....Hello my Ragtime Gal". Courtesy the dancing frog from the Warner Bros. cartoons. Do you remember him? He would perform only for his owner and no one else. When others were around he would simply "ribbit". Well, I have one and she's my little girl.
To quickly explain myself, we went to a class, the little girl grunted, groaned and wriggled. Then she screamed (at the highest pitch imaginable) and released her inner demon while wearing a frilly purple tutu. We left the class immediately upon this squeal and the scream stopped instantly. I teared up and found myself wiping a tear off my own cheek, before worrying about her woes. Then I couldn't catch my breath. It was like Grade One all over for me. When my mom came to get me from school and I was trapped behind all these desks that were formed into a circle. Being stuck behind one of the desks still haunts me like a challenge on Survivor. That feeling of protecting the feelings of my teacher and I did not want to be rude and leave the circle. Nor could I figure out how to get out?!?!? I panicked and sobbed until I lost my breath and I found myself gasping with the sobbing hiccups. I am approaching 37 and I did it all over again. This time, my mother was not standing at the door waiting for me. She was at home, and I found myself using Instant Messenger to reach her thousands of miles away.
As for Little Bumblebee, turns out she wasn't keen on the lesson plan. And she could communicate that with me most eloquently upon our departure. On the car ride home, there was little to say to one another. Although things turned around pretty quick and before I knew it she was in the back seat singing some pop tune from the early 80s and having an imaginary conversation with a toque, that was perched on her head like the CN Tower one minute and the objet d'affection the next. She took her assignment home from class and was able to complete it at home with ease.
"Why didn't you want to complete your project at school?"
"Because I wanted to do it at home!"
If only life were simpler. And then I tell myself, "Big deal. Move on. No one will remember you in this life for being the parent that pulled her screaming daughter out of the class room at the ripe old age of 3.56! No! Smarten up Willow." My kind and wise mum told me that it really isn't the end of the world and I'm sure I'll face bigger obstacles when I am 47 and she's 13.74. Won't I?
And the day is not over. We have to inspect the Halloween costume, detain the dog from her patrolling duties, pour piles of candies into a giant Rubbermaid tub and thank god *Steve* came home to share his smelly socks and pumpkin obsession with us. If it weren't for great GO train service, I'd be up in bed with the covers pulled up and pretend that it is only a melodramatic Joan Crawford costume. Only with lime green wool socks that Granny knit me.
signed, the willow
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