How to Party With an Infant (22 page)

So we walked around looking at preschool stuff, my thoughts drifting toward venereal diseases, when I felt something on the back of my upper thigh. Was it swollen? Did I bump into something? Have I already caught a human papilloma virus in this wretched place? I touched the spot, surprised by the softness, and then I felt the bump move—it began to slide a little toward my calf. When it reached the back of my knee I realized what was happening. What was happening
was that I had to get my daughter into preschool in San Francisco, which is like trying to find a feminist in a polygamist community, and having dirty underwear balled up into the leg of my jeans wasn’t a good start, because that’s what the bump was—dirty underwear—and it was slinking toward my ankle.

“This is the climbing wall,” the director said. “Volunteers worked all weekend to put it up, and the kids are just crazy about it.”

I prayed my panties wouldn’t make it down to my ankle, especially since I was wearing cropped jeans. I wondered if they were granny panties or lacy, sexy panties, and which would be less awkward to have fall out of my pants. The tour began to move from the climbing wall, and I tried to keep up with an inconspicuous slow walk, but I’m sure I looked like I was trying to scratch an itch in an unfortunate, private place. Joke’s on me for thinking bad thoughts about the others, meanwhile they all probably thought I had a yeast infection. The whole situation of trying to keep my panties in my pants reminded me of when I used to pad my bra with those silicone falsies and sometimes my bra would come unlatched and I’d have to use my biceps and elbows to keep the fake boobs in place until the situation could be corrected. Once at a club, one of the boobs popped out on the dance floor and a guy picked it up and said, “What’s this!” I snatched it from his hands like I was CIA and the booby was top-secret, like a bomb or the womb of an alien. “It’s nothing,” I said. “Just move along and get crunk.”

I managed to creep forward. The tour came to a halt outside. I looked around for dogs, worried that one would come up and sniff my leg. Or a child with sensory spectrum disorder. The tour director smiled at me, and I tried to look as goony-eyed as the rest of the mothers there.

“I’ve been talking a lot,” the director said. “Do you have any questions?”

“What
do you do about the child’s emotions?” one mother asked. She had gray hair, which is sort of rude, I thought. I mean, why can’t she dye it? I’m very short, and so I always wear heels as an act of courtesy. I didn’t understand the mother’s question—“What do you do about a child’s emotions?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked. No—I didn’t really. Apparently the director knew exactly what ol’ Granny meant, because she nodded and immediately said, “We respect them. We respect all emotions. Even anger. If someone is angry, we’ll say, ‘Hey, when I’m angry, I like to throw a ball in an area where other children can’t be harmed. When I’m angry’—and here she enacted anger, which made her look like she was reading very fine print—‘I just want to pick up a ball and throw it as far as I can, after first checking my space.’ Great question.”

The questioner nodded and seemed very satisfied, as did everyone around me.

I felt like I could go. I had the pamphlet. The director just reiterated everything in it. It was like the first day of school, when the teacher just reads the syllabus. Plus, I don’t really understand the intricacies of schools’ philosophies—Waldorf, Montessori, Reggia Emilio. “We’re play-based,” they all say, and they all claim to provide a supportive and enriching environment. They value imagination and a child’s uniqueness. Some value economic diversity, which seems to mean that they value extremely wealthy people so that they can let in a few poor kids and then write in their brochures, “We value economic diversity.” They all purport that the children will thrive and grow, as opposed to rotting and receding like in those other preschools.

“What about separation anxiety?” another woman asked. I glared at her. Enough questions. Annie was watching Ellie, and I didn’t want to be a bother. Plus, I’m a very quick person—quick to shop, make choices, quick to judge. My workday is quick, I read quickly, write
quickly, and talk quickly, using very few words. When things don’t happen quickly, I get very anxious and expect everyone else to sense this somehow, that I’m in a rush to go and get something else over with. I sighed, tapped my foot, then stopped, not wanting to trigger a panty avalanche. I looked around for someone who looked bored or impatient, but all I saw was sincerity. A mom with a buzz cut popped some sort of breath mint and chewed it with her front teeth like a rat. She offered one to her neighbor, a tall woman who slouched. She took the mint, which grossed me out.

