After a furlough, I’m back at work.
The week was spent in the service of the Little Girl.
Parents often say they would do anything for their kids. I had one of those “anything” moments during the week, when I appeared before a school board to get my daughter into the school’s after-care program, which is currently oversubscribed.
Let me just say that entering a tiny room of nine women to give a 5-minute presentation on my daughter’s behalf was scary duty. I didn’t know a soul and I felt the judgment and scrutiny that a supplicant on bended knee must endure.
It’s not that they weren’t nice. It’s just that I was outnumbered. It didn’t help that I’d had a piece of lettuce stuck between my teeth, which my car rear-view mirror helpfully pointed out when the meeting was over.
In the end, I was shot down and the search for safe after-care continues.
There will be many more of these kinds of fights, I’m sure. As my daughter grows and her battles accrue, I’ll be taking on more and more comers.
I don’t like it, but I’m learning that it’s easier to fight for your kid than for yourself. When it’s just you, you tell yourself to forget it, go easy, no big deal.
But when it’s your child, you’re pumping hormones that nature installed to help humans fight savannah tigers. You don’t normally feel that purposed and assured.
Maybe I wound up scaring the women. I’d hate to think that’s the case. But whatever happens, I’ll have to learn how to control that papa power in the future.