A Good Tormato--Marcia

Kindergarten is winding down. The wheat has been separated from the chaff, and the chaff is whining, crying, and saying, “I won’t play with you” worse than ever. It doesn’t help that we got crazy Timmy Farmer six weeks ago. Those that might have been capable of sucking in their spit, sitting on their name tag (not spinning on their back like a cockroach), or standing in a line without pretending to be Megatron are backsliding so fast it looks like the hills of Malibu in a rainstorm around here. Timmy adds a very spicy peanut to the Chex Mix. And he reminds me a lot of what the main character of my novel would have been like as a little boy. I feel like I am getting a chance to remember why I wanted to write this particular novel in the first place.

Timmy’s first day, the Special Helper is choosing a state. As we are saying good morning to South Dakota, Timmy’s right hand shoots up and his left hand shoots back to dig around in his pants. He shouts, “Teacher! Teacher! I’m moving to Candace. I’m moving to Candace!” The teacher and I look at each other. “You know,” he insists, pulling his pants out of his rear, “you know the place where they have Tormatoes.” Ahh Tormatoes. Apt.

“Do you have to go to the bathroom, Timmy?”

“No, my butt itches.”

“Oh, okay.”

“My dad says if I don’t do that simple homework, he’ll spank me. Can we sing that song about Texas again?” His voice sounds like it’s been rolling around in the bottom of a whiskey barrel and poured out over broken glass.

“I farted,” he announces one day at my table. Madison is sitting next to Timmy in her taffeta dress and white gloves. The rest of us are trying to spell cat, he’s waving his hands around in the stench and trying to pull his t-shirt up over his mouth. Madison looks at me with her velvet brown eyes. “We’re all on the Timmy-coaster, Madison. We just have to ride it out.” He thinks that is just a Hi-larious knee-slapper. Working it into little songs throughout the morning.

His mother lies. We know because he told us right during the middle of the pledge of allegiance. He tips over his chair about five times a day. He can’t stand still, he’s always wiggling, spinning, trying to scooch up to someone, or half-kneeling, half standing on his chair, kaboom.

I made progress with Timmy the very first week. I found out quickly that verbal cautions and corrections made him scowl, growl, and pout. Physical contact on the other, settled him. It was easy. Sit next to him, touch his shoulder, take his hand. Words don’t reach when they're flung across the room at him. Emotions with Timmy are big, it's better to get in close.

During a fire drill, however, he started hurtling toward the swing set, I had to reign him in.

"Why are you holding my hand!!!! I don’t want to hold hands!!!!!!! He starts pulling away like a caged animal.

Thinking quickly . . . “Because I like to hold hands. Holding hands is my favorite thing. I feel less lonely.”

“Oh, why din’t ya say so!” Happy Skippy Hand-hold-e-rama.

During picture day, I am tackled from behind then wrapped up in The Timmy Farmer Anaconda Love Squeeze. I can hear his muffled voice coming from somewhere around my sweatered belly button.

“What?” I say.

“mmphcmppht,brthmpt.”

“Timmy, I can’t hear you.”

“I can’t breathe” he shouts into my stomach.

“LET.GO.”

“Oh.” He says, and motors off.

I stayed home once to take care of a sick kid. The next day, Timmy takes his seat at my table. The rest of his group is settling in like a bunch of fussy hens. He looks me dead in the eyes, his blue bulbs beaming with light-saber force, and says, “I missed you.” Then he gets up walks around my horseshoe table, and puts his arms around me. “I love you.” He states.

Five seconds later he’s curled up on the floor screaming and kicking his feet because he wants to use the blue pencil not the red one, and what about the one we did yesterday, are we going to do the sheet we did yesterday. AHHHHHH!!!! His face turns red he pounds his fists into the floor, his eyes blur with tears. But he has me, hook line and sinker.

I am left to scoop up the Timmy mess. The rest of the comrades have marched off to lunch. He’s hunched in on himself over by the sink. Hands over his face.

“Don’t smile,” I tell him. “Don’t smile, Timmy.” This gets a giggle.

“I told you don’t smile.” I say in my sternest school-marm voice.

Pretty soon he’s having happy spasms, holding my hand, skipping along to the cafeteria, I give him the secret squeeze.

“Why’d you do that?” he looks up.

“Mr. La Fond’s mom used to give him the secret squeeze. I’m sending you a message.” And I give Jimmy the one-two-three squeeze again.

“Do you know what that means?”

“No!” he says in his gravelly voice, his cowlick sticking up

“It means I (squeeze), love (squeeze), you (squeeze).”

“I love you, too!” He says, looking up to make sure I’m looking down and can see all the teeth in his smile. And he squeezes back.