Countdown to freedom

As I write, it’s three days till summer vacation, but who’s counting? Everybody’s counting, that’s who. The teachers, the crossing guard, even me. Three days. An eternity. Since when did the school year run till almost July?

“Hey, Huckleberry,” I say.

“What, Dad?”

“Three more days,” I tell him.

“I know,” says the little guy. “I knoooooooooooow.”

It’s been such a long year for him that he’s taken to calling his pretty young teacher “Mom,” which didn’t exactly thrill her, or his actual mother, who does virtually everything for him except breathe.

His thinking: A second-grader can never have too many mothers. Which is true. So, he goes around recruiting duplicates.

Poor Mrs. Norris is his latest mark. His teacher/mom is moving to Texas at the end of the year, evidently to join a gun-wielding cult, because why else would anyone move to Texas? Me, I turned down a trade to the Mavs and a big pay raise just to stay out of the place.

But Mrs. Norris, she’s going anyway. Three days to go, will she make it? Last week, at the field trip to the aquarium, one of the second-graders actually fell into one of the shark tanks but was quickly rescued.

Just imagine the psychic trauma those sharks must’ve experienced in the few seconds the second-grader entered their realm — smiling, kicking, bubbles out of both ends. It probably triggered fight-or-flight reflexes that the tiny sharks hadn’t yet tapped, aquarium life being rather serene. Living in an aquarium is like qualifying for the PGA tour.

Fortunately, no long-term damage appears to have been done to the sharks, but trauma counselors are watching closely just the same.

::

Three days till summer vacation, and four kids come walking up the sidewalk toward me at the end of the school day, four abreast, either unwilling or unable to share the walkway. It’s the same group dynamic you see at Disneyland on a crowded day. No matter which direction you step, someone steps in front of you.

Kids, if you’re reading this, I’ll warn you: Mess with me and I’ll sue. Last week, I sued my own children, and I’ll sue you too. Don’t say you didn’t see it coming, for we live in a litigious society, and it’s probably best you learn that early when you have only your parents’ loot to squander.

In my kids’ case, I sued them for mental anguish and neglect. They neglected their homework, they neglected their rooms. They neglected me. So, I’ll let the courts settle it. Trust me, I’m pure money on the witness stand.

Three more days …

Barb, the crossing guard, who has saved my life at least four times this school year, has been counting down the final days for almost a month. Each day, she puts her life on the line, knowing it could be her last. All she wants to do is make it to mid-June alive.

Barb the crossing guard is pretty much the bravest woman I know. If the choice were mine, I’d make her secretary of State, or put her in charge of Dodger Stadium security.

Anyway, the last time Barb the crossing guard saved my life — last Thursday — involved a mom in an SUV, a cellphone and a latte the size of Tallahassee. I won’t try to pretend that small women in big cars don’t scare me. It’s not a phobia exactly; something deeper.

This woman happened to be multitasking, I guess, probably late to her book club, or pilates, or lunch, when she went screaming through the intersection oblivious to my presence.

Now, where most men have spleens, I have a built-in air compressor, which allowed me to blast out of the way moments before this woman’s Toureg, or a Tiguan, or some other inanely named vehicle — a Chrysler Grand Miasma? — could clip my Achilles, benching me for the summer.

The close call left me breathless but a little buzzed; you know how those things go. A brush with death is, in the end, rather life-affirming. Like weddings and court fights.

So, anyway, we’re almost at the end. Three more days. Three more 6:30 a.m. wakeup calls. Three more safaris across the crosswalk.

Today, we took the class on yet another field trip (we don’t raise these kids so much as curate them). As far as anyone can tell right now, we didn’t lose a single work of art.

Yay, us.

Three more days.

chris.erskine@latimes.com

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