Going Bananas: Part I

Do you ever get the sense that you’re TOTALLY OVERREACTING but you just can’t stop yourself from making something utterly tragic and IMPORTANT?

I had such an experience on Tuesday morning. Chris had a meeting all the way in Fredericksburg, so I was going to take Charlotte to school. It was my telecommute day, so I decided to let her sleep in. I was up by 5:45 a.m., out of the shower shortly thereafter, and working away until she woke up, around 7:15 or so.

I got her dressed and ready for school. We loaded the car and were off!

The morning was disgusting—cold, cold rain and lots of traffic. I glanced at the clock, mildly concerned. I’d get Charlotte to school in time to eat her breakfast, right? What time does breakfast end? 8:30? We should be there in time.

We inched forward. F-I-N-A-L-L-Y we got to school. Outside Charlotte’s classroom door was a sign: “Breakfast will not be served after 8:15 a.m.” Uh-oh, I thought. We’re cutting it close. We walked in and I glanced at the clock.

8:19.

Charlotte zipped to her cubby to take off her coat and then to the sink to wash her hands. “Breakfast time is over?” I asked her teacher, fully expecting her to say, technically, yes, but go ahead and feed Charlotte.

Instead, she said, “Breakfast is over.”

I looked at the clock again, double-checking that it really was only 8:19. It was.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I thought breakfast was served until 8:30.” (I did.) “Can I quickly give Charlotte her banana?”

“No, breakfast time is over.”

“But Charlotte hasn’t eaten breakfast yet,” I said, cursing myself for not just giving her the damn banana in the car. “What time is snack time?”

“9:30,” the teacher replied.

I looked at the clock for the umpteenth time. “I don’t think she can wait that long. It was my mistake—I thought she had until 8:30.”

“Breakfast ends at 8:15.”

“Yeah, I get that now,” I said and sighed. “But 9:30 is a long time for her to go without eating, and she’s not going to understand why doesn’t get breakfast.”

“Well, maybe you can take her to the office and she can eat in there?”

I pondered this. I’d have to explain what I was doing with the myriad office staff (though in retrospect, it would have given me a good opportunity to give the director a piece of my mind), but more importantly, Charlotte wouldn’t understand being sequestered for her shunned banana time. She was already confused that she was not the first kid there.

“Fine,” I said. “She’ll just have to last until 9:30.” I was beyond pissed, being treated like a two-year-old who needed to be taught a lesson—especially when Charlotte was the one to get screwed over.

I’m a hopelessly chronic rule-follower. I drive Chris batty with my insistence that we only cross roads at designated crosswalks, my refusal to take a stroller on an escalator, and so on. He always mocks what he views as a too-high regard for the rules.

And we (I) go to very great lengths to follow the school’s billion rules, some of which they have purely for accreditation reasons, others so that they can run a smooth business. I get it. But I carefully label every effing item that goes through those doors. I fill out medication authorization forms when I simply change brands of diaper rash cream, and I get doctor’s notes for every single piddly thing, even when I know that there is NOTHING wrong with Charlotte—in fact, I got TWO notes for her last so-called rash that was verified as NOTHING by the doctor TWICE. And let’s remember that every pediatrician visit requires taking time off work, plus a co-pay. Tragic? No. Highly annoying? YES. But these are the rules, and I strive to follow them. The daycare–family relationship is precious and not something worth threatening because of what I view as unnecessary doctor’s notes.

So, me asking for the rules to be bent just this once so my child could eat a banana for breakfast was not something I chose to do lightly. But this was my little girl.

Clearly, I lost. As though she were trying to break Mommy’s heart in two, Charlotte started toward the table, where she usually eats her breakfast. “Sweetie, let’s play,” I said, praying that she didn’t fight it. “Let’s pick out a toy.”
Charlotte, weirdly, clung to me. She looked so sweet and innocent and totally confused. I got her settled with a toy, and kissed her goodbye.

I think her teacher knew that I was very, very unhappy. “I’ll give her an extra snack, okay?” she said, throwing out what I assume what a peace offering.

I nodded and made a beeline for the parking lot, tears (ridiculous, I know) already stinging my eyes. By the time I was safely in my car, I was in full-blown, hiccup-y sobs.
And I cried. The. Entire. Way. Home.

Now, was I really crying over a banana? Well, yes. And no. I was frustrated that I had driven an hour to get Charlotte to school and I still had to get home to my inbox and email and authors. I was frustrated that I had rushed for no reason. I was frustrated I had failed to get Charlotte fed. I was frustrated that I couldn’t just say “screw you” to her school, because it really is a great school and her teacher is very good at what she does. And I was frustrated that I need to have the sibling (Charlotte) in place so that we can get a future baby into the infant class—finding good infant childcare is harder than you can possibly believe. And I was frustrated that I was letting a kid who doesn’t yet exist affect my judgment about what to do for my child who actually does exist.