How to Party With an Infant (23 page)

“I heard you’re supposed to let the school officials know you can build a new playground, but have a friend mention it.”

“I can’t build a new playground,” I said. “I can build a sand castle.”

We walked in, put on name tags, and then about ten of us were led to a small room where we were given a speech by the director. I coached myself beforehand to pretend I was at a poetry reading: look like you understand, smile knowingly. I was going to try to pay attention because I always tuned out. Immediately I found myself lost in thought as the director spoke about the school’s values: She’s not wearing any makeup. No foundation, concealer, mascara. Look at those lashes. Like dandelions.

I tuned back in to hear her talking about things called “interfacing,” “decompressing,” and the “gross-motor room.” She talked for about half an hour longer, and Barrett and I were really struggling. We were rolling our eyes and nudging each other, and holding back laughs. There’s nothing better than to have a fellow eye roller, and Barrett was also a note passer. On one she drew a monkey sniffing his finger, and the thought of her taking the time to draw this made my chest and throat hurt. I could barely contain a burgeoning barking laugh, and I eventually had to cough to mask my snorting.

We were finally let out of that torture chamber, then split up into
small groups. We were to go from classroom to classroom for “observance” and instructed not to talk to the kids and to sit only in the adult chairs. This was very important.

We walked quietly into the first room and sat and watched the kids doing the usual things: playing, talking. We just sat there like scientists watching apes. I leaned over intending to say to the mom next to me, “How long do we have to do this?” but noticed her scribbling copious notes and stopped myself in time. What did her notes say?
Kids are playing! Playing here and there, everywhere!

“I cannot stress how boring this is,” I whispered to Barrett.

“We watch our own kids do this every day,” Barrett said. “What in the world are we supposed to be learning here?”

We did this in four more classrooms. I walked into the art classroom and watched the kids there. Exhausted, I sat down.

“Please sit in an adult chair!” a teacher said.

“Oh,” I said. “Okay!”

“Jesus Christ,” Barrett said. “You got verbally spanked.”

I sat in a goddamn adult chair and watched the smocked kids paint. Big frickin’ deal. Barrett kept shifting in her adult chair and picking at herself.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I have a vaginal wedgie,” she whispered. “A veggie.”

“Did you make that up?”

“On the spot.”

“Quiet please,” the teacher said.

I let out a loud yawn.

After “observance” we all came together to watch a class have a meeting in which they talked about yesterday’s walk in the Presidio and the consequences of cutting in line; then the director took us to the outdoor play area and spent time talking about each and every play structure.

“These are the bikes,” she said. “The
children ride these in this area here. These are the bars that the children hang from.”

Barrett and I did the stop, look, and roll.

“We’re always looking for ways to improve this area,” the director said.

“Are parents allowed to finance improvements?” a woman asked. We snapped our heads toward her. She had smooth brown hair and Tory Burch–like clothes. She looked like Bobby’s fiancée—that same glossy perfection. I could just envision her on Instagram, looking down, laughing at a puddle.

“The school appreciates all contributions, especially since so many of our kids are on scholarship. We love help from parents!” The director laughed. The woman laughed. Ha ha ha! Ha ha! Ha ha!

“I told you,” Barrett said. “She basically just promised a new playground. She’s in.”

I looked at the woman’s tribal, leather handbag, alongside her hip. Did it just flip me off? I believe it did.

We then went through another of those inane lengthy question-and-answer sessions, and finally, two hours later, we were released. On our way out I noticed Ms. Philanthropist talking to the director.

“I have some tips,” Barrett said. “Don’t worry.”

*  *  *

We picked up our girls up from Annie’s, then went to my place to fill out our applications.

I’m always a little nervous when the kids are together. This makes things a little uncomfortable for me around Barrett. I don’t know the etiquette for telling a friend’s child to please stop fucking with mine. Fortunately the girls were doing well, painting at opposite ends of the table.

I took my time filling out the application, using my neatest handwriting.

“After
you mail this you need to call them every month.” Barrett pointed her pen at me. “Start a relationship, a friendship. Show them how enthusiastic you are.”

“Henry says I need to tell them I’m an ethnic writer.”

“He’s right.”

