The Return of the Loony Bin

Sending your youngest off to kindergarten is like watching them age a few years all in the span of 24 hours.  Having your eldest be the one holding her hand and watching out for her at school jumps his level of maturity into a whole new realm as well.  Having both things happen in the span of one week gave me a temporary delusion that my kids are all now grown up.  For some reason, I got to thinking that perhaps I now live in a house with sane, independent individuals who have similar, rational thought processes like my own.

It lasted only a few days but today I was reminded of the fact that I do, in fact, still live in a loony bin.

Mia, on her second day of school, was asked to bring 4 things that represent her into school in a paper bag.  She set right to work on this and picked out four rather random, entirely purple yet completely endearing items.  I PROBABLY would have picked things a bit differently but hey -- little miss “I’m now independent” was having NONE of my suggestions.  And who was I to interfere with her very first bit of junior kindergarten homework?

So off she went with a plastic purple butterfly, her deformed dollar store baby doll with the head that is falling off, her soccer metal and a random piece of (you got it) purple artwork.

When I asked her innocently how her “presentation” had gone today she very matter-of-factly told me that it was just FINE.  She then proceeded to forget every single detail of it. 

“What did the teacher say?”

I don’t remember.

“Did they ask you questions about your things?”

            I forget

“Did everyone like your items?”

            Nonchalant shoulder shrug

The only thing she was adamant about was the fact that I was NOT allowed to empty her things from this brown paper bag.

“Why not?” I asked, trying to empty it anyways, “BECAUSE. “ She said, rolling her eyes at me, “It has to STAY in my backpack EVERY DAY.  ALL YEAR LONG.”

OH.  But of course.

“Did your teacher tell you that?”

She faltered for a half second before admitting that she didn’t EXACTLY remember but she was PRETTY SURE.  I think a kindergartener’s “pretty sure” is code word for “I give up.  I have no idea what I’m talking about.”

I some how convinced her to take her things back to her room and was in the midst of putting things away when she took a sudden sympathetic interest in her poor little dollar store baby with the head that was falling off.

“Poor baby,” she said rocking her, “Do you want to sleep with mommy tonight?”

I engaged her a bit in this sweet moment of lovely maternal delusionment and somehow we got onto the topic of babies and Mia playfully told me that this baby actually belonged to “Mr. O” (Mr. O is her bus driver)

“OH,” I said curiously, “Do you think Mr. O has a baby?”

She ROARED on the floor with laughter.

“Mommy…I said MR. O!!!!  You know…the BUS DRIVER!!!!”

Ya. I KNEW that.

“No…Mommy…SERIOUSLY” she said, “I was making a JOKE.”

I asked her to clarify why Mr. O’s parental status seemed SO hilariously absurd to her.

“BECAUSE!” she said, still enjoying the ludicrousness of our conversation, “He’s the BUS DRIVER!”

Blank stare.   I was CLEARLY not getting the joke.

Eventually she came out with the obvious punch line

“Bus drivers can’t have BABIES!!!!”

“Why not?”

“Because…” she said with the laughter dying out of her smile…”Because…well…they just CAN’T Mommy…because they don’t ever go HOME!”

And just like that the conversation was over and the little dollar store baby whose head is falling off was whipped out of my humourless arms.

Just when you think you couldn’t be even more out of the loop with your children’s vantage point on the world, I was recounting this story later to Toby and Rob and Toby ROARED with laughter.

“Oh, Mia…” that’s so silly “ he said with the know all of an 80 year old man, “Mr. O DEFINITELY goes home.  I know that for a FACT.”

I wasn’t actually asking for any factual proof that the bus driver wasn’t homeless but I got some anyways,

“He HAS to go home because I have noticed…” and here his detective voice got serious and earnest, “I have noticed that he doesn’t have a WATERBOTTLE on the bus.  And APPARENTLY you have to have water EVERY THREE DAYS or else you DIE.  So Mr. O obviously DOES go home at least once every three days to get water.”

And then his seriousness died off and he again laughed openly, “Silly Mia…Mr. O lives on the bus…!”

That’s right, folks.  I live in a loony bin.