It appears that I have reached that point in my life where I am no longer cool. I now do really lame Mommythings. No, I am not being too hard on myself. I mean, I have moments of cooldom; but in general, I am forced to do things that just embarrass my former cool self.
Case in point: I actually got up in the middle of the night to go wait in line to get into…no, not a concert or show of some sort. I did it to get Mountain Child into a preschool. That’s right. I woke up at 4 a.m. to get in line by 5:30 a.m. downtown to get my daughter into one of the only viable preschools around.
Perhaps you remember my last incident with preschools. I had plenty of time to lay low about the whole thing and mentally recover from it. A few weeks ago, I started the search again, this time armed with lots more recommendations and lists of questions to ask my prospects. The list, it turns out, was pretty short. There isn’t just much to pick from around here. I don’t blame the fact that we are the middle of West Virginia and somehow inferior when it comes to preschools—it’s just the rule of population. Not as many people live around here, so therefore there aren’t as many preschools. I settled on a preschool downtown which had been around for, about 75 years and also included a music and Spanish language program. I was about as excited as I used to be about myself going on a weekend trip with the girls. Like I said—my cool points are being lost by the minute.
But there was one little hitch with this particular preschool. It had exactly one morning that it opened itself up to the community for new people to register. And that was at 7:00 in the morning.
“So should I arrive a bit early that day? Are there a lot of people that try to get in?”
“Oh, I would get here early if I were you,” the preschool director said mildly.
“Like how early?”
“Oh, I have noticed people coming as early as around 6 a.m.”
Six?!? What is this, anyway? Now, my competitive radar is up. Right then and there I decided that Mountain Child must get into this school. If people are lining up at such an ungodly hour of the day, then it has to be worth it, right? And I will get there before anyone else.
I talk to other friends about the preschool. Apparently this place is notorious for parents camping out on the sidewalk practically in the middle of the night waiting for the doors to open to get their kids in this place. And once you’re in, you have to do it every year—and you have to come even earlier. One person told me that she knew of parents going at 4:30 in the morning. Luckily, that isn’t quite the case with the day that I was going—only the crazy parents that actually got their kids into this place had to do that. But still. I figured that I had to get there at 5:30 a.m. to beat the rush.
At that hour, it is still really cold at the beginning of March in West Virginia. Like still in the 30’s. I woke up at 4 a.m. I layered up, packed at hot tea to go, and headed out.
When I arrived, there were already two parents waiting. I decided that I was the Most Awesome Mother Ever because now I was #3 in line and was most definitely getting Mountain Child in. If I could survive the cold and boredom. I brought nothing to read and the only place to sit was on a cold metal bench. I suppose this is why people brought tents and chairs and practically had a campout for these things. It is cold and you need shelter.
Other parents trickled in. To my surprise, they were mostly dads on their way to work. I hadn’t even considered asking my husband to come. I think that is because he would have laughed hysterically in my face if I would have suggested that he get up and come. I don’t hold that against him. I am laughing at myself hysterically in the face for doing this.
We all chat and joke that we all probably used to wait in lines like this for concerts or something way more with it than doing this. I nod my head in agreement, but then I remember the last time I waited in line for like. We waited for over an hour to see Jesco White, the Dancing Outlaw, at the Charleston Power Park before a minor league baseball game. Another time, when I was pregnant, the celebrity chef Paula Deen was coming to the Williams Sonoma in my old hometown. And honestly, friends, I was so excited to meet her that you would have thought I was waiting in line to see the Dave Matthews Band or Brad Pitt—anyone more fashionable than the Queen of Southern Cooking and Butter. And before that? It was at a university when I was studying in my English graduate program—I waited in line to hear Rita Dove read poetry. Before that, I am not even sure. But it had to be something that the Cool Kids would have done, right….?
I realize now that I perhaps never had many cool points in the first place. I can’t blame my dorkiness on the Mountain Child.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Neighborhood Watch
Since we have moved into our new home, I have not met many of the neighbors. We have been busy getting unpacked, and the snow has made most people hibernate. And truthfully, I don’t really care much about getting to know the neighbors. It’s not that I don’t like people. It’s just that I am not really used to that. In Florida, we barely knew anyone on our street except for our next door neighbor who got drunk on a regular basis and would fall into our hedges. I guess we were all just too busy and self-absorbed to really get interested in any extra people, with the exception being getting the mail for Drunk-in-The-Hedges Neighbor when he went to rehab for a couple of months. The more I thought about it, the idea of having neighbors I know and like seems really nice. However, weeks have literally gone by where I haven’t seen a soul outside unless they were in their cars driving to work. Snow appears to breed antisocial behavior.
