How to Party with an Infant

by Kaui Hart Hemmings

  I managed to creep forward. The tour came to a halt outside. I looked around for dogs, worried that one would come up and sniff my leg. Or a child with sensory spectrum disorder. The tour director smiled at me, and I tried to look as goony-eyed as the rest of the mothers there.

  “I’ve been talking a lot,” the director said. “Do you have any questions?”

  “What do you do about the child’s emotions?” one mother asked. She had gray hair, which is sort of rude, I thought. I mean, why can’t she dye it? I’m very short, and so I always wear heels as an act of courtesy. I didn’t understand the mother’s question—“What do you do about a child’s emotions?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I asked. No—I didn’t really. Apparently the director knew exactly what ol’ Granny meant, because she nodded and immediately said, “We respect them. We respect all emotions. Even anger. If someone is angry, we’ll say, ‘Hey, when I’m angry, I like to throw a ball in an area where other children can’t be harmed. When I’m angry’—and here she enacted anger, which made her look like she was reading very fine print—‘I just want to pick up a ball and throw it as far as I can, after first checking my space.’ Great question.”

  The questioner nodded and seemed very satisfied, as did everyone around me.

  I felt like I could go. I had the pamphlet. The director just reiterated everything in it. It was like the first day of school, when the teacher just reads the syllabus. Plus, I don’t really understand the intricacies of schools’ philosophies—Waldorf, Montessori, Reggia Emilio. “We’re play-based,” they all say, and they all claim to provide a supportive and enriching environment. They value imagination and a child’s uniqueness. Some value economic diversity, which seems to mean that they value extremely wealthy people so that they can let in a few poor kids and then write in their brochures, “We value economic diversity.” They all purport that the children will thrive and grow, as opposed to rotting and receding like in those other preschools.

  “What about separation anxiety?” another woman asked. I glared at her. Enough questions. Annie was watching Ellie, and I didn’t want to be a bother. Plus, I’m a very quick person—quick to shop, make choices, quick to judge. My workday is quick, I read quickly, write quickly, and talk quickly, using very few words. When things don’t happen quickly, I get very anxious and expect everyone else to sense this somehow, that I’m in a rush to go and get something else over with. I sighed, tapped my foot, then stopped, not wanting to trigger a panty avalanche. I looked around for someone who looked bored or impatient, but all I saw was sincerity. A mom with a buzz cut popped some sort of breath mint and chewed it with her front teeth like a rat. She offered one to her neighbor, a tall woman who slouched. She took the mint, which grossed me out.

  “Some children experience sadness because they miss their parents and so they wear pictures of their mommies and daddies around their necks so when they get sad they can just look down,” the director said.

  I pictured Ellie wearing me, Bobby, and her cheesy stepmom around her neck.

  After everyone’s questions were answered and I thought I could finally go and take my panties out, we were led to the snack area, where a mom was placing grapes into tiny paper cups. I hobbled along.

  “We take turns bringing a snack for the class,” the director said. “But we’re a nut-free facility.” I looked around the room. One of the volunteer moms was dancing in the playroom to “Beat It.” Nut-free? Sure you are.

  “Also, your snack day is your day to clean the bathroom.”

  She smiled at everyone around her, and I chuckled along with the other parents, but then realized she was serious. I would actually have to clean a bathroom. Are you kidding me? I spend all week cleaning and cooking, and now I’d have to clean a school restroom? It also occurred to me that I’d have to interact with kids once a week, like teach them how to make something out of pipe cleaners and a milk carton, or dance around to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It,” which is a tad inappropriate at a preschool.

  “We are a family here,” the director said.

  A writing instructor once told me to never use the word beam as a verb, but this woman was beaming at all of us, radiating groovy, nut-free love. I didn’t want her in my family. I no longer cared if my underwear fell down. I wanted them to fall down and land on my foot. Then I’d kick my leg and the underwear would fly up and I’d catch it in my mouth. I didn’t want to go to this preschool. I told Georgia I’d look at the co-ops she recommended—it would be nice to save some money, meet other parents, and see Ellie at school, but I didn’t want to meet these kinds of parents. They were too happy with themselves, or something. I wouldn’t fit in. I guess it would be like a real family.

  All the parents stayed back to kiss ass. This whole process feels like we’re trying to get into the hottest club in town. I left, not even taking an application. I was taking a risk, but hell, I guess I’m like all the other mothers in the San Francisco Mother’s Club that I make fun of. I want my child to go to a school that doesn’t return your phone calls, but expects you to check in every month to inquire about your position on the waiting list. I wanted a school that had kids who were vaccinated.

  When I got to the street I crushed the flyer in my hand, then reached up my jeans for my underwear. The green silky ones with white polka dots. I walked to the car. It was like being back at college again, doing the walk of shame with my underwear in my pocket, vowing never again.

  What will I do if she doesn’t get in anywhere? I hear about this all the time, moms and their kids slumped at their windows, watching the neighbor kids skip to school. Something fierce pops up in a mom if she sees her child being shorted.

