What I Learned at the Museum

I haven't chaperoned an elementary school field trip in years, mostly because I am not one of those go-getter parents who gets their "I WANT TO BE A CHAPERONE ON EVERY SINGLE TRIP OR I WILL DIE" forms turned in the minute there is a the mere hint of a field trip in the air. See, most of my kids' teachers take chaperones on a "first come first serve" basis, and there are literal death-matches to determine who goes. As a lowly barista, I am not able to ascertain my schedule for the day of the field trip for at least an entire 24 hours after the field trip forms have been distributed. It's not that I'm not brave enough to participate in a tooth-and-nail fight to the death for a spot on a smelly school bus, it's that I'm not priveleged enough to be able to participate in such a glorious battle. As such, I've grown isolated from my fellow fourth-grade families. I had assumed they were mostly like my family.

On the bus with the
(apparently naive) Dictator.

But as it turns out, I had no idea what those people have been up to.

However today, having won the school chaperone lottery, I was allowed to accompany the Dictator and all of her friends on one of these highly coveted trips. It was quite the experience.

I learned a lot at the Charles H. Wright Museum of African American History today, most of which has woefully little to do with African American history, and a lot more to do with the very fascinating lives of fourth graders.

• Most of my daughter's classmates are well-versed in horror movies. I'm not talking an accidental peek here or there of a monster movie, or even sneaking in a scary movie when the babysitter is over. These kids are full-blown horror movie aficionados. Our lunch conversation consisted of in-depth discussions of the plots of Paranormal Activity and Annabelle, with every sweet-looking little girl chiming in...every sweet little girl except the Dictator. Because she's nine. And ohmyword. And I value my sleep, which is hard to get with terrified little girls clinging to your face because they now associate dolls with demons. And because she's nine. 
• Most of my daughter's classmates have also seen Bambi, and do not understand why she has never seen it. "It's tragic!!" is my impassioned response. "So?" they say, "It's not like it's going to hurt her." Maybe not, but it will for absolutely certain hurt me. You're talking to the lady that fled the theater as a young child when stupid Feivel the mouse was separated from his stupid tragic mouse family on his way to the New World. Because no one should have to sit through sad animals. No one.
• All of the kids know all of the explicit lyrics to all of the songs ever. All of the kids. Even my Dictator. I'm sure of it, though I've never heard her utter them in front of me. And she won't belt them at the top of her lungs on the bus during a school trip, either. But her classmates will. Loudly. So loudly. 
• Inappropriate songs are still vastly preferable to hearing Let it Go even one more time, ever. They tried singing that one, too. I wanted the inappropriate ones back immediately.
• All of the kids are apparently lushes. There was a mock-up of a bar at the museum. The kids flooded in and sat down at the counter. They then commenced ordering their drinks "straight up" and "on the rocks." They called for "another round" and marveled how much cheaper scotch was back then. For real. These little people were more comfortable ordering in a bar than I am. Yikes.
• Most children are really, really well-versed in geography. They knew about Kilimanjaro, that the Nile was the longest river in Africa, the location of Timbuktu, and all that brainy nonsense, answering the tour guide's geography-related questions like they read atlases for fun or something. The Dictator is an absolute expert in the geography of her words in Minecraft, but in real life, not so much. I think that she knows that she lives in a state that is shaped like a mitten and is called Michigan, but I could be wrong. 
• Speaking of Minecraft, while most of the children really seem to love that game, the Dictator is widely recognized as the class Minecraft expert. Friends turn to her for advice, instructions, and overall nuggets of Minecraft-related wisdom. She has started to sit cross-legged in a cave at the top of a mountain like some sort of sage wiseperson or something. When I asked her the meaning of Minecraft, she hit me on the head with a pixellated staff and muttered a koan. We really need to cut back on her screen time.
• Except that, "every other kid in the whole school gets to play video games on weekdays!" This was confirmed by every other kid at our whole table, which I admit is a decent sample of the whole school community. The Dictator's parents are such jerks. Such awful, awful jerks.
• Speaking of jerks, even though terrifying horror movie discussions and explicit song lyrics are totally okay, it is still not acceptable for the children to say "jerk" at school. Seems inconsistent.
• Chivalry is still a thing. Both the tour guide and the Dictator's teacher insisted that the boys allow the girls to enter rooms first and whatnot. I was absolutely dumbfounded. Why? What did the boys do wrong that they had to slink to the back of the group just because? Are they there to guard all of those weak little girls against sneaky attack-ninjas? Are they aware that most of those girls are twice the size of most of the boys? Do they think this is somehow a corrective for years and years of not getting to vote? "Sorry you don't get paid what you are worth, and that society is pretty much structured to your detriment, and that you are constantly being objectified, but here, we'll let you go into this room first. Hope there aren't any demon-possessed dolls or tragic mice inside! Good luck!" Yeah. Not a fan of chivalry. But then, I'm a total jerk.
• In spite of being a video-game-restricting, chivalry-shunning jerk, I am considered "one of the nice parents" for no apparent reasons. All of the parents seemed nice. All of the parents were about equally permissive. None of the parents beat, insulted, or otherwise tormented the students. Maybe the kids just liked my super-flashy smile.
• The kids are really good people. And they are super-funny. And even if they sing too loudly, and are allowed to watch horrific movies, and know unnatural amounts about geography,and open the doors for girls, I think that this next generation is going to be all right.

