Going to school

To coincide with Cian's start in elementary school, I rejigged my classes in the university so that they were all in the morning. I figured that for his first term at least I would have to walk up with him to school for 8:00 am (yes, Cian's school starts at 8:00am. We leave the house at 7:30 which means the boy is usually out of bed by 6:00, which in turn means I am up at 5:30 to make his breakfast. I would like to write that all this is having a wonderfully positive effect on his cognitive development but about the only thing this time schedule has done is make me addicted to Red Bull).
Anyway, given that I am usually in my office just after eight I decided to schedule all my classes for 8:45, the earliest you can start in the university. Then I could leave earlier in the evening to pick up Cian.
This was my plan. I thought of it as a 'good plan', a plan, indeed, that 'might come together'. In short, an A-team type of plan.
Unfortunately, all concerned with my plan thought I was a 'crazy fool'.
Cian decided after three weeks that it was decidedly uncool to be seen walking to school with his old man. His friends didn't seem to mind, in fact quite enjoyed chatting with me as we walked up, but Cian was having none of it. By the end of April a 250 metre exclusion zone had been declared around Cian Takahashi Gaynor and all 'unfriendly' adults were banished forthwith.
For my students the 8:45 class start is (we're still only at the midpoint of the term here) proving to be physically, mentally, and emotionally impossible. It is like teaching a class of zombies. Zombies who'd rather be dead than awake. I'd like to point out to my students that the fascist class time I imposed upon them was in order to facilitate my son, but as said son has happily gone prodigal they have to suffer the consequences. However, I just can't bring myself to look them in their eyes and tell them so. Principally because most of their eyes are closed. For the entire 90 minutes (I tend to only wake them if their snoring drowns out the CD player during the listening sections).
And I too will have to suffer the consequences when they turn in their end of term class evaluations and describe me as the Mussolini of Muroran.