Toddle Time

I have decided to write a book...just like millions of other people.   I love to write and have no money with which to gamble, travel or pay someone to suck fat out of my ass. So, that leaves me in front of my computer with a head full of random babble that I enjoy spewing out via the keyboard.  I have decided my book will be on the mindfuck that is motherhood.  I will NOT be discussing the time we went to Aspen and my children learned to ski within five minutes while the hubby and I shared hot chocolates (um, no that didn't happen)...my book will be much more real...and while it will discuss ski trips, it will also include what a pain in the ass it is to take two small children to snow covered peaks.  How steadying oneself in a Honey Bucket in 0 degree weather whilst dangling a two year old butt over the gross hole and getting pee'd on in the process is just par for the course... I will be relaying all kinds of stories, adventures and experiences without the rose colored glasses that so many moms feel is necessary to put on to prove they love their kids.  I would take a bullet for my kids...but motherhood isn't a fairy tale...it's hard, draining, and the moment you become a mother is when you realize you will never fully relax again...those little punks are always in the back of your mind, no matter what.  Below is a short story that I would like to use as the introduction....

“I want her fired.”  I said, hearing my voice tremble with rage, my cell phone miraculously not breaking from the death grip it was in. 

 “Excuse me? You want her, um, fired?”  the calm and somewhat patronizing voice asked me. 

“Yes.  She should never be allowed around children, let alone be teaching them!  What kind of weird brainwashing, infanticide program are  you running anyway?  Maybe I should contact the mayor…or the media!  I want to know something is going to be done about this woman.  She’s a monster who clearly needs to be committed.  Maybe she’s gotten away with this in the past but not now!  No way!  She fucked with the wrong kid!”

With that, I glace in the rear view mirror, amazed at the resiliency of my 2 year old little boy, happily licking the ladybug stamp on his chubby little fist.

“Ma’am, can you calm down and just tell me what happened so that I might bring it to the correct supervisor for further discussion?” she was losing her snotty attitude and beginning to take me seriously.  Good, I thought.

“Well, for one thing, when she asked the kids to do butterfly knees, she didn’t give my son any recognition.  No ‘good job’ or ‘that’s great!’. Nothing.  Then when it was time to have the kids make the letter T with their bodies, she forgot to call his name.  Just forgot.  Sure, she apologized, but I’m sure she didn’t mean it.  Then, when it was time to go, I noticed on her little attendance sheet she had descriptions of each kid under their names, perhaps as a way to help her remember because she’s clearly in some sort of mental psychosis…anyway, under his name she had written the word STOCKY.  I mean, seriously, is her intention to give him a fat complex before he’s out of diapers?!?!”  I took a deep breath and waited for what I was sure going to be full agreement that this monster be locked up in a mental ward.

“OK, um, I can transfer you to her supervisor’s voice mail and you can leave a message…I’m pretty sure this isn’t a situation that will result in her being fired though.  Perhaps we can transfer your son to another Toddle Time with a different instructor?”  I swear, I thought that bitch was choking in some sort of giggle fit. 

“Yes, that would be good.  Another instructor.  And she must be reprimanded at the very least….I would like a phone call to let me know how she will be disciplined.”

“Uh, certainly.  I’ll transfer you….ok?” with that, I heard a full blown laugh and was immediately sent to her supervisors voice mail.  She sounded about 13. 

I started to leave my message but  got cut off before I was done.  I did include my name and number, though, and waited all day for a call back.  A pleading, apologetic call back.  It never came. 

When I discussed the situation with my husband, he looked at me with furrowed brows, not saying much, which was good, I thought, because it clearly meant he understood the dire situation and how disastrously it could have affected our son. 

“You’re nuts.” He said and walked to grab a beer.

“WHAT?” I asked, stunned.

“You’re nuts.  If you weren’t a mom, if you weren’t pregnant, you’d be laughing at how ridiculous this is.”  Really?  Maybe you’ll laugh at how ridiculous it is to find a rubber band in your chili, Ass Munch.

That following Saturday, I took Henry to his new Toddle Time gymnastics class.  As we walked in, the instructor very nervously approached me…”are you Andrea and Henry?” she asked.

“Yes…you’re Patrece? I’m so glad you had room in your class for us.” I smiled.

“Well, we didn’t actually, but this seemed to be a situation where we needed to make an exception”  She kept looking at me nervously, almost waiting for my eyes to roll in the back of my head.  She gave me a tight grin and approached Henry the way one might approach a ticking backpack left in a subway station.

“Hi, Henry!  I’m so glad to have you in my class!!”  Her enthusiasm was a little much but I was glad to have someone who was actually going to be nice to my kid.

The rest of the 30 minute session was full of Henry centered attention.  This lady knows how to do it!  I thought.  She’s a great teacher! 

When the class was over, I was on cloud nine.  My voice had been heard.  My child was being treated like royalty.  I wasn’t sure what, but I was positive the skank that he had originally was being disciplined in some medieval fashion.  Life was good. 

After putting  a dinosaur stamp on both of his feet, Patrece the Wonderful Gymnastics Teacher sent Directly from Heaven asked me tentatively if I enjoyed the class. 

“Yes! Thank you, it was such a wonderful difference!”

“Good.  I spent a bit more time with Henry today, to get him comfortable, since this was his first day.  Usually I try to spread my attention evenly, to all the kids.” She smiled, again looking at me  like I might bite her leg.

“Oh, sure, I understand.  Thanks so much!”  I gleefully grabbed my baby, put his dump truck emblazoned jacket on and began to head out. 

On my way, I overheard one of the moms from the class lodging a complaint against Patrece the Wonderful Gymnastics Teacher Sent Directly From Heaven.

“She barely spoke to my child!  That other little boy got as many dinosaur stamps as he wanted and my son only got one!   I mean, seriously, if this is the kind of favoritism you guys support, I’m going to have to ask for my money back!”

The receptionist cocked her head to the side, looking at the woman patronizingly.  “Perhaps we could transfer your son to another Toddle Time class, with a different instructor?” 

“Yes!  That would be good…”  I could see what I’m sure was some sort of steam escaping from her ears. 

Stifling my laughter, I looked at Henry and walked out.  What a nutcase, I thought.  It wasn’t until last week I got the irony of it…six years later.