is that they give me two lines to write a response.  I mean, he's 5 for goodness sakes! I could fill the front and back with a 24-hour period -- beginning with addressing why ice cream is not appropriate for breakfast. We progress to putting on clothes, and if he has slept in his shirt from the day before (it happens a lot) sometimes he wants to wear it AGAIN particularly if it has gigantic stains on it from the day before. Don't even get me started on brushing teeth, which might as well be like pulling them. All of this before 8:00 a.m.! Let the fun begin!

I figure they don't want this level of detail, so I give a safe, far-reaching answer of, "When he doesn't get his way, or if he is asked to do something he doesn't want to do!" Yeah, that pretty much covers the bases. But perhaps that makes him sound really bratty, which he isn't. How honest do they want me to be anyway? I've already put down my registration fee, can they kick me out now?

Question 3: How is conflict handled? My safe answer-- I actually give myself some credit for using "creative cajoling" which I figure the teacher will appreciate. I also drop terms like "positive reinforcment" and "redirection." I do attempt these at times in my daily life. The answer that does not make the cut is that I consider locking MYSELF in permanent timeout with my computer, a good bottle of zinfandel (that would be of the red, NOT white variety), cheese, crackers and some chocolate. There are also times I dream of simply being in a quiet car, or one with music of my choice, and just taking a nice long drive. Final destination--nowhere. Not swimming lessons, not a play date, not a birthday party... just let me go MIA for a few hours. Needless to say, I self-edited that one, too.

Question 4:  How do you feel about your child coming to school? This one is easy. I truly am thrilled for Dylan to be back in school, he's a curious little guy who loves learning. However, I didn't add HOW MANY HOURS UNTIL THIS STARTS???

In sports lingo, “redshirting” is holding college athletes out of competition for a year (usually their freshman year) to extend their eligibility.

I’ve elected to “redshirt” Dylan, at least for now.

As I investigated, I started asking directors of these pre-kindergarten programs when parents elected to hold kids back. I was FLOORED to learn that some parents who have children born as early in the year as February or March elect to hold them out of school.  The other thing I quickly learned is that boys are held back more often than girls, especially because they can be slower to mature. 

I would be naïve to think that in football-crazy Texas, athletic considerations don’t play any part in the decision of to enroll or not to enroll, and some parents have flat out told me so much, which floors me again.

Well, we are closing in on the first day of junior kindgergarten and we've hit a progress point that is a VERY big deal. 

I think on the first day of school, Dylan will leave his two favorite companions in the car.

Dylan just turned 5, which was greeted with jubilation, a big party and far too many toys that require some assembly.

My fate in putting things together was sealed at a young age.  When I was about 12, I took an aptitude test which showed that I was a real winner in the area of reading comprehension, but the counselor sadly informed me I scored in the third percentile in spatial relations.  Not 1/3 as in 33 percent but as in 3% -- basically 97 percent of the population is more skilled than me in tasks that involve placing shapes in differing positions or in putting together something that only requires, say, a screwdriver.  I probably did not want to consider a future in, say, engineering.

So it should come as no shock when my friend Daliana phoned me and asked how I was doing. My reply—“I’m in Hot Wheels hell."

I had been toiling for oh, two hours, on some track that was supposed to easily fit together.  Whoever wrote these directions, or should I say, crummy pictures with very little verbiage, should take those Hot Wheels tracks and, well, ahem, since this is a family webpage, we’ll just leave it to our imaginations…

Daliana and her son Raul, also 5, wanted to drop by a gift which they assured me did not require assembly.  They arrive and Raul spies the misplaced tracks and he accomplishes more in 5 minutes than I could in two hours.  He’s gleefully snapping things together and is putting together something that actually resembles a race track. Cars are in motion, Dylan and Raul are having a great time and I am feeling thrilled that the darn thing is put together and somewhat lame that I've been outdone by a 5-year old.

Perhaps the best part of my dad’s 11-day hospital stay in Missouri was that my 5-year old Dylan got to experience first-hand what it means to be part of the community where I spent my childhood.

People who had known me in diapers were now offering to care for my son while I was spending time with my dad.  One of dad’s best fishing buddies would regularly show up at 6:00 a.m. to visit dad and even brought homegrown strawberries and blackberries. My former typing teacher (yes, before computers) and her husband stopped by the hospital at 11 p.m. and brought me coffee. The high school basketball coach and his wife, who is the school counselor, watched my son the entire day and then thought nothing of inviting my mom and me into their home for dinner.  Then to top it off, the coach, who doubles as a shop teacher, spent hours in the 90+-degree heat to build handrails for front door to ease dad’s transition home.

We also received an invite to a birthday party at our local (and only) swimming pool.  Watching Dylan swim in the heat of summer in the same pool I splashed around in as a kid was special.  He even offered up that this place was “cool!"

I took some solace in knowing that Dylan was seeing this trip as a vacation of sorts while I was wearing my mom hat and worried-sick daughter hat simultaneously.

I am finally emerging after 11 days of “hospital haze.”

A couple of weeks ago, my father had double knee replacement and suffered a terrible hangover from anesthesia (we think, we still aren’t completely sure). This led to a major state of confusion – he rambled a lot and his arms were regularly in motion as if rowing a boat, which he might have been doing since he frequently didn’t know where he was.

Just another day chock full of fun and frolic around here. First, Dylan my 4-year old went to the dentist, which took every ounce of creative cajoling I could muster. But generally he did pretty well, and showed off his knowledge of states and capitals (he knows them all) and the hygienist gushed he must be so FUN to hang out with.

