Titled: Mamby Pamby Land
One of the main differences between an adult and a child is not the disappearance of mistakes, but how we resolve our mistakes when they happen. That’s what I love and hate most about this whole adult thing—I have to ask for forgiveness and suck it up even when I know deep down it wasn’t my fault, or it was a very small percentage of my fault.
Who am I kidding? I had to do that as a kid too. Only now, I can’t hide behind my parents or blame it on one, or both, of my brothers.
Sure, I suppose I can admit, on that rare occasion, I am in complete error and should step down in all words (all of them!) of defense. That rare occasion is not now.
If only there was a No Fault Insurance policy in life. Let things lie as is, no talking and resolving. I don’t even want to look at you. How about never meeting you again? Would you like to move somewhere else, so I don’t ever have to experience another awkward second with you? I’ll be willing to move away, if you so kindly give me the allowance to do so.
I was fired. Yesterday.
Not because I said those things; I actually didn’t release those emotions until just now.
I’m a hard worker; and I even consider myself sufficient at curing the heart of conflict. My hands are my best friends; they rarely fail me. Silent, laborious work is sometimes the best kind. All my thoughts take a hold over me—they encompass me in a world where no other person can enter unless they succumb to my game of pre-made responses. People always seem to be better when you can put words in their mouths. Doing the dishes, sweeping and mopping, taking the trash out, and sanitizing high-traffic surfaces, bring a sense of accomplishment and control when in the rest of the workplace there isn’t much to be found.
My ability and diligence in carrying out the tasks nobody else wants to do usually wins the boss and co-workers over to an un-wavering love for me.
Apparently, working at a daycare involves so much more than the menial labors of cleaning and baby excrement disposal.
Silly me.
Most of my mistakes originated from unknowingly being too much of a comedic smart-ass with the parents or from simply being too focused on the moment to answer correctly their concerned, over-protective questions about the scraped knees, their my-toy tantrums, and their wetting the cot at naptime. Understandably, parents don’t want to hear that their child is so bossy that they’re practically Hitler reincarnated or that their child spent most of the day in timeout because they have a fetish for licking, bruising, and screaming at other kids. Another favorite, I can’t express, is that your kid likes to shape shift into the National Whiner of the Year every time another kid pokes him or her.
Instead, at the end of the day, I have to give a report more like so: “Oh, she had a better day than yesterday. Only a few timeouts for some minor scruples—she likes to be Ms. Bossy-Pants a lot.”
My most memorable blunder was with a two year old named Damon when his mother came into the classroom that afternoon to pick him up.
I had been giving out hair bands to the girls that I had accumulated throughout the week on my desk, so when the mother arrived I was not fully paying attention to her. It was five o’clock because the movie was on in the blocks center and I was the only employee left for the day.
One level shy of yelling, the mother said, “Hey Damon! How was your day? We got to go, come on!”
Damon, who had been watching the movie intensely for the last fifteen minutes, without a peep or complaint, inched his way up in a sudden full-blown whine of pain. He’s walking like he’s constipated, in a full squat position; he’s stomping his feet one whiney step at a time towards his mother.
“What’s wrong with you? Do you have an owey?”, questions his mom.
No response other than more cave man walking and crying.
I’m at this point, staring at him in an amazed daze of awe. Do you want me to fluff your pillow, Damon? Let’s get some whine with that cheese--underage drinking, perhaps not such a bad idea.
Momma again, except this time, more directed to me, “What’s wrong with him? Why is he walking like that?”
Now in the past, this particular mother has been quite the wise-cracker. So, I’m feeling I have some leeway to be the little jokester that I usually am in close company with people. I did not read her mood meticulously enough, and to add to dynamite, words slipped out of my mouth that I did not plan. The joke turned into disaster. I knew it as soon as the sounds fell from my lips.
“Ah (with a little snicker), he’s making it up.”
Lightning strikes!
What did I just do?
Everything is slowed down and sped up all at once. Her mouth drops in utter disbelief and into automatic Xena: Warrior Woman.
