I cannot arrive on our first day at L.A. preschool with Minnie singing “Idiot American Driver.”
“Idiot American dri-ver …” She’s getting louder and louder. “Idiot American driiiiii-ver …”
Could I pretend it’s a quaint old British nursery rhyme?
No.
But I can’t sit here all day either. Other mothers with small children are getting out of their massive SUVs, all along the street. And we were supposed to arrive early today.
“Minnie, while we’re walking to preschool, you can have a biscuit!” I say, raising my voice. “But we have to be very, very quiet, like mice. No singing,” I add for emphasis.
Minnie stops singing and eyes me suspiciously. “Biscuit?”
Result. Phew.
(And, OK, I know it’s bad to bribe your children, so I’ll just feed her some extra green beans later, which will cancel it out.)
Hastily, I jump out of the car and unstrap her. I hand her a chocolate chip cookie from my emergency stash and we start walking along the pavement.
I mean sidewalk. I must get used to that.
As we near the preschool, I’m looking all around for paparazzi, but I can’t see any. But, then, they’re probably all hiding in bushes. There are a few mothers leading small children in through the gates, and I subtly scan their faces as we walk in with them.
Hmm. I don’t think any of them are celebs, although they’re all toned and tanned, with shiny hair. Most of them are in workout gear, and I make a mental note to wear that tomorrow. I so want to fit in. I want Minnie to fit in and for both of us to make lots of friends.
“Rebecca!”
Erica is greeting us, and I smile in relief to see a familiar face. Erica is about fifty, with straight red hair and very colorful clothes, like a character from a children’s film. She’s leader of the toddler program and has already sent me lots of emails about “transition” and “separation” and the “joy of learning and self-discovery,” which I think means dressing up, only I don’t quite dare ask.
“Welcome to your first day at Little Leaf, Minnie!” she adds, and escorts us into the Toddlers’ Learning Center, which is basically a room full of toys, like any playgroup in England, only here they call them “developmental aids.” “Did you manage to park all right?” she adds, as she hangs Minnie’s water bottle on her peg. “I know some folks have had issues this morning.”
“Oh, we were fine, thanks,” I say. “No problems.”
“Where’s the brake?” says Minnie suddenly, and beams at Erica. “Where’s the bloody brake in this bloody stupid car?”
My face flushes bright red. “Minnie!” I say sharply. “Stop that! Where on earth did you— Gosh, I’ve got no idea—”
“Idiot American dri-vers,” Minnie starts singing to “Twinkle, Twinkle” again. “Idiot American dri-vers …”
“Minnie!” I practically yell. “Stop! No singing!”
I want to die. I can see Erica hiding a smile, and a couple of assistants are looking over. Great.
“Minnie’s obviously a very receptive child,” says Erica politely.
Yes. Far too bloody receptive. I am never saying anything in front of Minnie, ever again.
“Absolutely.” I try to regain my cool. “Gosh, what a lovely sandpit. Go on, Minnie! Play with the sand!”
“Now, as I explained to you, we at Little Leaf follow a transitional separation program,” says Erica, watching as Minnie plunges her hands joyfully into the sandpit. “This is the start of Minnie’s great journey of independence as a human in this world. These are her first steps away from you. They need to be at her own pace.”
“Absolutely.” I’m slightly mesmerized by Erica. She sounds like she’s describing an epic trip round the world, not just a toddler going to playgroup.
“So I ask you, Rebecca, to stay by Minnie’s side this first morning. Shadow her. Reassure her. Identify the exciting new discoveries she’s making; see the world at her level. Minnie will be wary to begin with. Introduce her gradually to the concept of life away from Mommy. Watch her slowly blossom. You’ll be amazed by her progress!”
“Right. Fantastic.” I nod earnestly.
I can see another mother nearby, sitting with her blond curly-headed boy. The mother is pin-thin and dressed in several layers of T-shirts (I happen to know that each one of those T-shirts costs a hundred dollars, something that Mum would never understand in a million years), and she’s watching intently as the little boy daubs paint on a sheet of paper.
“Interesting colors, Isaac,” she’s saying seriously. “I like the world you’ve made.” As he smears paint on his face, she doesn’t flicker. “You’re expressing yourself on your own body,” she says. “You made that choice, Isaac. We can make choices.”
Blimey. They do take everything seriously here. But if I’m going to fit in, I’ll have to be like that too.
“I’ll be around if you need me.” Erica smiles. “Enjoy this first morning of simultaneous discovery!”
As she heads over to another child, I turn my phone off. I’m feeling quite inspired by Erica. I’m going to be totally focused on Minnie and her morning.
OK. Here’s the thing. It’s all very well, Erica saying, “Stay with Minnie.” I honestly want to. I want to be like a mother dolphin and its young, gliding along together in a beautiful duo, simultaneously discovering the world.