Chapter 3 of Preschool Confessions

August 21.      

“Jessica Swanson! It’s so wonderful to finally meet you! I feel like we’ve known each other for ages since we’ve had so much back and forth with your emails and phone calls.

This one’s thorough, I tell you--”  Mason DeRae gestured towards me with his right thumb and spoke out of the side of his mouth, although no one was actually in the hall but the two of us.

He looked in person just the way he did on TV. He was in his mid-sixties (well, 67. I had googled him), and wore his silver hair in short spikes. In commercials he always had on white linen pants and a bright Hawaiian short-sleeved button shirt, and evidently that’s the norm, because that’s what he was wearing today, along with fancy man sandals with no socks.

Mason pulled me in for a big bear hug, and held on a bit too long for my comfort level. He also was one of those back strokers—he rubbed his hand up and down my spine during the forced embrace, as if he was hunting for a bra strap. I felt immediately tense and on guard.

“Let’s show you around and get you situated, shall we? You can put your stuff in my office.” Mason pointed a fat finger towards a dark wood door on the other side of the front entry with the words “owner” etched in the glass window.

“So let’s see. You have two little ones, right? Where they at today?”

“I left them home with grandma. I wanted to get settled and fill out paperwork today without distraction. I spoke to Donna, and we agreed that they’ll begin sometime next week.”

“Excellent. Donna knows her stuff.” Mason jolted, and patted down his pants. “Excuse me, my pants are talking.” He removed a tiny cell phone from his back pocket, and unfolded it.

“DeRae here. Yes, let’s do that. Okay. On my way.”

“Jess? I’m going to need for you to stay here, and I’ll send Donna down to show you around the school. I need to go to our McDonnell site. We’ll catch up before the end of the day.”

He grasped my hand in a firm handshake, sandwiching it between both hands. I noticed that he had a ring on both pinkies, but was not wearing a wedding band.

Chapter 2 of Preschool Confessions

 still July 12.

Tom walked in the door at 5:15 on the dot and was promptly brought to his knees with a flurry of hugs and commotion. “Daddy! Daddy’s home!”

The girls always hear him arrive. It doesn’t matter how quietly he opens the front door, or if he sneaks in through the kitchen sliding door—they can sense his presence and immediately run full force right into him, until forced to kneel down or sit on the couch. Paige, our three-year-old was explaining the difference between the letter ‘m’ and ‘n,’ while Brooke, 21 months, sat on Tom’s knee, and sucked her fingers.

“Smells great in here. What’s for dinner?” Tom asked when he was able to unwrap the girls and walk into the kitchen.

“Nothing fancy. Frozen pot roast and potatoes.”

“Sounds good. I like pot roast.”

Tom seemed a bit distracted. He picked up the pile of mail, and opened the PennySaver. Tom has never opened a PennySaver in the 15 years I’ve known him.

“Tom? Things okay?”

“Yes. Well, no. Well, we’re moving.”

And that was that. I learned that his company had grown too big too fast, and the local economy couldn’t support the growth. I learned that people were getting laid off. People I knew. People I knew to have families, to have mortgages, to have healthcare bills. I learned that in order to continue his current employment status we’d have to move to a bigger metropolitan area.

I learned that I needed to go back to work.

There wasn’t time to freak out. There wasn’t time to do much of anything—Tom had called Patty, the realtor from the car, and she was on the way over. I nodded as I served tiny pieces of meat and potatoes in sectioned plastic dishes to the kids. I nodded as Tom explained how “good all of this would be for us.” I nodded as he pointed out that I had wanted to go back to work for a while. I nodded as he explained we’d be closer to family, and have more opportunity to go out by ourselves, to get away from the kids.

I nodded as I cleared the dishes, filled the dishwasher, and started the coffee pot. I remembered Patty liked super strong black coffee.

I nodded along as I got the kids situated on the couch with their blankies, and started Toy Story 2.

I nodded and signed my name and then initialed wherever Patty told me to.

