Life with a Flatted Fifth

The Preschoolers think it's hilarious that I used to be a baby.

"Every animal on earth used to be a baby," I say, "even me," I say, and they roll around on the floor like apples, laughing hysterically.

First of all, they can't wrap their little brains around the fact that we're all animals. They think, if we're animals, we should at least have tails. So then we riff on that for a few, imagining what our tails would look like, how they would move, etc. Teaching Preschool is a jazz thing. You go where it takes you.

Eventually Cali, who tends to remain introspective on the sidelines, raises her hand (not her tail) and shares with the class that, yes, she believes all of us were once babies, because her dad, who is very old, is still a baby, at least that's what her mom says.

This time I'm the one laughing.

Thus one of the fundamental laws of the universe is proved anew: everything is relative. Cali's father, who Cali regards as ancient, is young enough to be my...well, let's just say he's young enough. Meanwhile, here I am, older than Methuselah, still walking the planet. Make that shuffling.

My husband of late (I mean, he's my final husband, who has lately said this) has added a new item to his list of grievances: you know you're getting older when you wake up in the morning and injure yourself brushing your teeth. As for me, I'm content with waking up in the morning. Make that thrilled. Make that overjoyed.

These days, this is no small feat. Because we got Trouble in River City, pal, with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for Parenting. Which infers the existence of One Who Is Parented, am I right? But forget Parented. Make that One Who Is. Because whether any parenting actually took or not is, in light of recent developments, Debatable. With a capital D and that rhymes with C and that stands for...

...coy. But I'm not trying to be. I just don't feel like talking about it any more. When you have an eighth grader living in your house -- let alone this particular eighth grader -- you start to sound like a broken record. Actually, you start to look like a broken record.

So...if I don't want to talk about it, why am I bringing it up? Because to go around pretending like everything's the same old drunken brawl it's always been is nothing if not dishonest. But forget dishonest. It's just nothing. And I'm not ready to talk about nothing. That last being an example of the language skills of the unfortunate person who called to report the latest alleged bad behavior of One Who Is:

"Them sweaters was designers," the unfortunate person reported, "every last one."

Which caused every last one of my hairs to raise. Or is it rise? Being a lifetime member of the Grammar Police and current acting Grand Poobah, I moved immediately to strike the above testimony from the record. Not the broken one, the other one. I mean, when one's default tongue is Kansas Trailer Park, one's credibility is highly questionable, am I right?

In the end, it's all relative. And it's always a relative, isn't it? I try to remind myself that the eighth grader was once a baby, too. I try to remember her curls and her dimples and her fat little fingers patting my cheek. These days, her hair is straightened and she scowls and she'd just as soon punch me as look at me. That's how it feels. More broken records. Broken promises. Broken hearts. I'm starting to turn into someone I don't want to be. I look in the mirror and Mickey Rourke stares back at me. I might as well have a tail.

Parenting. Preschooling. Shuffling. Policing. In the end, it's all jazz.