Friday afternoon, our 6-year-old son Ben’s Kindergarten class hosted a “reading party.”  The event was cute with an intro poem and song, which was followed by the kids taking their parents to various corners of the room to show off their reading skills.

The other kids were a little faster selecting their spots, so we ended up in a less desirable location between some bookshelves, one of which held a box of Kleenex.  Other than my legs continually falling asleep, as I tried to sit “criss cross applesauce,” the spot worked out pretty well and considering that Ben had a runny nose, it pretty convenient sitting by the tissues.

The half hour party was winding down, as Ben finished up reading some books about a variety of topics, such as unusual pets, the seasons, a visit to Grandma’s house, and the “Ant and Grasshopper” (which we have long thought was a biopic piece about Charlene, the hardworking ant, and me, the playful grasshopper).  Suddenly I sensed someone behind me, as a child approached the Kleenex box.  Before I knew it, there was a loud sneeze, followed by a heavy spray landing on the top of my head.  A collection of germs and thick mucus mist now coated my hair.  Resisting the urge to run toward the sink and douse my head with scalding hot water, I realized that it was a strange sign of Kindergarten acceptance.  I was no longer a random Dad.  This hazing ritual had welcomed me into the pack.  I was now a friend.  A friend, who could now be freely sneezed upon.