Man of the House: Second grade, his way

The major difference between a dog and a little boy is that the dog has a more fully evolved brain and will attempt to clean himself when dirty. Other than that, they are almost the same creature. Dogs also have better manners.

To prepare the little boy for the first day of school, we wet-sanded him, then turned him on the lathe for about half an hour to spin the remaining goo out of his hair. By the time he entered his second-grade classroom, we had him down to two milk mustaches, which was a triumph, really. His mother was so darned proud.

“Look, you can almost see his lip!” she announced as he marched in with his new backpack.

By the way, we measured the little guy the other day, and he was an inch shorter than when school ended in June. We attribute this to superior nutrition and conditioning.

“Is he smoking too?” asked my wife, Posh, the implication being that he has other bad habits, though I’m aware of none. From what I can tell, he leads an almost monastic life. Sure, one day he had bubblegum for breakfast. But that was pretty unusual.

Now, as you know, summer isn’t just summer anymore. During these “off months,” mothers drill their sons and daughters daily to prepare them for an increasingly competitive world.

For example, Posh had our 7-year-old tutored this summer in pre-calculus and Mandarin Chinese, the thinking being that Chinese will soon be the language of global business.

I augmented this ambitious summer program by having him read me the headlines from the Sports page while I took my morning milk bath. In the evenings before bed, he’d read me the liner notes from old Sinatra albums.

Sinatra was at the peak of his form on these performances, his voice warm … and possessing a rich, woody timbre that [Nelson] Riddle likened to that of a viola.

So, to answer the obvious question: Yes, he’s ready for second grade. As John Steinbeck once noted, kids always want to be older than they are, so the prospect of moving up a grade totally thrills him. When people ask the little guy what grade he’ll be in, he proudly says “Secooooond,” the word rolling across his tongue like a chunk of lobster.

“Bye Dad,” he says as I drop him off his first day.

“See you tonight,” I say.

“Where?”

“At home. Where we live.”

“Oh, OK,” he says and scrambles into the class.

I remember second grade. I learned an inordinate amount of stuff about John Glenn — information that I would call upon constantly throughout my life.

The little guy’s situation is different. He will not learn about astronauts and unlimited possibilities. He will learn about global warming and the importance of recycling. These days, impending doom seems to be a recurrent theme.

Sure, I’m kind of scared for human survival in the long run, but I’ve got a pretty good feeling we’ll at least be able to finish out the semester. To that end, the PTA signups went well on that opening day. Posh put me down for the school’s Site Enhancement Committee, which I thought involved free Lasik. Turns out it has more to do with wheelbarrows and shovels.

“Fine with me,” I lied.

You should’ve seen the mothers on that first day, the sparkle in their eyes could’ve lighted up Cleveland.

The mothers lost their mojo somewhere around the first of August, lost that sense of optimism that makes a mom a mom. For Posh, the breaking point was the little guy’s sunrise rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” during which he accompanied himself on a toy guitar. For the record, no one compared his voice to the rich, woody timbre of a viola.

In fact, when he screeched “and the rockets’ red glare,” his mother’s hair burst into flames. She was last seen wandering the streets and playing her lips like a light switch. Ba-daa, ba-daa, ba-daa...

Me, I had no problems with him. We spent our August in our usual circuitous conversations, occasionally recycling bits from the heyday of radio:

“Dad?”

“Huh?”

“If I were you and you were me, what would I do first?”

“Clean your room,” I say.

Yep, it’s been a productive summer. The Mandarin is agony but the little guy has developed five new pitches, all fastballs. Totally on his own, he taught himself the xylophone. He arrived at school on that first day wearing the residue of 100 Band-Aids and the scar tissue of a summer well-played.

He’s the grain of sand inside the oyster, this kid. And, with a little luck, second grade may make him a pearl.

chris.erskine@latimes.com