Actually, that is not completely accurate. One lady came by one snowy afternoon that was, strangely enough, our street’s welcome committee representative for the homeowner’s association. I only say that it was strange because, 1) we had been living in the townhouse for two months with no one even looking in our direction, and 2), she exclaimed, “I have been trying to get a hold of you for weeks!” You have? I stay home. How hard can it be? And furthermore, can’t you just mail the papers to me? I actually casually suggested that she could have left the papers at my door or just mailed them. She looked at me as if I had just suggested that we all commit pagan acts in the common areas at dusk. She peered nosily inside the house from the front porch and then, rather than just handing me the “Welcome Packet”, she asked to come in. I didn’t really want her to come in. Everything was a huge mess, with boxes and and breakfast dishes and laundry everywhere, not to mention that Mountain Child was actually taking a nice nap for once. But I was stuck in one of those social quandaries where I may have been rude by not being more gracious, but then again she may have been the rude one since she was sort of barging in. So I invited her in and offered her a drink. She declined, and then launched right in on a complete account on everyone that lives on our street: what they do, who is divorced or dying, and how the people at the other end just sold their place in only fourteen days. She didn’t know how much it went for, but it must have been good because it was one of the first offers and that place was really done up nice….and on, and on, and on. She let me know that everyone around here knew each other and were friends, play tennis and walk together. And that she and I should get together sometime, wouldn’t that be great? Oh, the whole exchange was just exhausting. Of course, the conversation eventually turned to my unit and how much we paid for it, for which I just said, “We got a really good deal,” and left it at that. She kept on hinting to see if I would tell her, but I wouldn’t budge.
This is something that I just cannot understand about people around here. They have no problem asking you the most personal of questions, how much do you weigh, your yearly salary, home purchase prices, cholesterol level, your marital problems, etc, etc, etc. Conversely, they don’t mind at all to share the exact same information about themselves and everyone else they know. I don’t know how many times I have been in the Kroger line or sitting in a waiting room somewhere and suddenly have become 1) privy to some random person’s most personal information that I never wanted to know, and 2) someone’s new best friend. There is a trade-off to the friendliness that is in West Virginia. The people here are the types that will listen to you all day long and really care. They will give you their last dollar. But they also expect that you don’t mind to share your most intimate details of your latest domestic battle or visit to the doctor for hemorrhoids. Which makes me an outcast because I simply can’t do it.
But I still want to be a Good Neighbor and a Gracious Person, so I decided that I would at least try to get to know the guy right next door to us. We are an end unit, so I actually just have one right beside us. I can do that. Small steps: I can be nice and be interested in one person. But he seemed to work mostly night hours, and my husband met him once and found out that he, along with his brother, run one of the nicest restaurants in town, Laury’s. Mmmmmmm…I had visions of us being great friends and free meals. But I never really saw him to even get in a hello. And the only holiday coming up is St. Patrick’s Day. Do I send him a card and a green beer on his doorstep? Or is that stalkerish and pathetic? I figured I was off the hook, that is until Wednesday of last week when I was forced to introduce myself.
On this morning, Mountain Child had locked me out of the house. I ran out to the car for under a minute and when I returned to the door, it was locked. I look down at my feet. I am wearing house slippers. I have on just a thin long-sleeved t-shirt. It is snowing. I then make a very concentrated effort to not completely freak out, and I calmly say through the door, “Honey, open the door for Mommy.” There is a lot of doorknob jiggling, and Mountain Child says, “I NEED HELP.”
“All you need to do is turn the lock the other way that you locked it.”
More jiggling. “MOMMY, YOU DO IT.”
“Sweetie, I can’t. You have to. I am very cold and you need to let me in.”
The doorknob jiggles some more, but nothing happens. “MOMMY! GET THE KEY!”
“I don’t have the key. It is inside. So you have to try hard to unlock the door and let me in.” I then attempt to explain how to unlock a door. This turns out to be difficult to do. “Just grab the little gold (Does she know what the color gold is?) knob and turn it to the right (She doesn’t know right and left yet. I need to get on that.). There is silence. And then Mountain Child starts to cry.