I tried to imagine how I’d work in all of this information: “Hi, this is Mele Bart, a slightly ethnic, aspiring writer, and I’m calling to check on my status because I’m very enthusiastic about your school.”

“I write a food blog,” I said. “And I haven’t published anything yet. And I’m just a little Hawaiian and a little Chinese.”

“You’re writing a cookbook,” Barrett said. “So for ethnicity just double the recipe.”

I looked at my daughter, Ms. Minority. Her skin is like my sheets: Oatmeal Linen. Her hair is wispy, thin, and straight, the color of straw, but on paper she’ll be a brown girl with roots from afar. Polynesia, China.

“Have you asked Henry to the wedding yet?” Barrett asked.

“No,” I said. I hadn’t seen him in over a week. “It was a stupid idea.”

She didn’t disagree.

“What are your tricks?” I asked.

She was writing quickly, then stopped and looked up. “Tara is African American,” Barrett said, then continued filling out her form.

“You’re not really putting that, are you?”

“Of course I am. I did that National Geographic DNA thing. They said my ancestors were originally from Kenya.”

“They can find that out?”

“Apparently.”

“Yes, but all of our ancestors were from someplace like that.”

“Then she’s African American, too,” Barrett said, tilting her head toward Ellie.

“I don’t think the school means what is their nationality traced back thousands of years.”

“Well, they don’t specify.”

I gestured to blond-haired, blue-eyed Tara. “I think they’ll be a bit confused when they meet their new black student.”

“It will be good for them. Teach them more understanding.”

“Sister, I’m not sure about this,” I said. “And I’m usually pretty immoral.”

Barrett sighed. “Look. My daughter is unique and intelligent. She’s diverse; she’s a fuckin’ sundry, and if this city is going to make it impossible for our kids to get into schools, then I’m going to match wits and beat ’em at their own game. Now, you say you’re part Hawaiian? Hawaiians don’t count for shit. They weren’t totally persecuted. They’re not living on reservations. They didn’t have to sit in the back of the bus. They are, however, native to Hawaii. Hawaii is in America. And thus, your daughter is a Native American. You see how it works?”

“I can paint!” Ellie said. “I paint all of it all up.” She put the paintbrush to her face. I didn’t stop her. I remembered at carnivals getting my face painted, the cold, wet paint, the soft bristles of the brush.

“You see!” Barrett said, laughing. “One Who Paints on Face!”

I looked down at the ethnicity box (that would be a good band name). I sometimes picked Pacific Islander for Ellie and myself, but knew deep down that this wasn’t really given much credit. When they saw this box checked, admissions officials most likely envisioned coconuts and hula dancers, an idyllic, balmy existence, before stamping
ENTRANCE DENIED
over Keolani Miller, or whomever.

“Her name doesn’t sound Native American,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Barrett said. “Names get changed. Look at Ellis Island. Your last name could have been Wolfe Range, but your great-grandfather changed it to avoid persecution, or had it changed by some conformist boss. Tara’s grandpappy could be Suge Knight for all they know. They can’t question you.”

“You’re out of control,” I said.

“Out of control,” Ellie said.

Tara glared at Ellie and held her paintbrush tightly to her chest. “Mines!”

“You have to pay an application fee to even see some of these schools,” Barrett said. “Some charge seventeen thousand dollars a semester. For preschool! Henry paid for that art room you saw. If you want to get in, you need to either build a new gross-motor decompression room or check the right box, and don’t feel bad about it. Do it!”

I had filled in everything but the ethnicity box. My essay was two pages long. It had a thesis, body, and conclusion. It stressed how much time I had on my hands to volunteer.

“Did you do this for Jake?” I asked.

“Jake? No. And it took me three tries to get him into his old elementary school, so he entered late and he had no friends. He wouldn’t listen or focus. He hit kids. He smelled everything, like obsessively. We thought he was on the spectrum for a while there. I’m not putting Tara through that rejection.”

She looked at me with intensity. It was as if we were in the trenches and she was building me up to make a run for it. “Just do it,” she said. “Do you want her to have no friends like my son?”

