So, I pick up Simon from the Y day care after my exercise class, and they make me sign a form. The form says:
“Simon pulled Isabel’s hair so hard some of it came out.”
Great. My kid’s a hair-pulling psychopath. They’ve also complained about his hitting other kids on the head with cars and biting. Lots of biting.
And I’m running late. So I apologize (again), and grab the little hoodlum. As I’m buckling him into the car, I smell something suspicious. Great. So I throw him on the floor of the van and wipe the corn-poo off his behind, get a clean diaper on him and wrestle (that’s an understatement) him into the car seat.
As I pull into the preschool lot, I notice chatty Dawn has pulled in just before me. I was hoping that the bright side of my being late would be that I wouldn’t have to make small talk with the horse whisperer. (The woman massages horses for a living.) Alas.
In Clare’s classroom, she’s one of the last ones there, and one of the teachers is comforting her. She’s crying pretty loudly. I ask what’s wrong, and she says she doesn’t want to use the preschool potty. She has a major issue with using public restrooms, or any toilet that flushes. At this point, I’ve resigned myself to cleaning poo out of a little plastic bowl once a day for the rest of my life. But I digress.
I pick Clare up, give her a hug and try to comfort her and talk to the teacher about what’s happening and how we can solve the problem. And who should butt in (totally fucking cuts me off in the middle of my conversation with the teacher), but horse lady.
“Did you get to work out today? Because as far as I know, they turned at least four of us away,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, copping my best dismissive voice. “It was really full today.” I start whispering in Clare’s ear — something about how the potties at the preschool are really cute. And wouldn’t it be fun to sit on one?
“Last time I was there, they were out of the little weights. You know, I can’t lift much weight because I hurt my shoulder.”
(Yes, she who resembles a horse, I do know that, because you stand next to me in class and whine all about it. Did I mention I hate being talked to while I’m trying to work out? No? I didn’t? Well, I HATE IT.)
“We’ll try again tomorrow, OK, Angie? OK, Clare?” Ignoring. Crazy. Woman.
“Well, I went and worked out anyway. Did some walking on the treadmill. You know, they are going to start giving people hand stamps so that they know how many are going to class. If you don’t have a hand stamp, you can’t go.”
“Angie, did you see Clare’s mittens? I can’t find them anywhere.”
“I really hope they do that. It’s frustrating to get there and then not be able to get into class. Some of the other women were mad, too.”
“Oh, I see, they’re in her pockets. Thanks. Simon, come on, it’s time to go! Thanks Angie — we’ll keep working on the potty thing.”
And as I’m bolting for the door, she is still talking. “Hope to see you Tuesday! That is, if class isn’t too full!”