Writing quickly before I have to get in the pick-up line at school. I hope the kids who get in my car this afternoon will be a lot happier than the kids we dropped off this morning. Both were apprehensive, so we tag teamed them. Girl clung to my hand as we arrived at her classroom, while Bob escorted Boy down the hall to his class.

“Dad, when you’re nervous, do you ever feel like you have to barf?” Boy asked Bob on the way there.

No one called me from the nurse’s office today, so I assume no barfing went on. I assume no crying did either. I sure as hell didn’t cry. I know lots of moms do when the youngest one goes off to kindergarten but not me. For me it’s happy happy joy joy.

Why do I feel so goooood today? A weight has been lifted from me, a weight called GUILT. Because until today, I felt guilty for leaving my little one with anyone else but me. Even Bob. But I don’t feel guilty about her going off to kindergarten because it’s the best thing for her in the world. So happy happy joy joy.

At the same time, boy’s butt has been removed from the couch (even though it still bears his indentation) and his face is free from the PSP. He’s back with his friends and what we’re hoping will be a kinder, gentler teacher this year. Happy happy joy joy.

So I savor this moment. Because in 15 minutes, they’ll be in my car giving me the lowdown on the day. Right now I’m imagining it was a good one for them both. For me it was, as SpongeBob says, “The Best Day Ever!”

“Write this into your brain,” Boy tells Girl. “When they turn the lights off in the cafeteria, NO TALKING. Those ladies are mean.”

“My teacher will be there. She’ll tell me what to do,” Girl says.

“No she won’t. She goes off with the teachers and you’ll be with the cafeteria ladies,” Boy says. He is imparting his brotherly wisdom to her as they’re riding in the backseat, on our way to school shopping. He goes on to tell her not to share her food and to never ever throw food.

The next day, Girl and I attend a half-hour orientation meeting for new kindergarteners at her school. She listens intently as the teachers go through all the rules. Here’s what she remembers about it: “The teachers said the grownups have homework the first day and the kids don’t. Ha ha!”

But she is stressed about going to full-time school. Every last thing sends her into a crying jag today. Especially when I remind her about the crayon rule at school.

“All the crayon boxes go into a big pile, and the teacher hands them out. You may not get the box with your name on it,” I tell her. “So don’t cry.” So of course, she then wails for 15 solid minutes.

I forget how young she is sometimes. I’ve been wanting her to go to kindergarten for two years now, so she can learn how to read. She watches waaaayy too much TV — she can recite almost every episode of Sponge Bob verbatim. I want her to know the world of books, and I hope she will love them as much as I do.

We just have to get through the first day.

- Why does a child have to come find you at the dinner table when she has to throw up?

- Why doesn’t she just go directly to the bathroom?

- Why doesn’t she give herself enough time to get from the kitchen table to the bathroom?

- Why did I decide to put beige Berber carpet in the bedroom leading up to the bathroom?

- How do you get mysterious brown chunks out of beige Berber carpet?

- What the hell was she eating, anyway?

Last night Boy got invited to a sleepover, and I was worried that Girl would be jealous. Instead she was thrilled. Boy usually guards the TV remote like a pit bull with a ham hock, but last night, Girl had a glorious evening of TV all to herself. (Where were Bob and I? On the front porch smoking a cigar.)

Instead of endless Spongebob, she chose her Popeye DVD – about 3 hours’ worth of old cartoons starting in the 1930s and going up to the 1950s.

We couldn’t coax her outside as she sat on couch and feasted on the antics of Popeye, Olive Oyl and Bluto (these were old cartoons; he wasn’t called Brutus yet). Girl just recently started calling Popeye by his real name; she used to say “Pie-pie.”

After a while, I sat with her, just in time to see Popeye and Bluto fight for Olive’s hand in marriage. Olive chooses her future husband by putting her hands over her eyes and playing eenie meenie miney mo with her pickle-shaped nose.

“Olive is very very stretchy,” Girl said, standing in front of me so I would give my full attention to what she was saying. “But she doesn’t make good choices.”

“She doesn’t?” I said, biting my cheeks not to laugh.

“Yeah. Popeye is much better than Bluto. He’s really strong and he’s nice. Bluto is just selfish.”

Olive basically irritated the hell out of Girl. In another scene, Popeye is getting his butt kicked while Olive just watches.

“I would just go to Popeye’s house and get him some spinach!” Girl said.

So Girl is learning about choices and problem solving. Who woulda thought Popeye could be edumacationable? Well blow me down.