Generally, this is the case; however, she would not have recognized the child who accompanied me on our next stop -- the post office. Dylan was enraged that we were mailing pictures to my folks. He didn't understand we had those pictures at home and these were REPRINTS, not originals. He started yelling, in his menacing 4-year old voice, "Don't mail the Wolf camera (envelope!)! Don't you do it, Mommy!"

I tried to calm him down, patiently explaining the idea behind reprints which he either could not comprehend or simply chose not to understand. It didn’t really matter, I hand the envelope to the postal worker, and Dylan was screaming at me, "I quit this place!" and the guy behind the counter laughed and said he felt that way every day. People near me in line were starting to chuckle.

Frustrated, Dylan then started flailing his two ever-present bath towels "Froggie" and "Blankie" at me and then proceeded to hit me on the butt and started proclaiming, "Little bottom! Little bottom!" at this point the whole post office crowd guffaws (I guess it's better than big a**!) yeah, we're quite the comedians around here.

He then yells again that he "quits this place" and for emphasis screams “I am OUT OF HERE... humph (added for additional emphasis)!"   This post office that was bustling 3 minutes ago has paused in its tracks and is watching this spectacle with amusement. As soon as Dylan starts the derriere whacking, people are laughing out loud, some hysterically. Dylan finally starts yelling long enough to draw a breath and follow up with his final directive: "This IS NOT FUNNY!"

Everyone is shooting me sympathetic looks and I am left wondering if 10:30 a.m. is too early to start drinking wine!

I think I’ll research “mommy amnesia” today, to see if anyone else can’t remember anything besides just me.

In my pre-pregnancy days, I used to be focused – working in the area of career services at the Missouri School of Journalism. I could remember any of our on-campus recruiters after a single meeting and students’ names with ease.  It was effortless – it was just part of who I was.

Now there are some days like I am on a flying trapeze with no net.

I long for the days I breezed out of the house, car seat be damned, strolling through the grocery store blissfully shopping without a list.  I never forgot my credit card in the store, as I’ve done more occasions than I care to admit. Last week, I walked out of a restaurant and realized after 5 minutes, I forgot my purse.  What kind of woman can’t remember her own purse? I regularly have to call my own cell phone before leaving the house because I can’t remember where I’ve put it. A few minutes later, I’ll notice I missed a call, wonder who it is from and feel a little lost that I can’t remember it was me calling from my home phone.

I know I’m not alone – several of my mom friends suffer from this, too. One friend went to the grocery store and came home empty handed because she had her purse, but no wallet. Cold feet takes on a whole new meaning for my friend who left her son’s tennis shoes IN THE REFRIGERATOR!

I know my memory hasn’t totally shut down. I could recite my diaper bag checklist  as readily as the Lord’s prayer – give me diapers, wipes, change of clothes, milk, bottles, favorite toys, favorite blankets and snacks and it will likely all be OK.

But, my brain must have a hard drive with limited memory. Maybe it’s normal that something as simple as taking my 5-year old son Dylan to the pool and all the stuff that requires means it’s quite possible I show up without my swimsuit.  It’s not forgetfulness, but really my selflessness coming through – meaning someone else’s needs have to come before your own, so if you forget a few things in the process, so be it.  That sounds much better than the “mommy amnesia” definition.

Mommy amnesia… hmmm… what was I talking about?

Five years ago, I stopped being just Jennifer and became known as “Dylan’s Mommy”.

I knew I was in for a bit of trouble when the nurse handed Dylan to me and said in a chirpy voice, “Here you go Mom!”

I looked around, wondering who the heck she was talking to.  Had my Mom shown up and I didn’t know it? Oh, it appears she was talking to me, and I realized I had just assumed the role of my life and had no script. 

What had just happened? I woke up, went to hospital and in a matter of hours, I had been induced in labor, and suddenly there was a need for a C-section and the next thing I knew my husband Tim had a front-row seat to see things I never want to see myself. And now PRESTO! What have we here???

It was kind of the same feeling I had at my first baby shower.  Instead of ‘fessing up and admitting I had no idea what a crib bumper would do, I honestly asked, “Well, who knows when I will need this?”  Would I really need 10 burp cloths (YES!), and did I need little washcloths with the days of the week on them (perhaps this would help keep me on track when I didn’t know what day it was).

While in the hospital, questions were racing in my mind – How do I change a diaper and not get peed on? How did taking that class breastfeeding help me now that it was time for the real deal?

I was so confident in my pre-baby days.   I had been a good daughter, sister, wife, student, sports reporter and until a week ago had worked for my alma mater – the Missouri School of Journalism helping students find jobs and internships— and now I had worry about how to clean around a circumcision?

So now I have this precious little guy, who I admit was quite cute, but there where were the operating instructions? Is it too late to put him back? Being pregnant wasn’t all that bad…

The first few months of Dylan’s life were like a CD that was so badly scratched it just kept playing the same song over and over – nurse, burp child, change diapers, try to sleep – hardly a top 40 hit.  In trying to simply keep my son alive, I somehow never got around to filling in the baby diary I received, or using that “make your child’s handprint” kit.  And perhaps the most blasphemous thing is that I never put together his baby book – but I don’t think there is any link between hardened criminals and lack of a baby book, and if there is, I don’t want to know.

But in time, a great little guy emerged – smiling at me, laughing with me, laughing AT me, paying me a salary in hugs and kisses I would not trade for anything.