I nodded and agreed to show the house within 30 minutes of a realtor’s (any realtor) phone-call. I agreed that in “this economy” we couldn’t be picky, and I needed to drop everything in order to show the house. I nodded and agreed to pack up most of the kids’ toys—I agreed there was no need to pigeon-hole our house as only a home for young children.

I quietly cried myself to sleep that night.

Chapter 1 of Preschool Confessions

July 12.

It was a dream job. A job most women dream about and would kill for. I was able to bring my children to work with me every day, and still get paid. I’d get a real paycheck with my name printed on it—something I hadn’t had in four years. I’d get to see my kids throughout the day: tend to them when they were sad, kiss a skinned knee, and tuck them in at naptime.

It was an ideal situation.

I was beyond excited. I wanted this. I needed this. Our family desperately needed the money, and I urgently craved grown-up interaction and a break from the day-to-day monotony before I lost my last few remaining brain cells.

It was only a few weeks ago that the decision to head back to work had been made for me. July 12, a Wednesday. The kids were napping, and I had just put away the last bit of laundry for the day. I heard the mail box latch shut, and popped my mug of coffee into the microwave and set it for 35 seconds, to heat while I grabbed the day’s mail offering. A pennysaver magazine, two fliers from local realtors, a PG&E bill, and a letter addressed to me, in my own handwriting. The postmark was from New York City.

I could tell it was bad news by how thin the envelope was, and that the sendee didn’t bother to attach a return address label or stamp. He/she didn’t want to hear from me again, nor did He/she care if this letter got lost in the postal maze.

I took a deep breath and tore open the envelope.

Dear Ms. Jessica Swanson:

Thank you for your submission of  PERFECTLY YOURS. While this work does have merit, it doesn’t seem to be quite the right fit for our team right now. As you know, we are taking on very few new authors at this time.

Thanks again for considering us for this project, and we do wish you the best of luck with this elsewhere.

Cordially,

Betsy Rickers

Literary agent

I sat down on the curb next to the mail box, and returned the latest rejection to it’s envelope. The sun reflected off the newly paved street—so new, there weren’t any oil splotches or painted lines, causing me to shield my eyes with the pile of mail. Across the street there were 2 houses, both with For Sale signs. One was brand-new, never-before-lived-on construction, and the other was a foreclosure nightmare. I met the mom once, but saw her often. She had 3 little ones ages 4 and under, and always wore a bright pink velour jogging suit. The one time we spoke, she told me that her husband was in construction (everybody’s husband around here was “in construction”) and that he traveled a lot. She looked a bit overwhelmed, and I told her that I was around if she ever needed help with anything.

It was a pleasant conversation, but I suppose I could have been a bit more forward, and asked her in for coffee. But I didn’t. The kids were running around the cul-de-sac shoeless, and I didn’t want them on my carpet. The asphalt was still giving off color.

I saw them a few times a day, and figured at some point I’d invite them over. Once they had settled in.

Then they were gone. Pam. That was the mother’s name. She evidently packed the kids and house up one weekend while we were away camping and disappeared. Emily, on the corner, said Pam told her they were moving back to North Carolina to be with family. Emily said it was obvious to her that she’d been crying.

2 days later the yellow foreclosure notice was posted on the front door.

It was a beautiful house—the 2640 square foot model, with a sunk in master tub overlooking the valley. Now the lawn was brown and overgrown and there was a SaveMart shopping cart overturned on the front porch.

Shaking my head, as if the clear the cobwebs, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands, and walked back to my own house and went inside. The kids were still napping---it was quiet.

The microwave beeped once, reminding me that I had neglected my coffee. Again. The digital readout said 3:34.

Time to think about dinner.

Confessions of a Former PreSchool Teacher

I have been wanting to write about this for a long time. I'm hoping this will be the place, and that I can finally share the things that I have seen and heard.

If you, too, are or were a preschool teacher and would like to contribute or share your story, please let me know.

Teacher Anabelle