“I’M HUNGRY. MOMMY COME BACK.”
“I would love to, sweetie, but you have to let me in.”
“GO THROUGH THE GARAGE.”
“The garage doesn’t work. Please try to unlock the door.”
“CALL DADDY, MOMMY.”
Since when does she know what to do? I just love the helpfulness and knowledge of a three-year old. Of course, I don’t have my cell phone on me, either. I survey the row of townhomes on our street and realize that I will have to find a neighbor to help me. I walk next door to my neighbor, the one that I am supposed to try and become friends with anyway. I see his SUV in the garage and decide that now is as good of a time as any. I ring the doorbell and survey his porch area. It is swept clean, no doormat. There is nothing in the flowerbed, but there is a “WELCOME” sign made out of stone stuck in it. No one answers the door. I ring it again and then realize that he is probably sleeping. I start to walk away, and, with much dread, realize that I may have to just start going to each door down the line until I find someone. I am now imagining Mountain Child playing with the knives and stove. Just then, the door slowly opened. My neighbor peers outside, looking very sleepy and is wearing pajama pants.
Oh, I am not so sure that I am going to be invited to his very fancy restaurant now for that complimentary meal. “Oh, hi…um, I live next door. I am so sorry to wake you.”
“Oh, it is okay. It was time to wake up anyway.” He had a Middle Eastern accent and was tall and slim. I could tell that he was a heavy smoker because the smell almost knocked me down when he opened the door. He tried to smile, but I could tell that he wasn’t really even awake yet.
“I am so sorry to bother you. But I am locked out of my house. My three-year did it and she is still inside.”
“Hold on; I will be right back.” He disappears into the house and I can hear a toilet flushing a moment later. After a bit more, he returns to the door with jeans on, a cigarette, and an extra jacket for me. I am absolutely mortified but grateful for the gesture. We walk next door, and he jiggles the doorknob, which of course, doesn’t move. He leaves again, and this time returns with a hotel key card. He slips it in the door and nothing happens. He asks, “Where is your baby?”
“Well, actually, she is three and she was just at the door. Sweetie! Are you there? Try to help Mommy!”
“Helllooooo, little girl! You need to help your Mommy and let her in! Are you there? Are you okay?” I figure that anyone watching this little scene is probably pretty amused. A flaky mom in her slippers, a Middle Eastern man, both in the freezing snow, yelling at a door.
Mountain Child replies, “MOMMY, WHO IS THAT?”
I say, “That is our friend from next door….”
“My name is Fazi,” he volunteers.
“It’s Mr. Fazi,” I tell her. “Please help us get the door open.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO…”
Fazi seems amused. “Is she usually a good baby?”
I didn’t occur to me until that moment that a three-year old more than likely knows when she has locked her mommy outside and that this is, indeed, very bad behavior. There just wasn’t any warning. We were having a perfectly fine morning until, bam! I am outside shivering with my neighbor and my feet turning numb. “She hasn’t done this ever before. I guess she will be in trouble once I get back in.” I also realize that have inadvertently told a lie. She did this when she was around a year old by accident. However, she mysteriously unlocked it before I panicked.
“You need to get a key and hide it,” Fazi adds helpfully.
I borrow his cell phone to call my husband. He sighs and promises to be there in ten minutes. At that moment, I look up and there is Mountain Child, looking out her bedroom window at us as if we are putting on a show for her. She is laughing and waving at us. “HI MOMMY! IT’S SNOWING!!!!” I can hear her yelling this through her window.
And so we wait. Fazi stays with me outside, which I told him over and over, that he didn’t have to do that. But he insisted, saying that something may happen to the baby. I thought that this was both sweet and absolutely useless since we couldn’t get in anyway. Unless, of course, we broke a window. We chat about where we are from (he is from Iran), siblings (he has nine brothers), and the very cold winter. If it weren’t so cold, it was actually a nice chat.
My husband eventually pulls up and lets me in the door. I scold Mountain Child vehemently and put her in time-out. I think that at that point she could have cared less. The excitement of mommy outside, the neighbor, snow, and now daddy coming home was totally worth it.
After we have lunch and I hurriedly get dressed for work at the Reading Center, Mountain Child says, “MOMMY GOT LOCKED OUT.”
“Yes, you locked mommy out. Don’t ever do that again.”
“WHO WAS THAT MAN?”
“That was our neighbor. Fazi. He was nice and let me use his phone.”
