Space issues

I have written before on my name theory, and the new boy in Sam's class is doing his best to confirm it. It all started at the beginning of the school year, when we were introduced to K. [Because it's a small school, and because it combines actual school, i.e., instruction, with daycare, there tends to be low turnover and a pretty long waiting list. Not to mention the whole "legacy" thing: There are at least a half dozen kids in Jane's class who are the younger siblings of kids in Samson's.]

Anyway, K is new to the school. During orientation I met his mom, who encouraged the boys to talk about about what they'd done that summer as a way of getting acquainted. Samson mentioned his trips to see family in New York and Connecticut, and he talked about how much fun he had going to the beach. K's family had also gone to the beach (somewhere in Georgia maybe?) for a family vacation at some resort. The highlight of this, according to K, was "shooting guns." Which I assumed meant at some kind of amusement park arcade. Nope. Real guns. At a range. K is four. I'm pretty sure even the Al Qaeda webelos wait until five for target practice.

[Now I should state right here that I'm cool with the second amendment. I don't own a gun but don't begrudge anyone the legal right. And while I think maybe a few laws could be strengthened [do you really need hollow-tipped bullets to hunt turkeys?], I am not someone who is anti-gun. Indeed, I'm in line with Flannery O'Connor on the utility of shooting people (or at least threatening to) to get them to mind their manners. I digress. As usual.]

So whatever. This is his family, and as long as he doesn't bring a gun to school, it's really none of my business. What is my business is his inability to stay out of my children's faces. Literally. And not in a mean, bullying way, but in a really, really excited-to-see-you sort of way. Sort of like an Irish setter. But without all the self-control.

Samson just sort of freezes. I think if he could, he'd fake death just to get the kid to leave him alone. Again, it's not a mean thing, it's just, well, a lot to handle at the start of the day. Imagine if you showed up to the office and a coworker whom you were friendly toward but not friends with was all of a sudden close enough for you to count his pores and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he'd had hazelnut coffee with breakfast. I usually try to stay out of it (it's good for Samson to figure this stuff out on his own), but it has become a staple of his morning drop-off. Arrive, take off coat, get barnacled.

With Jane, however, I can't stand idly by. For one, because she's my little girl. And while I realize it isn't very Free-To-Be-You-and-Me of me to say so, I'm being honest. Mostly, though, it's because K isn't content simply to be in her face, but he feels compelled to put his hands on her face. Which she is not a fan of. In fact, she confided to me one day that she didn't like it because she thought he might rub her freckles off. I told her he might just and that she should hit him square in the nose the next time he touched her.

OK, I didn't really tell her that, but I probably should have. For now, I'm just keeping a close eye on the lone gunman. Stay tuned...