photo by the aptly named Kyle FloodWhen I'm angry, I cry.
It gets in the way when arguing with a partner ("No, I'm not getting all emotional; just ignore those tears and listen to what I'm saying.") The eyelids brimming with tears really undercut my "behavior management" when I started teaching high school in Brooklyn, because if the one kid who was trying to push my buttons saw them, he'd zero in for the kill. There's no crying in baseball, no crying in front of a classroom and no damn crying when you're trying to be businesslike and professional.
But the frigging tears did me in again today, when I was trying to maintain my composure with the daycare director at Moochie's school. Arghh. Let me back up to this morning when we got a call from an alert woman from the school district who noticed that the preschool had Moochielisted for a totally different schedule than the one we agreed to (the one they maintained was the best one for her) in January.
She was supposed to have preschool in the afternoon and daycare (at the same facility) in the morning. So we planned to drop her there and have her bussed back home at the end of her day. They cancelled her daycare class and didn't tell us, then submitted a schedule to the district that would have her picked up in the AM for school, leaving us to get her in the afternoon.
Without calling us to explain, ask if this was cool, or, I don't know... apologize. Their attitude seemed to be "what's the difference, the other affected parents were cool with it; what's your deal?" (These others were notified, however.)
Well, I was mad and rightly so. We'd enrolled her for the summer because they said they needed 50% of the summer's cost anyway to guarantee her the spot we wanted. We figured, well, if we have to pay half anyway, she might as well attend. So that ended the search for a day camp and the kid would have to be satisfied with a water table and occasional run through the sprinklers.
But now the select spot had vanished, they didn't call to tell us and it's the middle of fucking August and we're leaving for vacation in a week. Fuckfuckfuck. (I pretty much stopped cursing when Moochie started talking, so I have a lot of curses stored in my brain as potential energy. They are leaking out now, so I apologize. I did start out with a "frigging" a couple of paragraphs ago, in my defense.)
Cut back to the preschool director's office. As I said, I know we're in the right here. So as I'm laying out my case and trying to get her to at least acknowledge that they dropped the damn ball, I did not need my eyeballs to be acting like they were watching a double feature of Terms of Endearment and An Affair to Remember. Goddamn traitorous eyeballs.
photo by Fotolia
I'm angry, not sad!