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"Alex."
We're walking away from the preschool classroom when I hear my name. It's the preschool director. Lauri's already lugging the bucket seat down the stairs with Baby Megan. I tried like heck to convince her that she didn't need to do that, just give the teachers a note and I'd walk Rachel down the stairs to her car, but she wouldn't listen. It seems to me like she's killing herself, trying to keep everything exactly the same, for Rachel's sake. Hell, when I had Candy, they told me not to drive for two weeks, because of the C-section. Lauri was driving the day she got home from the hospital. Bill didn't have enough vacation time and they wanted to save it, for a trip to the beach over the summer.
"Alex, hi."
I turn and face her. Fake smile at her. I know what this is about. She's called and e-mailed me. She's got a folder of paper.
"Hi, what's up?" I say.
"We wanted to know if you were interested in the three day, four-year-old, class for next year. It's almost full, one spot left."
I keep putting this decision off. Lauri had Rachel signed up the day they opened registration. We talked about it and it was obvious she was assuming I would sign Candy up too. I wish it was that simple. Candy loves it here. And she loves being in class with Rachel. Even Mrs. Aletto seems to hate me less than at the start of the year. Only the smallest bit less, but still.
"Um, yeah..." I stall some more.
Candy is straining to follow Rachel down the stairs. It's a balmy fifty degrees out and we told them they could play outside after school.
"Look, I understand," the director tells me. (No you don't, but please go on.) "It happens every year. Some friends choose to go to a different school, for the pre-K year. Montessori is very popular, and since they don't take the fall threes a lot of kids come here for the first year, and then switch."
Uh, okay. So what? My lack of understanding must be written on my face, because she doesn't wait for a response.
Instead she rattles off some names. The name.
"Those kids, they aren't coming back," she tells me. "I'm not saying we won't miss them, but it's okay, we don't take it personally."
"They aren't coming back?" I ask her, and repeat the names, slowly.
"No, and it's okay. If you aren't coming back that's fine, but we have people new to the program who are interested and if you are not...I can't hold a spot for you any longer. I have at least five on the waiting list."
"So who would be in Candy's class?"
It comes out a little more aggressively than I intended, but I need to be sure. Really sure.
"Um, okay."
She's a little startled by that, but starts flipping through the folder, pulls out the list. Then she reads the names off it.
I tighten my grip on Candy and pull her around to look right at it. Read each name, carefully. Rachel's name is there, it's the right class. One space at the bottom that's not filled in.
"I want it," I say. "I want that spot. Just let me take Candy downstairs and Lauri can watch her and I'll get my checkbook and come back."
"Oh, well, okay then."
The director is happy. Confused but happy.
"Alright," she tells me, "I'll be in the office."
"I'll be right back." I promise her. Then I tell Candy, "Let's go play."
I race Candy down the stairs and out the door to the playground, which still has a fair amount of snow on it. Rachel is stomping around on the play structure. Lauri has the baby seat up on the picnic table and is watching Rachel. Candy races up the play structure to Rachel. (I notice Rachel back off and look over at Lauri for reassurance.)
"Can you watch her?" I ask Lauri. "I have to go back inside."
"Sure, what—"
But I'm already heading back to my car. I grab the check book out of my purse and head back into the building. Same drill as last year. Give them the deposit and promise to bring all the forms back next week. I feel a hundred pounds lighter as I head back out to the playground. Candy gets to stay at this school. I don't have to look for a new one, or explain why, to Lauri or anyone else. And Mike can't possibly be anything but happy about this. I can't wait to tell him. Maybe. Better think that one through a little more. A lot more. Carefully.
I head back over to Lauri. When she sees me, she tells Rachel they have five more minutes.
"You are not going to stay?" I ask her.
"It's not as warm as I thought. And Rachel's already soaked. I should have planned better. How could I not think that there would still be snow? There's still snow everywhere."
I am in a very good mood and feeling very charitable. I pat her back.
"You just had a baby girlfriend, give yourself a break, really."
"I'm a mess."
"No, you'll be fine."
She bursts into tears. Crap. I wish I could tell her why I am so happy. Lauri is the type of friend that is genuinely happy for you, when something good happens.
"Look, it's going to be fine,” I say.
I'm not sure what “it” is. But this is probably just hormones anyway. Hormones and no sleep.
She doesn't say anything. Just turns back to watching the kids. I don't know what to say, so I just watch too. More than five minutes passes, but she doesn't leave. I feel bad for her, but I just feel so good right now. And the sun feels fantastic. I know it's bad for you, but that sun, after the winter, man does it feel good. I'm so zoned out from my happiness, and the sun, I almost don't hear her when she starts talking again.
"If you had to do it alone, do you think you could?"
I turn and face her.
"What do you mean?"
"If you had to," she's struggling, "you know, get a divorce, and it was just you and Candy, and Mike just had her like every other weekend or something, do you think you could do it?"
"What do you mean?" I'm startled, and for a second I think she's been reading my mind for the past year. "Mike and I are fine."
I put a lot of emphasis on fine. We are not fine. Maybe we can be. What I found out today will help.
"No, I didn't mean," God she's a mess. "I mean, how hard do you think it would be?"
I don't know what to say. It would be hard. But a lot of people do it. It's not impossible. Where is she going with this anyway? And why is she crying over it? I'll blame the hormones again. And lack of sleep.
"Look," I tell her, "it's really, really hard right now. Remember how hard it was when Rachel was first born? But you did it, right? It all worked out. And this will too. It just takes time."
She's not convinced, not even close, but she mops up and calls for Rachel. We pack the kids in the cars and make tentative plans for tomorrow, the no school day. When I see her the next day, she doesn't mention anything on the subject. She doesn't talk much at all. Too tired. I don't talk much either, although my mood must be a thousand percent better than hers. I let Mike catch me, filling out the paperwork for the pre-K class, the night before and, when I told him what I knew, he was very happy. Fine feels like a definite possibility.
