Oh, come on. You knew with the impending strike that there would have to be at least one t.v. analogy.
Growing up, we weren’t allowed to wear makeup. I think we weren’t supposed to wear it until we were like 15 or something. It was my mom’s attempt to keep us from becoming hussies (no comments from the peanut gallery necessary, Husband). I used to sneak mood lipstick in the 8th grade but I always got busted.
Then something happened. I remember my mom trying to take a picture at Christmas of the 4 girls years later and she said, “You girls should put on a little lipstick.”
Sorry, Mom, but that ship has sailed. I’ll bet we don’t have $40 worth of makeup between the four of us now. I take that back. Kate might have some good stuff. But we really don’t care. I always say it was because we had to wait too long. By then it was too late. Makeup itself had jumped the shark.
I’m having a makeup experience right now.
I’m on my fourth email. They started out pretty innocuous.
Please sign up for your parent-teacher conference on Friday. We can’t WAIT to tell you how The Boy is doing.
Slots are filling up FAST!!! HURRY TO GET A TIME THAT’S CONVENIENT FOR YOU!!
Well, if you are gonna watch both my kids so I can talk to you about school, then ANYTIME is convenient for me. Since I have to schlep them both along, let’s dispense with using the word “convenient,” okay?
Now they are seeming a little panicked, like I might be attempting to blow the whole thing off.
We noticed you haven’t signed up for a time slot. Please give us a CALL!!
I don’t even know what the last email said because I didn’t open it.
Here it comes, Internet. Parent-Teacher conferences are tomorrow and I’m still not signed up. Before you FREAK OUT on me, I’m going. Honest, Mom, I’m gonna go. I just think it’s a little sheisty that the whole place is set up to keep you wondering what the hell is going on and then they are all, “you’d better get here quick.”
School policy: You can’t observe the class until November. It’s better for the children to be able to get into a routine.
Then there is drop off and pick up. It’s great in a downpour, but because of it, I haven’t met one person. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking for a BFF but it would be nice to find someone to carpool with so that I’m getting a little more than 30 seconds in between drop off and pick up. My sister, the former preschool teacher, explained that this process is so the teachers never have to talk to the parents. Ever.
But the kid is happy. Delirious. He comes home and obsessively pours a gallon of milk into a shot glass. Clearly pouring is in the curriculum. It’s not like I haven’t tried to find out what’s going on at school. I’ve asked The Boy but therein lies the problem. He is A BOY and he is TWO. What the hell can I get out of him? I have asked The Boy but he says things like, “I play with Denny.” It takes me two weeks to find out there is no Denny but there is a Danny. Is he talking about Danny? “NO, MOM. DENNY.”
Notwithstanding the multiple notes sent to school about why he is coming home soaked in urine, and of course, that incident where they lost him, I have officially given up. For all the good that is going on at the school, they are clearly missing the communication factor with us. One of my friends asked me the other day what The Boy was doing at school and I may have responded that they could be running a crystal meth lab, for all I know.
Or building a rocket, based on the crap he is muttering under his breath these days. Look, the kid has come home dry for the last 2 weeks, they haven’t lost him in at least 2 months and he is doing all these creepy mechanical things with his blocks. What more do I need to know?