“Mommy, Johnny’s listening to me again!”
“Tell him to stop.”
“I tried but he’s not listening!”
Personally, if I’m going to have a point one kid could that be the part that does dishes and vacuums and carries out the recycle, even if it has to make six trips? Might be a problem getting him into kindergarten though.
Me: “Yes, I’d like to register Johnny for preschool please?”
Her: “And where do you reside?”
Me: “Down the street.”
Her: “Left or right?”
Me: “Umm, from here? I guess you go down Main and it’s on the left just before the Co-op.”
Her: “Not here then.”
Me: “Not here? Who’s not here.” Turns and looks anxiously.
Her: “He can’t come here. He needs to go to school district five hundred and three, Obsolete Elementary, over on Pine.”
Me: “But that’s blocks away! On the other side of town! We only live two blocks from here!”
Her: “Can’t be helped. That how they draw the boundaries,” pointing to a large map with a large red line.
Me: “He’s only point one. Surely you have space for a point one?”
Her (perking up): “How much of a point one?”
Me: “He’s got total use of his right ear.”
Her: “You’re in. My boy has a left.”
Me: “Are there many points here?”
Her: “Not yet. But they are slowly adding up. We might have an entire child in three years. Mind you, the newer ones will have to work harder to catch up. Your Johnny too.” Looking stern.
Me: “Roger that. I’ll get him a tutor.”
How exhausting was that?
I always eschewed anything like this kind of quote unquote normalcy. Getting married, having children, two cats and a dog, mortgage, vet bills, cooking large Easter dinners for large groups of irksome relatives who spill wine on your carpet and stay too long after dessert and coffee. I’d rather be the irritating one who gets invited to make sure the numbers balance and because I always bring the best whiskey. I may be annoying, but at least I never talk about religion. (No, I’m not going to talk about it, at all. No, not because I’m politically correct. Because it doesn’t interest me.)
What other things are we not supposed to talk about? Oh, yeah. Sex. Money. Politics. But there should be more than that, don’t you think? Like, I really really, I mean really, do not want to hear the details of Debra’s bout with stomach flu, or Frank’s prostate surgery. Nor do I want to hear in the complete unabridged story of Betty’s heart valve replacement. Look, it’s not that I’m unsympathetic. I just don’t want to imagine the procedures in full colour Imax surround sound for the next ten years. Cause that’s how my brain works, that’s why. Same reason I don’t watch Zombie movies. Ugh.
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