I thought of Betts enrolling Bella when she was still in the womb. I thought of that woman today, implying that she’d pay for a new play area. I thought of all the moms who had hired preschool consultants and of the school tours, the boredom, the time, the cost of applying, the effort to keep my knickers concealed.

“Do it,” Barrett said. “This city is a battlefield. And we are warriors.”

I looked at the black paint on my daughter’s face and held my pen.

Native American. Check.

*  *  *

So that’s
what scares me the most—not just preschool but the choices we make that herd us toward a certain point, making the other points and places fall away. I’m scared of my choices. I’m scared of what I’m capable of doing for my child, I’m afraid I’ve already taken too many bad turns and she’ll look back at the map and say, “Why didn’t you go here? Why did you turn there?” and “
Why can’t we go back?”

I know we’re not supposed to use this forum to advertise our own business, but there have been so many posts on potty training that I thought it would help to let you know about the company I founded, Poop in the Potty Forever, LLC, which provides private education services and potty boot camps. My process involves interviews, observations, educating your children about their bladder and bowels, and devising a customized plan for your little learner. Contact me if I can help!

—Consultant Linda York, MA

I wanted to warn everyone about a business called We Fix Doors. I had an appointment with them, but found another company who could do it for a better rate. When I called to cancel, the repairperson hung up on me. I called back and he answered the phone saying, “F— you in the ass. F— you in the ass, you cheap bitch.” And so I would not recommend We Fix Doors.

—Email response to a mother asking SFMC for garage-door repair recommendations

M
ele finishes her post on saffron-roasted cauliflower. How she loves roasting cauliflower! It’s like taming a shrew.

Ellie comes to the kitchen in her fourth outfit of the day. “Make it happen,” she says.

Mele doesn’t know where that came from, probably Michael, the boy from her daycare who has a head shaped like a football. She had heard his mom say to him one day, “Make today your best day,” so figures it’s one of his family’s platitudes. Maybe she could have Ellie pass one along to Michael. He could go home saying, “Live like you’ll die tomorrow” or “I don’t sweat, I sparkle.”

Mele grabs the Pirate’s Booty and fills a baggie with carrots. “Are you sure you don’t need to go potty?”

“I’m sure,” Ellie says and lifts up her dress.

“Then we’re off.” Another afternoon doing the mom thing. Park, bath, dinner, bed, repeat, repeat, repeat. They are making it happen.

*  *  *

“Henry!” she says when she sees him at a picnic table. She exaggerates her enthusiasm, like they are buddies and everything is all g and normal and her heart isn’t racing, her body not aflutter. It’s so strange when you land upon the idea, the fact, that you’re attracted to a friend. It’s
like discovering something that was there the whole time. Like money in your pocket, or something in your purse you didn’t miss but are so happy to find. Henry! It feels wonderful to want something, to be charged by something, to let her know she isn’t dead down there. Mele had been beginning to accept a nunlike kind of living, but at the sight of him, she’s thinking, See ya, sisters, I’m dropping you like a bad habit.

She walks in, closing the gate behind her. For the first time she feels single and happy about it. Married parents can’t realize the significance of this simple thought and the healthy rise you get from believing it.

“Hey,” Henry says, almost standing up. They give one another awkward high fives. He always looks so nice, though not overly styled. He wears Ray-Bans, a collared shirt, and jeans.

“We’ve missed you guys,” she says, looking at Tommy.

“We went camping,” Tommy says. “We camped a lot. We ate marshmallows, we had a wagon. It was my wagon.”

“We went camping, too,” Ellie says. “We built a fort.”

Tommy stands with his hand on his hip, assessing if he is going to let this fly. Mele can read him.
Did she really go camping? That makes my camping less significant. How should I define myself?

“Want to go down the pole?” Ellie says. “Only I can do it so.”

“I can, too,” Tommy says, seeing an opportunity to reinstate his masculinity, and they walk off. Mele looks after them, imaging them as siblings, then quickly pulls in the reins. How did it go from friendly attraction to stepmom? There seems to be little difference between young crushes and adult crushes: at both ages you are willing to compromise so much of yourself. Mele remembers during her freshman year in high school, she quit dance, something she loved, something she was so good at, just so she wouldn’t miss Jared Terra’s call. Cell phones must be changing young love lives.