Fielding Trips

Many things have been dropped on me—literally and metaphorically speaking.  After investing in a helmet and catching mitts I began sulking in the corner that nothing good like aging vegetarian rock stars or publishing contracts ever fell on top of me.  So here is why I need to catch a break and my breath.

My four year old, Lanes’, preschool teacher announced that all the kids were going on a field trip—drum roll—to the dentist. Yes, the dentist. What child in his or her right mind would not enjoy that? Lanes looked rather stung in the rear and was feigning all kinds of illness to get out of it.

Apparently, it’s health and fitness week in school.  Of course I should know about the trip her very indignant teacher told me when I looked flummoxed as to why it was last minute and why my presence would be ‘much appreciated’.  She reminded me of the school schedule that was placed in my palm in the middle of the Christmas party last year.

If paperwork could join the witness protection program, my apartment would be where it goes to sign up.  This is the place where papers go never to be found again.  So somewhere, probably behind the couch or in the compost of my aloe plant, which is fighting valiantly to stay alive, there must be a schedule of events for Lanes’ school.

I quickly beamed at Lanes’ teacher, whose eyebrows were now arched and crossed, and pretended that I was with the program and quickly asked if any other parents were going.  When it was ascertained that I was not needed exactly, I bowed out. Meanwhile, my detail oriented spouse, P, grunted a little when I told him the news and then made me call the teacher and get specific directions.

Then he announces that the dental office was on a busy road, which in turn made me panic and decide at the last moment that I had to go and micromanage Lanes and her little friends.  I had terrible visions of the children bouncing about gaily while Mac trucks were whizzing by.

I told P rather sternly that the teacher had over 20 years of experience and it should all be fine, and he agreed. But the damage was done, and like Coca Cola eroding enamel,  my anal retentive, worry wart side chipped at my conscience. That is how I found myself dressed up and muttering on the sidewalk the next morning.

Lanes’ BFF’s dad showed up to give us a ride to the school. He told me he didn’t have an extra car seat (the teacher said she would give him one).  I dashed upstairs to our store room, where we have an extra one. What do you know, P had wedged it in between two laundry baskets and three suitcases.

This is why the store room is the only room P has full control of in our tiny apartment! If I was taller and actually had arm muscles as opposed to fat, I would have paid more attention to it. Now it was an avalanche waiting to happen.

It was like playing Jenga or whatever that game is where you have to pull out sticks and make sure no others fall down. I have never played that game. I yanked the seat and a large suitcase careened down on me, hitting a pipe. Yes, we have two water pipes in our storage room—who doesn’t?

Next thing I know, I’m falling over the iron, the dirty clothes’ basket, and some old exercise machine and water is gushing out from the back of the room.  With super human force I waded in and tightened the tap, but I was in fear that the rest of the luggage will whack it while I was pottering around downtown watching some dentist doling out tooth paste and brochures for teeth whitening.

I ran back down, handed over the seat and apologized that I won’t be able to make it to the field trip.  Half an hour, several near concussions and pulled muscles later, I had reorganized the store room. After the third piece of hand luggage hit me in the head and an umbrella jabbed me in my right shoulder blade, I made an irate call to P, but luckily for him, I got his voice mail. To make things worse, when I eventually got a hold of him, he found it all hilarious.

A few days later, after school,  the teacher announces that there will be a field trip to a preschooler’s fair the following day. This time I was strongly adviced to tag along as I ‘missed’ the last one.  She joked that if I miss this one too, I won’t be allowed to go to the planetarium at the end of term! Oh no! She knew I really wanted to go to that one.

I was swearing under my breath at being painted into a corner. I told her in the nicest possible way that it would have been great if I was told at least earlier in the day, if not sooner as I was still battling migraines.  Any old how, she said she just saw it in her mail and that was that. I would have to figure out the dinner and laundry thing in my own time.

I trekked all the way up the hill to the school to find out she didn't really need me to go on the trip after all!  In my head, I was stretching out my hands and shouting ‘why, why, why?’ but in reality I nodded and put my coat on to leave.

Then that pesky voice within me started nagging at me when I looked over at Lanes. She didn’t fuss when she saw me about to change my mind and then I decided that chores can wait and seeing my little girl smile was more important than anything else. So there you go, like how this little piggy went to the market, off to the fair I went. 

In other news, Lanes' swim classes are a disaster.  Last week the instructor put her under water and she freaked out. I felt so sorry because her eyes were wide open and locked onto mine while she was in the water.  After that, she just does not want to cooperate.  In fairness to the instructor, Lanes as usual was distracted and was not paying attention so she was caught off guard when dunked.  Today, she was squirming and screaming and I was at wits end. 

The changing room situation doesn’t help. I don’t know why, but to get to the pool and back out the locker room, you have to shlep through the bath water, or shower water rather, of five showering women, splashing each other and passers by. As you go through the locker room, the assault on your feet continues with encounters with lots of hair, unidentified yucky black specks, and more water.

This was making me feel rather disgruntled but on the way there, when I was ‘entertaining’ P with my descriptions of the women’s locker room complete with hand gestures, I suddenly realized the center had a family locker room. Surely, considering it’s meant for both men and women, there might be no nudity there! Eurkea!

So we zoomed into it and I could hear the choir singing in my head. It was not spotless, but it was far better than what we were used to. No dirty bath water. Private changing rooms with individual showers. What a luxury to have a door while dousing yourself with water pre and post dip! So now I officially have one less thing to complain about. 


Thank goodness too, because Plan B was to wear rain boots with my swimsuit. How dashing would that look?  The world of fashion can heave a big sigh of relief now that this new room was found. The best part is that P, who took a good look around for the first time, shuddered to think what the women's room was like if I thought we had moved up in the world with this changing room.

On that note, I must go and deal with the dishes—carefully. Within the last 24 hours, I have spilt hot gravy all over myself, broken three eggs—one on the carpet, and lost the grip of a carton of milk. It’s a good thing Lanes is not a baby, otherwise, I might have dropped her too. More musings from BC next week…