“FAZI IS OUR FRIEND.”
Yes, I suppose so. Maybe I will give him something for St. Patrick’s Day.
Actually, that is not completely accurate. One lady came by one snowy afternoon that was, strangely enough, our street’s welcome committee representative for the homeowner’s association. I only say that it was strange because, 1) we had been living in the townhouse for two months with no one even looking in our direction, and 2), she exclaimed, “I have been trying to get a hold of you for weeks!” You have? I stay home. How hard can it be? And furthermore, can’t you just mail the papers to me? I actually casually suggested that she could have left the papers at my door or just mailed them. She looked at me as if I had just suggested that we all commit pagan acts in the common areas at dusk. She peered nosily inside the house from the front porch and then, rather than just handing me the “Welcome Packet”, she asked to come in. I didn’t really want her to come in. Everything was a huge mess, with boxes and and breakfast dishes and laundry everywhere, not to mention that Mountain Child was actually taking a nice nap for once. But I was stuck in one of those social quandaries where I may have been rude by not being more gracious, but then again she may have been the rude one since she was sort of barging in. So I invited her in and offered her a drink. She declined, and then launched right in on a complete account on everyone that lives on our street: what they do, who is divorced or dying, and how the people at the other end just sold their place in only fourteen days. She didn’t know how much it went for, but it must have been good because it was one of the first offers and that place was really done up nice….and on, and on, and on. She let me know that everyone around here knew each other and were friends, play tennis and walk together. And that she and I should get together sometime, wouldn’t that be great? Oh, the whole exchange was just exhausting. Of course, the conversation eventually turned to my unit and how much we paid for it, for which I just said, “We got a really good deal,” and left it at that. She kept on hinting to see if I would tell her, but I wouldn’t budge.
This is something that I just cannot understand about people around here. They have no problem asking you the most personal of questions, how much do you weigh, your yearly salary, home purchase prices, cholesterol level, your marital problems, etc, etc, etc. Conversely, they don’t mind at all to share the exact same information about themselves and everyone else they know. I don’t know how many times I have been in the Kroger line or sitting in a waiting room somewhere and suddenly have become 1) privy to some random person’s most personal information that I never wanted to know, and 2) someone’s new best friend. There is a trade-off to the friendliness that is in West Virginia. The people here are the types that will listen to you all day long and really care. They will give you their last dollar. But they also expect that you don’t mind to share your most intimate details of your latest domestic battle or visit to the doctor for hemorrhoids. Which makes me an outcast because I simply can’t do it.
But I still want to be a Good Neighbor and a Gracious Person, so I decided that I would at least try to get to know the guy right next door to us. We are an end unit, so I actually just have one right beside us. I can do that. Small steps: I can be nice and be interested in one person. But he seemed to work mostly night hours, and my husband met him once and found out that he, along with his brother, run one of the nicest restaurants in town, Laury’s. Mmmmmmm…I had visions of us being great friends and free meals. But I never really saw him to even get in a hello. And the only holiday coming up is St. Patrick’s Day. Do I send him a card and a green beer on his doorstep? Or is that stalkerish and pathetic? I figured I was off the hook, that is until Wednesday of last week when I was forced to introduce myself.
On this morning, Mountain Child had locked me out of the house. I ran out to the car for under a minute and when I returned to the door, it was locked. I look down at my feet. I am wearing house slippers. I have on just a thin long-sleeved t-shirt. It is snowing. I then make a very concentrated effort to not completely freak out, and I calmly say through the door, “Honey, open the door for Mommy.” There is a lot of doorknob jiggling, and Mountain Child says, “I NEED HELP.”
“All you need to do is turn the lock the other way that you locked it.”
More jiggling. “MOMMY, YOU DO IT.”
“Sweetie, I can’t. You have to. I am very cold and you need to let me in.”
The doorknob jiggles some more, but nothing happens. “MOMMY! GET THE KEY!”
“I don’t have the key. It is inside. So you have to try hard to unlock the door and let me in.” I then attempt to explain how to unlock a door. This turns out to be difficult to do. “Just grab the little gold (Does she know what the color gold is?) knob and turn it to the right (She doesn’t know right and left yet. I need to get on that.). There is silence. And then Mountain Child starts to cry.
“I’M HUNGRY. MOMMY COME BACK.”
“I would love to, sweetie, but you have to let me in.”
“GO THROUGH THE GARAGE.”