“Some children experience sadness because they miss their parents and so they wear pictures of their mommies and daddies around their necks so when they get sad they can just look down,” the director said.

I pictured Ellie wearing me, Bobby, and her cheesy stepmom around her neck.

After everyone’s questions were answered and I thought I could finally go and take my panties out, we were led to the snack area, where a mom was placing grapes into tiny paper cups. I hobbled along.

“We take turns bringing a snack for the class,” the director said. “But we’re a nut-free facility.” I looked around the room. One of the volunteer moms was dancing in the playroom to “Beat It.” Nut-free? Sure you are.

“Also, your snack day is your day to clean the bathroom.”

She smiled at everyone around her, and I chuckled along with the other parents, but then realized she was serious. I would actually have to clean a bathroom. Are you kidding me? I spend all week cleaning and cooking, and now I’d have to clean a school restroom? It also occurred to me that I’d have to interact with kids once a week, like teach them how to make something out of pipe cleaners and a milk carton, or dance around to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It,” which is a tad inappropriate at a preschool.

“We are a family here,” the director said.

A writing instructor once told me to never use the word
beam
as a verb, but this woman was beaming at all of us, radiating groovy, nut-free love. I didn’t want her in my family. I no longer cared if my underwear fell down. I wanted them to fall down and land on my foot. Then I’d kick my leg and the underwear would fly up and I’d catch it in my mouth. I didn’t want to go to this preschool. I told Georgia I’d look at the co-ops she recommended—it would be nice to save some money, meet other parents, and see Ellie at school, but I didn’t want to meet these kinds of parents. They were too happy with themselves, or something. I wouldn’t fit in. I guess it would be like a real family.

All the parents stayed back to kiss ass. This whole process feels like we’re trying to get into the hottest club in town. I left, not even taking an application. I was taking a risk, but hell, I guess I’m like all the other mothers in the San Francisco Mother’s Club that I make fun of. I want my child to go to a school that doesn’t return your phone calls, but expects you to check in every month to inquire about your position on the waiting list. I wanted a school that had kids who were vaccinated.

When I got to the street I crushed the flyer in my hand, then reached up my jeans for my underwear. The green silky ones with white polka dots. I walked to the car. It was like being back at college again, doing the walk of shame with my underwear in my pocket, vowing
never again
.

What will I do if she doesn’t get in anywhere? I hear about this all the time, moms and their kids slumped at their windows, watching the neighbor kids skip to school. Something fierce pops up in a mom if she sees her child being shorted.

*  *  *

The next one wasn’t any better, and it required I pay the seventy-five-dollar application fee before seeing the school and knowing whether or not I even wanted to apply.

Another co-op, but this one was in Laurel Hill. I got there early so I could walk in exactly on time. I needed to step up my game, even at the co-op “safety schools,” and I’d heard great things about this one. Kids who go here go on to kindergartens I’ve never heard of, but that must be good because the brochure lists the schools proudly like they’re celebrities. I had high hopes and envisioned the working parents sitting on beanbags and drinking coffee and talking about real estate.

This time I wore sensible shoes and checked my pants for balled-up underwear. I also did some research. I learned from my SFMC chat group that I needed to smile and ask good questions that gave the directors a platform to ramble on about their schools’ unique qualities. They loved questions that weren’t really questions, but more like little diving boards they could do cannonballs from.

This director had neat, cropped hair, and the parents on the tour seemed much more synthetic, which was great. We all walked around—the space was very nice and open with lots of room inside and out. I saw two girls playing together in the outdoor sandbox and was reminded of an old friendship. I was very sick one day at school and barfed on my friend Elena, and then Elena barfed in the sink so I wouldn’t be alone. “See, I barfed a little, too,” she said. I’ve always remembered that.

