May 17, 2007
There's a lovely little Montessori School right next to the park that we frequent. From what I can tell, the children seem to range in age from 3ish to 9ish. This school appears to be a rather idyllic place--the classes are small and perfectly diverse, the kids have a firm handle on the concept of social appropriateness, and all posses a seemingly grown-up work ethic.
At any given moment, on any given day, I'll walk by the school and everything appears to be perfectly under control--the students might be running an organized lap around the playground before they are set free for recess, sanding and refinishing a mini-picnic table in the school's backyard, or kindly singing songs to elderly folks at the park.
Really, it borders on creepy.
The single disruption in their day seems to occur whenever I walk by. At least once a week I make some type of scene in front of these children, and this week has been nothing short of historical. I like to think I provide the teachers with more-than-ample material for their "no one is perfect" lessons.
For example, on Monday I showed my middle finger to some lady in a Toyota Camry. She was driving way too fast and layed on her horn as she flew past my stroller. Quite simply, she scared the schnit out of me. Just as I flipped that woman off, three Montessori kids were stepping outside to tend their pansy plants and pea-pods. They witnessed the whole ordeal. Fantastic.
[Sidenote: that was the first time I've given a stranger the middle finger since high school]
On Tuesday, about twenty school children were sitting on the schools' front lawn, listening to some kind of African storyteller. My dog decided to take a giant dump ten feet behind her. Apparently, a 20-something white-girl who's picking up a poo with a target bag is far more captivating than traditional Nigerian folklore.
And Wednesday? Wednesday, quite simply, took the cake. On Wednesday, you see, I allowed James to forgo the stroller and walk to the park with his wiffleball bat in tow. I'm sure you remember the wifflebat--big, red, and hollow. Apparently our president likes to swing one around between conference calls with foreign diplomats.*
As we passed the school, James decided to walk in the road--and that's against the rules. I lovingly refreshed James' memory--he could either chose to walk on the sidewalk, or be carried. Just as he attempted to step off the curb a second time, I scooped him up, wifflebat and all.
I completely expected James to throw a fit, but instead he fell completely silent. At that moment I felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment. "Finally, finally James has realized that tantrums are fruitless," I thought. I reveled in my glory for a short second, and then it happened...the third embarrassing moment of the week.
BONGGGG! BONGGGG! BONGGGG! BONG. BONG. BONGGGG!
That, my friends, is the noise of James' wifflebat smacking me in the head--repeatedly.
That, on the other hand, is the sound of 100 children waiting for their bus as they watched and listened to an innocent mother getting smacked over the head with a wifflebat--repeatedly. All eyes were on us as we turned around, began walking home and eventually faded into the horizon.
Welp, I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow kids! I'll see what I can muster up.
*Please note: I do not use this blog to express my political opinions or afiliations (mostly because I have none). In all honestly, that was the most representative picture of the wifflebat that I could find.