4. Four
Four
The chair is too small for an adult body, and the way Ms. Mitchell glares across her large desk leads me to believe it’s an interrogation tactic by design. That’s working.
I remember as a kid thinking how cute she was when I saw her on the playground or reading a book in the library, but adulthood has revealed that’s a lie. The way she glares, reprimands, and passive aggressively lets me know how terrible my children and I are, leads me to believe she’s a beast in a skin suit. White hair, plump waist, floral prints, thick glasses, and too much perfume I would bet money hide fangs and scales.
Clearing my throat, I shift my knees that are bent nearly at eye level. “Ms. Mitchell, I’m so sorry about the lighter, I’ve talked to the boys about fire safety, but clearly we need to revisit it. I’m not sure—”
She holds up her hand, silencing me, the boys shrinking in their seats on either side of me. Her eyes, so dark they’re nearly black, turn to slits. “This cannot continue. These children are a disruption.” She pauses, long and weighted enough it makes me squirm. "Tell me, Ms. Cannon, do you even believe in discipline?"
My jaw drops, bristled. “Of course we believe in discipline.”
Her expression is one of skepticism as her lips twitch between a pout and frown. “It goes without saying, but your husband's celebrity status will get them nowhere in here.”
“Celebrity status?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t care about baseball!” she barks, making me jump. Her alabaster cheeks turn fire-engine red.
“Camp?” I ask, confused. “I don’t think . . .”
“That’s evident,” she says, “and genetic.” Her eyes cut to Ty, then Hank, mouth twisting in disgust.
“I don’t thi—believe that their dad playing major league baseball fifteen years ago really has anything to do with the lighter, Mrs.—Ms.—ma’am,” I say, stuttering. Her eyes narrow further. If she can still see out of the slits, I’d be impressed if I wasn’t also trying not to piss myself. “Sure, Hank is named after Hank Aaron and Ty after Tyrus Cobb, but, I mean, they don’t even like baseball, so . . .” I look at the boys with my lie, and they slink farther down their chairs. Kid-sized sandbags with scared eyes.
She cocks her head to the side, smooths a palm over her coif of white hair, and studies me like I’m a strange animal. When she stands, towering over the three of us further, her entire outfit is revealed—a frilly dress making her look like an angry Mother Goose. “I’m retiring this year, and your boys will not be the ones to break me. They are just like their father was. I’ve seen it all before—unruly right out of the gate made worse by weak parenting which leads to a life of crime.”
Weak parenting?
My eyes widen as her words assault me like a karate chop to the throat. I stare at her. Anger overshadowed by my own incompetence that’s on full display. “They’re only four, life of crime seems a bit extreme.” With a weak laugh, I hug my purse to my chest before her glare kills the sound on my lips. “But yes, I see what you’re saying. Camp was probably difficult when he was their age. It could be genetic—I read an article about that once, I think. Or heard a doctor talk about it . . . We’ll try harder. Right, boys?”
They don’t respond.
She bites her lipstick-laden lips between her teeth, chin whisker catching the light from the window. Her silence becomes a suffocating life force in the classroom of tiny furniture and alphabet letter cards.
Not sure what to do, sweat beading in my eyebrows, I stand, motioning for the boys to do the same. “Okay then,” I say, taking a step back. She hasn’t aged much since I was in preschool, and I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, insult, or evidence of her evil powers.
“Parenting takes work,” she says, hands settling on her round hips. “I advise you to try it.”
My muttered, “Yes, ma’am,” barely makes it out of my mouth as we stand, scramble out the door, and silently speedwalk down the hall until we get to the doors and burst outside.
Hank and Ty, paler than usual, stare at me, eyes big and on the brink of gushing tears.
I kneel next to them, heart pounding in my chest. “Okay, so first, let’s all just agree that woman is scary. Possibly with some lineage to Hitler.”
This softens their faces enough to hold off tears but not to the point of smiles. “But you have to listen. No more lighters. That’s dangerous.”
“But, Mama, she—”
I hold up my hand. “I don’t care. You must listen. She’s your teacher and wants what’s best for you.” Maybe. “And she’d probably be a lot nicer if you weren’t, you know, trying to commit arson.”
They both nod, gazes at the ground, and scuff their feet across the sidewalk.
“Now, let’s go to the library, shall we?” I say with forced cheer. “Hopefully the librarian won’t be so terrifying.”
Story time at the library is like a recurring nightmare that I voluntarily show up for.
First, there are the other moms, all younger than me by roughly a decade. Not only do they point out the fact I’m of a mature age , but they also constantly refer to their kids as their best friends. Who wants to be best friends with a four-year-old? They are the epitome of emotional time bombs and bring absolutely nothing to the friendship table.
Of course, I don’t say that. I smile and nod. And agree .
Spending time with moms of similar-aged kids helps women build confidence and a sense of community, better aligning us with the way nature designed us to parent.
