Prerequisites

I remember when I was in college and I had to take something called prerequisites. I thought: "what in the world is a prerequisite?" I dared not ask for fear of looking like a stupid freshman. I took the word into my internal memory and kept it in a file with other words such as syllabus that I was sure that I would only need for the next four years (or 6 but who's counting).
A prerequisite is a class that you must take in order to gain necessary knowledge for classes that you will take in the future. For example, I had to take College Algebra before I could take Agricultural Economics. I'm still trying to figure that one out! But, then again, I DID breeze through both of them with a 'D.' Hey! I passed! Layoff!!!
I'm not sure I figured out what prerequisite really meant until I had children. I'm constantly having flashbacks of things that I have gone through in my life that left me with a feeling of 'Why me?' only to be now left with a feeling of 'Eureka! Thanks God!' One such event came to me last night as I was reminiscing over the last 2 1/2 years and the many episodes of 'Revenge Nudity' (where all clothes and diapers are ripped off to make a point of control) and incidence of a little curly head leaning over the bath tub, staring down the drain because he's sure that Sally the Turtle is down there somewhere and the fear that he would somehow get blamed for her disappearance.
When I was employed by Children and Family Services, I had the pleasure of meeting and developing a friendship with a little boy. "Little Johnny" was your basic 7 year old, oldest sibling of a whole gaggle of kids. He came into my life one day as a result of a responsible adult who left he and his younger siblings alone with a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey. Once the party got started, things got out of control due to an intoxicated toddler that the others were afraid was going to torch the place with the cigarette he was smoking. 9-1-1 was called by one of the children and the rest is history.
I had the honor of escorting "Little Johnny" to his doctor's appointments and parental visits. He was a delight to be around and never a dull moment was to be had. I was fresh out of college and still pretty proud of my little dark red sports car only to have it ripped apart by this child that I couldn't 'hit.' "Little Johnny" did everything from pushing all my buttons (both figuratively and literally) to taking off his seat belt and trying to jump out of the car going down the interstate. Thank God the speed limit was still just 55 then because another 10 or 15 miles an hour and I might have had to "push" him. Tee hee! Not really!!!!
After a few weeks, "Little Johnny" became the Dennis the Menace of our office and believe it or not some people actually hated him. I didn't particularly care for his behavior but I had a brand spanking new degree in "Human Development and Family Studies," tons and tons of prerequisites under my belt, and an undying belief that there was good in everyone (some of us just require a little deeper dig than most). The nearest I can describe as to how I felt about him is the character of "Little Nicky" from the Adam Sandler movie of the same name--while still the son of Satan he was more pitiful than the evil ones who had abused him all of his life.
One dreary day, I was scheduled to escort "Little Nicky, er, I mean, uh Johnny" to the pediatrician. Now, being a worker for DHS, I was not allowed to disclose to anyone who I was. It wasn't necessary because the office employees at the pediatric clinic knew and it wasn't really the business of anyone else. That worked really well for most children in the system but this Precious was a different story. He tried every bit of patience that I had but not before he had in some way annoyed every other adult in the waiting room. I was receiving glares that would bring the devil himself to his knees. I took it for as long as I could and then I announced to the entire waiting room with apparent despair in my voice, "HE IS NOT MINE, OK!"
A question from a mother whose child had been assaulted, "He's not yours?"
"No Ma'am. I am doing a favor for a friend who is at work." That was my standard answer because I did after all kind of like my supervisor (she was one of my bridesmaids) and she was at work. They didn't need to know that she wasn't the mother either.
The lady responded with, "You're a better friend than I am. I wouldn't put up with that."
I managed to get "Johnny" wrapped up in my arms preventing him from hitting anyone else and he couldn't throw anything. As he screamed for me to let go of him, I was headbutted and kicked. While I could have probably drawn Worker's Compensation, I refused to acknowledge getting beat down by a 7 year old. Those bruises were from running into the wall, yeah that's it! I managed to get one leg wrapped around him and explained to him while it was embarrassing to sit like this in the full-to-capacity waiting room, I was going to sit here and hold him until he calmed down. After about 5 minutes of intense pain for both of us, he settled down. Eventually, they called us back to the exam room. I'm sure that they put us in front of others just to get him out of there but I didn't care and neither did the other patients and their parents/guardians. "Johnny" and I got up from a seat and walked back together and he even took my hand and let me lead him back. *SHOCK!!!!*
Once the pediatrician came in the room, all of the calmness went out the window. The second he hopped up on the exam table it was like WWF. The doc handed him a tongue depressor....OK???? Does anybody else see this as a problem? I had no children at the time but I figured that handing this kid something that could easily be made into a shank was probably not the best idea. But, he was in the doctor's care now. ~smile~
The little boy took the tongue depressor and quickly slapped the doctor on both sides of his face like something straight out of the 'stooges' and screamed at him "ELVIS!!!!" OK! Minus the sideburns, he could have passed for the King....I guess! This invoked an unbelievably calm response from the doc of "Have you ever thought about maybe Elvis faked his death and he really still is alive?"
WHAT??????????? Where in the world did that come from? "Uh....no, Doc, can't say that I ever gave that a pondering?" Still, I was impressed at his calmness. Apparently, this wasn't his first "Little Johnny." Although, the tongue depressor strategy still remains a mystery. I guess it worked at some point.
Later, the doctor caved. "Is there anything you can do to help me keep him still while I finish his physical exam?"
"Ooooohhhh! I don't know let me see. I haven't had much luck before." I walked over to the exam table and said softly to the child. "Do I need to hop up there on the table and give you a hug like I gave you in the waiting room?" He looked at me with the sweetest expression in those deep dark eyes and said, "Noooooooooooo." He laid down on the exam table and allowed the doctor to finish the exam. All was well, until the inevitable examination of the unmentionable area. "Johnny" grabbed his pants, threw his leg over to protect himself, and screamed "HEY MAN!!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING??????" Thank the Lord and all things good this was the END of the exam.
We left the office that day, got in the car, and put on our seat belts. I said, "Look! I'm making a deal with you. From this point on, when you are with me, every time you break a rule, no matter where we are there will be a 5 minute time out." He agreed to the deal. For any infraction occurring while traveling down the road, we pulled over to the side of the road for 5 minutes. It took us 1 1/2 hours to drive 15 miles. I heard 'I'm sorry' more that day than I have the rest of my life combined. Each time, I explained to "Little Johnny" that if I let him off with less than the agreed to time of "5 minutes" then I would be a liar. "I will never lie to you!"
While other CFS workers hated even being in the room with this child, I never had another problem with him. They even called me a few times to calm him down. I think sometimes he just wanted a hug. I never gave him the "super hug" again after "that" day; but he was only 7!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Even though he was "Johnny the Barbarian," he still needed hugs! Something had happened to him in his short life that caused this behavior.
I still think of him regularly...especially, when I'm getting my lip busted and collar bone thrashed from head butting. Thank God for the curls that cushion the blows and another prerequisite on my life's transcript.