WARNING: There will be F bombs forthcoming. We are all adults, so I won’t be offended if you take today off from reading my blog if F bombs aren’t your thing. I hope you won’t be offended if I just get this fucking post started.
I’ve been very patient with you, Preschool, and all the changes you’ve ushered into my life.
Stole my baby girl’s naps? Fine. I forgive you, Preschool. (Technically, that may have been my fault, since I signed her up for the afternoon class.)
Forced me to traverse up and down a monstrously annoying street four times a day, often trying to race home before Simon falls asleep in his car seat (which would mean zero free time for me, since a car nap precludes a bona fide crib nap)? I have a big heart, so again, forgiveness.
But for the love of Graham cracker pie crust, I have to draw the line somewhere.
Did you know that suddenly my daughter thinks the world is divided into “girl things” and “boy things”? We didn’t teach her that. That’s the product of good, old-fashioned schooling, and I’m pissed about it. “Mama, I don’t like football, because it’s for boys.” Really? I’ve tried to stem this gendered tide, but it’s not working. “Why don’t you dislike football because it exploits college athletes or sacrifices men’s health and safety in the service of the almighty dollar? Or because you think tailgating is unsanitary? Let’s not make this about gender, honey.” As mentioned above, my efforts are not yielding results.
And let’s talk about money. Preschool, you are so fucking greedy. How many times have you asked me for money in the past 3 months? How about the last week? Money for the teachers’ holiday gifts. Money for the potluck. Money for the annual giving campaign. Money for the scholarship fund. Money for the book drive. HELLO? Remember those fat checks I write you– those are money too– negotiable instruments if you want to get technical. Let’s try something super fun: You go one week without asking me for more money, and I will go one week without fantasizing about stabbing you in the carotid artery. Deal?
Also, who’s the NRA mole who taught my daughter about “shooters”? Yes, we are one of those families who wish to shield our kids from violence for as long as possible. I know, I know, how fucking socialist of us to not sit them down to watch Law & Order Special Victim’s Unit. My kid now has an unmistakable gesture for guns. She’s three. Couldn’t that have waited?
Preschool, you are KILLING ME.
Also awesome? The escalation of instances where my daughter uses the word “poopy” and “chicken butt” in her everyday speech. I have repeatedly told her if she wanted to use those words, she had to go to the bathroom. And, that’s why she routinely excuses herself from the dinner table, runs to the bathroom, and sings herself a song all about “poopy” and “pee pee.” When I ask her what she is doing, she answers, “You said I can only use those words in the bathroom, so I am singing my poopy song on the bathroom.”
Yeah. Thanks for that, Preschool. You asshole.
The only thing I can think of that’s worse than these developments are those that would result from homeschooling. So, yes, Preschool, you have all the cards here. Thanks for being so cool about it.