“The garage doesn’t work. Please try to unlock the door.”
“CALL DADDY, MOMMY.”
Since when does she know what to do? I just love the helpfulness and knowledge of a three-year old. Of course, I don’t have my cell phone on me, either. I survey the row of townhomes on our street and realize that I will have to find a neighbor to help me. I walk next door to my neighbor, the one that I am supposed to try and become friends with anyway. I see his SUV in the garage and decide that now is as good of a time as any. I ring the doorbell and survey his porch area. It is swept clean, no doormat. There is nothing in the flowerbed, but there is a “WELCOME” sign made out of stone stuck in it. No one answers the door. I ring it again and then realize that he is probably sleeping. I start to walk away, and, with much dread, realize that I may have to just start going to each door down the line until I find someone. I am now imagining Mountain Child playing with the knives and stove. Just then, the door slowly opened. My neighbor peers outside, looking very sleepy and is wearing pajama pants.
Oh, I am not so sure that I am going to be invited to his very fancy restaurant now for that complimentary meal. “Oh, hi…um, I live next door. I am so sorry to wake you.”
“Oh, it is okay. It was time to wake up anyway.” He had a Middle Eastern accent and was tall and slim. I could tell that he was a heavy smoker because the smell almost knocked me down when he opened the door. He tried to smile, but I could tell that he wasn’t really even awake yet.
“I am so sorry to bother you. But I am locked out of my house. My three-year did it and she is still inside.”
“Hold on; I will be right back.” He disappears into the house and I can hear a toilet flushing a moment later. After a bit more, he returns to the door with jeans on, a cigarette, and an extra jacket for me. I am absolutely mortified but grateful for the gesture. We walk next door, and he jiggles the doorknob, which of course, doesn’t move. He leaves again, and this time returns with a hotel key card. He slips it in the door and nothing happens. He asks, “Where is your baby?”
“Well, actually, she is three and she was just at the door. Sweetie! Are you there? Try to help Mommy!”
“Helllooooo, little girl! You need to help your Mommy and let her in! Are you there? Are you okay?” I figure that anyone watching this little scene is probably pretty amused. A flaky mom in her slippers, a Middle Eastern man, both in the freezing snow, yelling at a door.
Mountain Child replies, “MOMMY, WHO IS THAT?”
I say, “That is our friend from next door….”
“My name is Fazi,” he volunteers.
“It’s Mr. Fazi,” I tell her. “Please help us get the door open.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO…”
Fazi seems amused. “Is she usually a good baby?”
I didn’t occur to me until that moment that a three-year old more than likely knows when she has locked her mommy outside and that this is, indeed, very bad behavior. There just wasn’t any warning. We were having a perfectly fine morning until, bam! I am outside shivering with my neighbor and my feet turning numb. “She hasn’t done this ever before. I guess she will be in trouble once I get back in.” I also realize that have inadvertently told a lie. She did this when she was around a year old by accident. However, she mysteriously unlocked it before I panicked.
“You need to get a key and hide it,” Fazi adds helpfully.
I borrow his cell phone to call my husband. He sighs and promises to be there in ten minutes. At that moment, I look up and there is Mountain Child, looking out her bedroom window at us as if we are putting on a show for her. She is laughing and waving at us. “HI MOMMY! IT’S SNOWING!!!!” I can hear her yelling this through her window.
And so we wait. Fazi stays with me outside, which I told him over and over, that he didn’t have to do that. But he insisted, saying that something may happen to the baby. I thought that this was both sweet and absolutely useless since we couldn’t get in anyway. Unless, of course, we broke a window. We chat about where we are from (he is from Iran), siblings (he has nine brothers), and the very cold winter. If it weren’t so cold, it was actually a nice chat.
My husband eventually pulls up and lets me in the door. I scold Mountain Child vehemently and put her in time-out. I think that at that point she could have cared less. The excitement of mommy outside, the neighbor, snow, and now daddy coming home was totally worth it.
After we have lunch and I hurriedly get dressed for work at the Reading Center, Mountain Child says, “MOMMY GOT LOCKED OUT.”
“Yes, you locked mommy out. Don’t ever do that again.”
“WHO WAS THAT MAN?”
“That was our neighbor. Fazi. He was nice and let me use his phone.”
“FAZI IS OUR FRIEND.”
Yes, I suppose so. Maybe I will give him something for St. Patrick’s Day.
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