  * * *

  The next one wasn’t any better, and it required I pay the seventy-five-dollar application fee before seeing the school and knowing whether or not I even wanted to apply.

  Another co-op, but this one was in Laurel Hill. I got there early so I could walk in exactly on time. I needed to step up my game, even at the co-op “safety schools,” and I’d heard great things about this one. Kids who go here go on to kindergartens I’ve never heard of, but that must be good because the brochure lists the schools proudly like they’re celebrities. I had high hopes and envisioned the working parents sitting on beanbags and drinking coffee and talking about real estate.

  This time I wore sensible shoes and checked my pants for balled-up underwear. I also did some research. I learned from my SFMC chat group that I needed to smile and ask good questions that gave the directors a platform to ramble on about their schools’ unique qualities. They loved questions that weren’t really questions, but more like little diving boards they could do cannonballs from.

  This director had neat, cropped hair, and the parents on the tour seemed much more synthetic, which was great. We all walked around—the space was very nice and open with lots of room inside and out. I saw two girls playing together in the outdoor sandbox and was reminded of an old friendship. I was very sick one day at school and barfed on my friend Elena, and then Elena barfed in the sink so I wouldn’t be alone. “See, I barfed a little, too,” she said. I’ve always remembered that.

  The memory was wonderfully timed because the director looked over and thought I was smiling at the girls and not my past. Five minutes into the tour and I basically knew everything I needed to, but the tour kept going. And going. We kept being marched along, the pleasant little tricycles and sandboxes and artwork beginning to feel like purgatory.

  The director led us to the “Tree Room.” Kids playing. Noted. Then on to the next room, where we had to pass an open bathroom. A row of low toilets led out to another open door. A little girl was standing in front of a toilet naked, and we all watched her reach around to wipe her butt. She looked at the toilet paper after she wiped, then dropped it into the toilet, flushed, then headed to the sink to wash her hands.

  “Good job, Lily,” the director said. “We let the children go naked if they want to.” S
he held her hands together in front of her chest like she was in a choir.

  Wait. What?

  “It’s a safe and protected place, and if it’s something they choose to do then we follow their will.”

  One mom looked ecstatic. Another, afraid. I was very hesitant. I mean, there are countless pictures of my young self running around naked. My daughter loves to be naked and barefoot. My mom never slept with underwear on because she wanted to “let it breathe,” which always made me think of a vagina inhaling and exhaling and snoring a little. But it was cold out! And there could be pervs with telescopes! What if the children wanted to douse themselves in Sunny D, then roll around in tuna fish? Follow their will?

  We walked outside and I hugged my shoulders. Two boys yelled, “glug glug glug,” and made airplane wings with their arms and crashed into each other. I pretended it was endearing. The worker parent looked at them, or through them, and I wondered what she was thinking about—probably groceries. That’s what I do most of the time.

  “As you can see,” the director said. “Our parents are on the periphery. They don’t instruct or guide, or interact. They are here only to make sure the children are safe. They keep their bodies safe and their feelings safe.”

  “So, we don’t have to teach crafts or anything?” I asked.

  “No. We do not expect you to teach in any way, and at our meetings we will equip you with the know-how to keep the kids safe, to do dispute resolution in a way that lets the kids solve problems for themselves. The meetings will be informative, and they’ll give you the chance to meet, since you don’t really have any contact with each other at school. We are here for the children.”

  Great. There goes my time to read magazines with other moms and talk about restaurants.

  “These meetings are two Tuesdays a month, and you are expected to attend every one.”

  I quickly scanned my brain to think of what TV shows were on Tuesday night. It was a slow night, thank God, but then I thought of spring. American Idol auditions! All those deluded children!

  “So, they just roam around from room to room doing whatever they please?” a mother asked, the one who looked worried about nakedness.

  “Yes,” the director said. “We’re all about free will, free choice. The children decide what they want to do with their time. At circle time, they can come to the circle or they can elect not to.”

  I didn’t like that one bit, but I pretended to be down. We walked back toward the entrance and the mother kept wondering out loud if this was the place for her son, who was having trouble focusing.

  “I just think he needs structure, and with so much free choice and free play he may not function.”

  I envisioned a robotlike boy looking around at all his options and just sputtering and smoking and going in circles, saying in a scary android voice, “Too much data. Too much data.”

  This woman wasn’t going to get in. Why was she expressing her concerns out loud in front of the director? Apparently she hadn’t read the articles I’d read, which remind parents that they’re being watched, not their children. They’re the ones applying, and the directors are assessing if we’ll be good volunteers, if we’re rich, black, Asian, Mexican, gay, divorced. Your best bet is to be a gay, black, starving artist who has adopted kids. Try to be that.

  I took an application, out of fear. I didn’t want my daughter to go to this hippie naked school, but I was scared for her life, especially when I imagined Betts and the old playgroup, their rancid children all going to the best schools, where they’d learn to play golf and guffaw and turn green acreage into condo developments. Ellie deserved the same.

