At Walker’s school, volunteering is mandatory—you have to put in a certain amount of hours per year. It’s still very minimal, especially compared to past co-op preschools where it was like having a second full time job. I do more hours because Walker’s face lights up when I walk in her classroom and I get about 5 hugs per 10 minutes, and the other girls make me feel like a rock star and that’s never a bad gig.
Plus, I like that I get the lay of the land in her class. I get to see which kid gets in the most trouble. Who’s the know-it-all. Who sucks up. Who reads through lunch and refuses to eat. What the teacher is up to. It’s a good size-up all the way around. And I’m nosy.
Walk’s in third grade and her class is gender specific, so it’s all chick-lets.
I get asked great questions like, “Why does Walker have two moms?”
I have great answers like:
“Well, now that Walker’s other mom left me for The Geriatric Toaster Oven (as an aside, GTA is my fond pet name for my ex’s new partner—and former friend, strong emphasis on former. Our relationship counselor called her a “Hot Stove” to steer clear from. And then my hilarious best friend, Susan, started coming up with modifications: Moldy Butter Churn, Rusty Ice Chest, Geriatric Toaster Oven), she actually has four moms.”
I considered snarkily spouting in retaliation: “You dad is Chinese. Why are you asking this question?”
Thank Buddha I did not actually say the second thing because that would sound like I’m racist and defensive when the little girl is just trying to get to the bottom of a confusing family structure.
I read Todd Parr’s primary-hued book when Walker was little or likely I would get all up in the grill of various 9 year olds. But I saw all of that diversity in multi-color and I’m able to say calmly, after deep abdomen breaths, “Every family is different. For example, some kids have only one mom. Some kids have two dads. Walker has a multitude of moms. Some kids are grown in a petri dish. Some kids were raised by wolves.”
Yes. Our freak flag still flies the highest and with the most color. Luckily, the nine year olds haven’t really noticed this yet. I also cannot rejoice for our urban setting enough. Diversity does indeed rule.
Anyway, I’m volunteering and Walker’s school sports a rubber clad playground—it is recycled tires, y’all. This ensures that the kids don’t get hurt. The girls and boys are roughhousing and going down the slides and playing tag. Some boys have a robust game of football going and that makes my fingers twitch. I’m an eternal child and athlete. I want to throw the ball.
So, when Walker’s teacher picks up an errant Nerf and punts it, I want the hell in. It isn’t long before the ball tumbles at my feet. I pick it up and prepare to show off my arm, because Girl can hurl ball.
Small boys clamber backwards, doubting me. And I took their challenge; Naysaying Little Shits, and let that sucker fly.
What happened next was like slow motion. The boys watched as that ball sailed up and over them. There were about a half dozen and no one was in position to catch that Hail Mary, but jaws hung agape they watched that colorful piece of foam sprout wings.
Ten feet past the boys, the ball completed its arc of triumph and fell to earth and smacked a little girl square in the face. She never saw it coming and maybe that was the worst. That and I threw that ball.
She wasn’t part of this game and was serenely watching something going on in the playground equipment. And that ball, in the midst of the hustling, screaming boys, stopped the earth and all the earth’s sound, and took out that little glasses-wearing girl. Slammed sideways into her innocent, small, pig tailed, brown-skinned face.
Can I describe my horror, as I stood in the midst of three teachers? Three teachers that took in this sight play by play? No, I cannot. The blood rushed up into my cheeks and forehead and colored me like an apple at the height of fall.
The girl fell to rubber and bounced. That surface was there to protect the innocent after all. And then, because every boy burst into raucous laughter (which magnified my horror exponentially), that girl disappeared into the crowd and under the equipment. I didn’t see her again.
I turned slowly to Walker’s teacher and said, “Well, I hope I didn’t kill that girl.”
She agreed. She was wide blue eyed looking at me and nodded.
It’s rare that I want to literally shrink myself. But if I could have disappeared into the drain or the gutter, I would have.
I said, “Perhaps volunteering is not for me. I might be a menace.” And as quickly as it happened, it was as if nothing happened, except I continued to feel humiliation to the bone.
When we returned to the classroom, I reached down and scooped up the class hare, Harriet. I love a bunny and this one was earth-toned with giant ears. Also, I needed some soft comfort after my playground antics.
Harriet thrashed through and didn’t want to be picked up. She rabbit-kicked me and I nearly dropped her. I flashed back to my eight year old self when I dropped my baby bunny, Chocolate Chip. CC hit the floor at an odd angle, broke a leg, endured a cast, and died shortly thereafter. I always felt guilty about that poor bunny’s demise.
I carefully put a hard breathing Harriet back on the ground where she retreated to hide under the table to recover her normal bunny respiration, nose triangle twitching at warp speed.
It was then that I was sent from the room to make copies for the teacher.
Coincidence? I think not.