The memory was wonderfully timed because the director looked over and thought I was smiling at the girls and not my past. Five minutes into the tour and I basically knew everything I needed to, but the tour kept going. And going. We kept being marched along, the pleasant little tricycles and sandboxes and artwork beginning to feel like purgatory.

The director led us to the “Tree Room.” Kids playing. Noted. Then on to the next room, where we had to pass an open bathroom. A row of low toilets led out to another open door. A little girl was standing in front of a toilet naked, and we all watched her reach around to wipe her butt. She looked at the toilet paper after she wiped, then dropped
it into the toilet, flushed, then headed to the sink to wash her hands.

“Good job, Lily,” the director said. “We let the children go naked if they want to.” She held her hands together in front of her chest like she was in a choir.

Wait. What?

“It’s a safe and protected place, and if it’s something they choose to do then we follow their will.”

One mom looked ecstatic. Another, afraid. I was very hesitant. I mean, there are countless pictures of my young self running around naked. My daughter loves to be naked and barefoot. My mom never slept with underwear on because she wanted to “let it breathe,” which always made me think of a vagina inhaling and exhaling and snoring a little. But it was cold out! And there could be pervs with telescopes! What if the children wanted to douse themselves in Sunny D, then roll around in tuna fish? Follow their will?

We walked outside and I hugged my shoulders. Two boys yelled, “glug glug glug,” and made airplane wings with their arms and crashed into each other. I pretended it was endearing. The worker parent looked at them, or through them, and I wondered what she was thinking about—probably groceries. That’s what I do most of the time.

“As you can see,” the director said. “Our parents are on the periphery. They don’t instruct or guide, or interact. They are here only to make sure the children are safe. They keep their bodies safe and their feelings safe.”

“So, we don’t have to teach crafts or anything?” I asked.

“No. We do not expect you to teach in any way, and at our meetings we will equip you with the know-how to keep the kids safe, to do dispute resolution in a way that lets the kids solve problems for themselves. The meetings will be informative, and they’ll give you the chance to meet, since you don’t really have any contact with each other at school. We are here for the children.”

Great. There goes my time to read magazines with other moms and talk about restaurants.

“These meetings are two Tuesdays a month, and you are expected to attend every one.”

I quickly scanned my brain to think of what TV shows were on Tuesday night. It was a slow night, thank God, but then I thought of spring.
American Idol
auditions! All those deluded children!

“So, they just roam around from room to room doing whatever they please?” a mother asked, the one who looked worried about nakedness.

“Yes,” the director said. “We’re all about free will, free choice. The children decide what they want to do with their time. At circle time, they can come to the circle or they can elect not to.”

I didn’t like that one bit, but I pretended to be down. We walked back toward the entrance and the mother kept wondering out loud if this was the place for her son, who was having trouble focusing.

“I just think he needs structure, and with so much free choice and free play he may not function.”

I envisioned a robotlike boy looking around at all his options and just sputtering and smoking and going in circles, saying in a scary android voice, “Too much data. Too much data.”

This woman wasn’t going to get in. Why was she expressing her concerns out loud in front of the director? Apparently she hadn’t read the articles I’d read, which remind parents that they’re being watched, not their children. They’re the ones applying, and the directors are assessing if we’ll be good volunteers, if we’re rich, black, Asian, Mexican, gay, divorced. Your best bet is to be a gay, black, starving artist who has adopted kids. Try to be that.

I took an application, out of fear. I didn’t want my daughter to go to this hippie naked school, but I was scared for her life, especially when I imagined Betts and the old playgroup, their rancid children all going
to the best schools, where they’d learn to play golf and guffaw and turn green acreage into condo developments. Ellie deserved the same.

Which led me to a private school in Lower Pacific Heights. This was the one I want and the one I can’t afford. It’s purportedly one of the best preschools in San Francisco, the one Henry sent his children to.

I went with Barrett. We met in front and walked in together.

“If it’s a guy doing the tour, should we unbutton our shirts a little?” Barrett asked.

“Sure,” I said.