  Which led me to a private school in Lower Pacific Heights. This was the one I want and the one I can’t afford. It’s purportedly one of the best preschools in San Francisco, the one Henry sent his children to.

  I went with Barrett. We met in front and walked in together.

  “If it’s a guy doing the tour, should we unbutton our shirts a little?” Barrett asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I heard you’re supposed to let the school officials know you can build a new playground, but have a friend mention it.”

  “I can’t build a new playground,” I said. “I can build a sand castle.”

  We walked in, put on name tags, and then about ten of us were led to a small room where we were given a speech by the director. I coached myself beforehand to pretend I was at a poetry reading: look like you understand, smile knowingly. I was going to try to pay attention because I always tuned out. Immediately I found myself lost in thought as the director spoke about the school’s values: She’s not wearing any makeup. No foundation, concealer, mascara. Look at those lashes. Like dandelions.

  I tuned back in to hear her talking about things called “interfacing,” “decompressing,” and the “gross-motor room.” She talked for about half an hour longer, and Barrett and I were really struggling. We were rolling our eyes and nudging each other, and holding back laughs. There’s nothing better than to have a fellow eye roller, and Barrett was also a note passer. On one she drew a monkey sniffing his finger, and the thought of her taking the time to draw this made my chest and throat hurt. I could barely contain a burgeoning barking laugh, and I eventually had to cough to mask my snorting.

  We were finally let out of that torture chamber, then split up into small groups. We were to go from classroom to classroom for “observance” and instructed not to talk to the kids and to sit only in the adult chairs. This was very important.

  We walked quietly into the first room and sat and watched the kids doing the usual things: playing, talking. We just sat there like scientists watching apes. I leaned over intending to say to the mom next to me, “How long do we have to do this?” but noticed her scribbling copious notes and stopped myself in time. What did her notes say? Kids are playing! Playing here and there, everywhere!

  “I cannot stress how boring this is,” I whispered to Barrett.

  “We watch our own kids do this every day,” Barrett said. “What in the world are we supposed to be learning here?”

  We did this in four more classrooms. I walked into the art classroom and watched the kids there. Exhausted, I sat down.

  “Please sit in an adult chair!” a teacher said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Okay!”

  “Jesus Christ,” Barrett said. “You got verbally spanked.”

  I sat in a goddamn adult chair and watched the smocked kids paint. Big frickin’ deal. Barrett kept shifting in her adult chair and picking at herself.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I have a vaginal wedgie,” she whispered. “A veggie.”

  “Did you make that up?”

  “On the spot.”

  “Quiet please,” the teacher said.

  I let out a loud yawn.

  After “observance” we all came together to watch a class have a meeting in which they talked about yesterday’s walk in the Presidio and the consequences of cutting in line; then the director took us to the outdoor play area and spent time talking about each and every play structure.

  “These are the bikes,” she said. “The children ride these in this area here. These are the bars that the children hang from.”

  Barrett and I did the stop, look, and roll.

  “We’re always looking for ways to improve this area,” the director said.

  “Are parents allowed to finance improvements?” a woman asked. We snapped our heads toward her. She had smooth brown hair and Tory Burch–like clothes. She looked like Bobby’s fiancée—that same glossy perfection. I could just envision her on Instagram, looking down, laughing at a puddle.

  “The school appreciates all contributions, especially since so many of our kids are on scholarship. We love help from parents!” The director laughed. The woman laughed. Ha ha ha! Ha ha! Ha ha!

  “I told you,” Barrett said. “She basically just promised a new playground. She’s in.”

  I looked at the wom
an’s tribal, leather handbag, alongside her hip. Did it just flip me off? I believe it did.

  We then went through another of those inane lengthy question-and-answer sessions, and finally, two hours later, we were released. On our way out I noticed Ms. Philanthropist talking to the director.

  “I have some tips,” Barrett said. “Don’t worry.”

  * * *

  We picked up our girls up from Annie’s, then went to my place to fill out our applications.

  I’m always a little nervous when the kids are together. This makes things a little uncomfortable for me around Barrett. I don’t know the etiquette for telling a friend’s child to please stop fucking with mine. Fortunately the girls were doing well, painting at opposite ends of the table.

  I took my time filling out the application, using my neatest handwriting.

  “After you mail this you need to call them every month.” Barrett pointed her pen at me. “Start a relationship, a friendship. Show them how enthusiastic you are.”

  “Henry says I need to tell them I’m an ethnic writer.”

  “He’s right.”

  I tried to imagine how I’d work in all of this information: “Hi, this is Mele Bart, a slightly ethnic, aspiring writer, and I’m calling to check on my status because I’m very enthusiastic about your school.”

  “I write a food blog,” I said. “And I haven’t published anything yet. And I’m just a little Hawaiian and a little Chinese.”

  “You’re writing a cookbook,” Barrett said. “So for ethnicity just double the recipe.”