Then there’s the librarian, Librarian Alice as she likes to be called, who reads with a high-pitched voice and too-big smile that makes me want to rip my fingernails out.
Yet, I continue to show up every week. For the sake of child development best practices. For the sake of literacy. For the sake of being a good mom even though I was just called weak by someone that specializes in educating the youth of our nation.
“Did you see that study about the harmful effects of red dye? I know your generation never gave that a second thought, right?” Mom One asks Mom Two and I as she pulls a boob out to nurse her nearly two-year-old kid; my chest tightens. Like her being some kind of long-haul milk producer needs to be showcased. She catches me staring and smiles. “Breast is best!”
I smile and nod then avert my gaze to another kid who is pulling seaweed snacks out of her purse, chomping on it like it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten.
I bought them for the boys once. They gagged and fed them to Thor. Who immediately puked them out onto the rug.
That I had to scrub.
Which stained anyway.
I stay silent, busying myself with a board book that I don’t care about as we sit on a brightly colored rug filled with numbers and letters.
“The red dye—I did!” Mom Two gasps. “June?”
“Oh gosh, yes. Tragic,” I reply, nodding with so much enthusiasm it brings my whole body into the mix like an outdated dance move.
“You know, when I was reading—oh, hon.” Mom Two turns her attention to the toddler throwing trucks on the floor and screaming like a demon. “Let’s think about our actions, Dyllan. My ears hurt ”—she speaks slow and dramatic as she points to her ears, big frown on her face—“when you do that , and it makes me so sad. I don’t like it when my best friend hurts trucks and ears and”—she points to her chest, eyes wide and serious, voice now somewhere between a whisper and a cry—“ my heart breaks when your beautiful heart acts like that.”
The kid blinks, screams louder, then stops abruptly when another kid shows him a dinosaur from a nearby basket, distracting him to silence.
She beams. “Isn’t gentle parenting just the best?”
I resist the urge to laugh in this woman’s face and call her a fuckwad. Instead, I mentally flip through my Rolodex of studied and stored parenting techniques, and reply with, “It is. It’s always worked so well with my boys.” I lie. My kids are gunslingers of the Wild West; there’s no “gentle” parenting with them. I need zip ties and a cattle prod to get them to listen.
As if timed by the universe to make me look like the mother of the year, Hank steps up to me, ripped page of a book in his hand, proud smile on his face. “I found a picture of Hank Aaron in the baseball book to take to Dad.”
He destroyed library property, and my pulse rams against my sinuses.
“I love that you’re so thoughtful,” I say, voice tight, putting the paper in my purse along with the fruit snacks I don’t want anyone to know I feed my kids. Out of the corner of my eye, Ty is climbing onto the top of the bookshelf, books falling as he steps on each shelf. Instinct tells me to hook an arm around his waist, tell him to knock it the hell off, and flee this building like there’s a live bomb inside. Never stifle adventurous curiosity. Instead, I hear my mouth say, “I love how adventurous you are, Ty. Make safe choices when you climb.”
Mom One and Mom Two put hands to their chests, like it’s the most endearing thing they’ve ever seen, and start talking about which Montessori school they will be sending their kids to in the fall.
The ear-piercing voice of the librarian is a welcome reprieve when she calls the kids to the circle, reading Chicka Chicka Boom Boom . I smile, clap at all the right times, but inside, every repressed thought and word zooms around my chest like an angry swarm of hornets.
This is my life.
Sitting with women I don’t want to talk to about parenting techniques I can’t make work with kids that don’t listen to me, hiding snacks in a purse because they aren’t healthy enough after a meeting with some version of Satan in a grandma suit who told me I’m a weak parent , as a husband I have lives some fun life of kids’ games, and my teenage daughter thinks I’m a complete loser.
What. The. Fuck.
As sure as Librarian Alice has a voice high-pitched enough to communicate with birds, I know it’s true. I’m failing. If I wasn’t sure this new start was what I needed, I know it is now as I watch the letter P walk up a coconut tree in the colorful pages of a children’s book—everyone smiling around the room except me. My legs are restless, like I need to run twelve miles to get all the energy that’s bouncing through me out.
“The End,” Librarian Alice says, smile wide, clothes bright, cheeks rosy. Living her best librarian life.
I clap the loudest—I need to get out of here.
Boys’ hands in mine, I beeline to the door, dragging them behind me.
“Bye, June!” Mom One calls. “See you next week? Love the haircut, by the way!”
Over my shoulder, she’s eagerly sitting on the rug, smiling in her gauzy shirt and flowy pants. I open my mouth, desperately wishing for once I could be my true self and scream, “hasta la vista, bitches!” but I don’t. I can’t. The boys need this. Books, Librarian Alice, story time, moms that feed their kids seaweed.
There’s no such thing as too much positive exposure when it comes to raising happy kids.
I reply the only way I know how: “See you next week!”