Momma follows suit with her son, stomping, except a lot more speedily. She scurried and ducked down to grab her son in rescuing fashion from her newfound perceived acknowledgement that her child was being, clearly, not watched by an unsympathetic bystander.
“What do you mean making it up? He’s hurt and you don’t care? This place is ridiculous.”
In my desperation, “ah, hold on. I didn’t mean it like that”
As she’s parading out the door, “Tell your boss I’m putting in a two week notice.”
The one word description of what I was feeling: overreaction! Immediate guilt pursued which turned into inner anxiety attack and even shifted into self-destruction, but I am a trained chameleon, I can disguise most all emotion. Despite my sweaty palms, increased heart rate, amplified thoughts, and the adrenaline pumping through my body, in the matter of seconds, I’ve told myself I can handle anything and that anything can be fixed. Be calm and just let it go; I’ll call her and apologize. I’ll call my boss too and let her know before I’m in even more trouble. I’m an adult; I’m an adult. It’s my responsibility to mend what I’ve torpedoed.
The next few moments, I pretended to watch the movie with the kids; what I was really doing was rewinding and replaying the last ten minutes of my life.
Oh no! She’s not done; she’s back! Still in her take charge mood.
She takes me off guard.
“What are these scrapes and bruises all over his knees and legs?”
She shoves those little knees right in front of my face only to make sure, in case I was visually impaired, that I could see them.
Damon is a child that I normally wouldn’t acquire, under my guidance, until later in the afternoon when the daycare starts to combine classrooms due to parents’ arrivals. So, unless it is reported to me that there is an accident or an injury, I normally just assume something happened at home or it was minor enough to not get reported to me. Kids hurt themselves several times a day; it’s so easy to not write up (and then forget about it) the slips on sidewalks or the bumps into furniture. Why should I write anything up that doesn’t involve a little blood?
“I don’t know; I don’t remember anything happening this afternoon. Teri and Briana didn’t say anything either.” I say innocently.
Suddenly, mid-sentence, I get a flashback to an hour earlier. I had just the two year olds for a short stint before the combining. We went outside for a bit until it started to appear like Percy Jackson, Poseidon’s son, was forging war upon us in the rain clouds that were above us. Do you know how long it takes to line eight two year olds up? Time is not in our favor. This particular class has a leash with ten loops in it for each kid. I quickly go around to each kid, cramming a loop in each hand. We start to walk.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Thunder. Boom. Boom.
And now, screams. Child, high-pitched screams.
I have us walking as fast as possible. Which means we are still going slow. There’s always that one that doesn’t understand that the rest of the class is walking faster than him or her and that when they are not going the same rate, they cause collision and downfall.
And here comes the rain. Pouring and Pouring.
“Oh wait, I’m sorry. He did fall on the sidewalk, earlier when we were rushing in from the rain.”
Strike Two...You’re not watching my kid again.
“That’s what I thought; tell Jane, two week notice! I’m through!”
She’s out the door, finally.
I’m back to pretending to watch the movie while I prepare a mental script of the next two respective lashings to my self-esteem and pride--a phone call to my boss and to the mother that went berserk.
Step up; be a real woman, Clate—not one of the unapologetic, prudish, hoebags that so many people seem to be.
Ring. Ring. Ring. The daycare phone alarms me of my pending doom. I scurry to answer, but first I need to examine the caller id—it’s Briana, my coworker and assistant manager. Briana is the very coworker that happens to be the second mom of Damon.
AKA: Momma’s best friend!
My muscles sag into agony as all my bones in my body are cowering. Hesitantly, I spit out “hello?”
As soon as I realize she is not in automatic destructive mode, I’ve gained enough confidence to interrupt the war monger, but only because she’s currently playing out of character.
“Oh good, I was just picking up the phone to call you; I couldn’t reach Jane and I wanted to let someone know what just happened.”
1 comment:
AMANDA! i just read through your past posts.. they are cracking me up!!! thanks for "following" me.. i'm about to follow you as well, because that was just wayy too good!!
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