Fiction

Picking up the little lady from school Monday through Wednesday is always an adventure.  The picture adorned hallways are crowded with parents and caregivers eager to reclaim their children.  Strollers clog the corridors as younger siblings attempt to break free from their parent's grip in an effort to explore art projects (usually those that are covered in glue or wet paint as they lay on the floor to dry), or dash into the bathrooms with their shiny miniature sinks, lowered soap dispensers, and pint-sized urinals perfect for splashing in.  I arrive unaware of the little lady's state of mind, the extent of her fatigue, and degree of hunger pains, which inevitably leave her literally begging for a snack at my feet.  (So nice to see you, too!)  As, this post is dedicated to the little lady and her recent antics, I won't even mention the little man's typical behavior during pick-up, but will say that I now fully understand the parental motive behind leashing one's child.



On a typical day parents begin lining the hallways at 11:40 to receive their children promptly at 11:45.  Classroom doors open and the children are dismissed one at a time to smiling parents with arms open to receive their warm bodies, monogrammed backpacks, and over sized artwork.  As much as each parent would like to, there is really no time to linger and chat with the teacher as she must promptly tidy her classroom before the afternoon session begins and the children are usually desperate to get home for lunch.  Today; however, we were invited into the classroom so that her teacher and I could have a "little chat." 


The conversation began something like this, (with amusement) "Today, Charlotte shared how she ate wine and pizza for dinner last night."


Oy.  Here we go...


She continued, "She also engaged her friends in dramatic storytelling during free play this morning.  She spoke of princesses, children, toys, and storage.  We were unsure as to whether the children OR the toys were being held in storage units.  Her elaborate and creative tales also included themes of monsters, killing and hatred."  (I'm only slightly paraphrasing.) 


Of course they did...


"Now, we did confirm that it was the toys and NOT the children that were in storage. (Phew!) We desire to feed Charlotte's creative mind.  She has a strong command of language and is passionate about story telling.  However, we felt it important that we were on the same page, and wanted you to know the content of her stories."  (God bless her.)


So, there we were in a preschool classroom discussing the likes of alcohol and violent story themes.  I took a moment to collect myself and thanked the teacher for bringing this to my attention, then proceeded to craft my own tale explaining that:


- No, our sweet child did not have wine for dinner.  In fact, neither did her parents.  But, yes wine and pizza are an excellent pairing.  (I felt like downing a glass of red right then and there.)


- Yes, as of late, the little lady has been attempting to include themes of hate and anger into her dramatic readings each night before bed. Often stating that "No mama, I don't hate, the people IN the book hate." Reminding me that "Joseph's brothers hated him and wanted his beautiful coat."  (Ah yes,  Sunday School the unlikely culprit!)  


- As far as monsters are concerned, the little lady has been fearfully waking each night complaining of monsters in her dreams, and we are working through that. (How does one prove the imaginary nature of monsters to a young and fearful mind?)


- And yes, the little lady really does have a creative mind that is constantly at work as she plays, reads, and engages us in conversation all. day. long.


Thankfully, her teacher reassured me that she was pretty confident that we did not give her wine with dinner, was familiar with the Old Testament story of Joseph, empathized with our troublesome monsters, and went out of her way to affirm our little lady's imagination, creativity and sensitive spirit.




I left feeling only moderately embarrassed.




As I took each of our children's hands and walked (the now very empty) school hallways, I embraced our family walk of shame, thankful for understanding teachers, larger than life imaginations, and our little Steinbeck who spins the wildest of tales.




It might be necessary to revisit the story of Joseph this evening.