Little La and Aunty Me

The Pretty One and I were supposed to have our children at almost exactly the same time. I mean, we weren't planning on going into labor within minutes of each other, expertly coordinating the the breaking of water and cutting of umbilical cords. That would be so, so creepy. And The Pretty One and I are not creepy (in that way). But we had big plans to have kids around the same age at the same time. To practice living out this very well-coordinated future, we employed our very favorite baby dolls, Carie (yes, don't challenge the spelling, five year old Me doesn't care how it's supposed to be spelled) and La. Yes. La. (Now, don't you feel bad for making fun of my doll's name's spelling, when the Pretty One over here named her precious plastic offspring La?) I know. But she was a toddler. And the box the doll came in was labeled "La Bebe." Very French. Also, the Pretty One had a goldfish named Chuck E. Cheese, presumably because themed pizza/gaming joints were on her mind at the time. I think we can all see what kind of naming style the Pretty One has.

The Dictator, Aunty Pretty One and Me...but where oh where is La?

Anyway, Carie-with-one-R and La spent every waking minute of their baby/toddlerhoods together. Aunty Pretty One and Aunty Me took turns running the show, playing both ideal mother and indulgent aunt with deftness and grace, because we are amazing. And because our children were made of plastic. And because, in the case of The Pretty One, the child's eyes were stuck permanently closed, rendering her even more docile than the sometimes-wakeful Carie.

The Dictator and Anarchist ADORE their
Aunty Pretty One

Not that we didn't face our share of parenting challenges. Both Carie and La suffered from a rare allergy to everything but Applebits.* I know. You can't even begin to understand our struggles. But we were strong. And we had each other. Such a brilliant support network of sisters, aunts, mothers, rolled into one, feeding plastic beaded Applebits to our sightless plastic offspring with unlimited optimism and poise. I never once imagined being a parent without The Pretty One pushing a stroller at my side, my delightful hyper-allergic niece or nephew reaching into my little imp's stroller, cooing its love for its Aunty Me.

But, as we all know, grown-up life is not what we imagine in our youth. I don't know too many Ballerina-Princess-Firefighter-Doctor-Millionaires with flying ponies and a herd of well-trained kittens. Or, as young Me imagined, Female-priest/Supermom/Author/Musician/Eccentric College Professor/Woodland Cottage Dwellers with rooms full of books and a herd of well-trained llamas. It turns out certain life events happen when the time is right, whether we plan on them or not. And sometimes that means doing things without our sisters. Like having beautiful, surprising children before we've even had time to break the glass ceiling/get ordained/author life-changing literature/get a PhD and buy all those llamas. Sometimes lovely Dictators come into the world before their Aunts are ready to have beautiful babies of their own.

And so the plans were a little altered, the timing shifted a little, but some things were as we foresaw them. Some things were just a given. Although she was not made out of plastic, my Dictator was born allergic to almost everything, and, blessedly, with her eyes wide open. And the Pretty One was a fantastic Aunt, even if she did completely terrify herself by dropping a TV remote on the days-old Dictator's head. And then she was a fantastic aunt to my not-plastic Anarchist (born with her preemie eyes clamped shut).

But now I want my turn. I want to see The Pretty One be the lovely mommy I know she will be. And I want to be the indulgent Aunty Me that hands the baby back at the end of a visit, secure in the fact that I will not be the one waking up 87 times to feed it. I'm getting anxious. I want to meet real-life La Bebe.

And guess what? I'm going to super-super-soon! THE PRETTY ONE IS HAVING A BABY! I'M GOING TO BE AN AUNT!

The Pretty One is going to be, like, the bestest mommy EVER!

You guys, I'm going to be so good at this thing! It might not conform to our idyllic childhood dream of force-feeding plastic beads to oddly named, strangely well-behaved children who happen to be exactly the same age, but I think it's going to work out okay. Like, I will buy that kid all the sugary things. All of them. And I will watch it and let it stay up super-disgustingly late. And I will tell it to challenge authority. And I will probably even let the Anarchist babysit that thing! That will be one heck of an exciting social experiment. Because I have a feeling that The Pretty One is going to be such a fantastic parent, that this kid will need a dose of imperfect reality...and I am SO going to be that dose. Yippee!

Also, I get to revel in The Pretty One hopefully having a baby just like The Pretty One. Hopefully, the Pretty One's baby will take off its diaper and paint itself and its designer nursery with the contents. Hopefully. Hopefully it will scream its adorable little head off the vast majority of the time, and just at the last minute (before someone chucks it out a window), it will open its gigantic adorable eyes and melt every single heart in the room. Hopefully. Hopefully it will refuse to be held for a single split second...unless then the garbage truck is near, and then hopefully it will fling its terrified little self into the waiting arms of its loving mommy or daddy and refuse to leave until that stupid loud monster is gone. Hopefully. Hopefully, it will writhe its way out of every stroller and every high chair, and hopefully it will eat hard crushed candy off the filthy mall floor and dirt out of the garden, and convince its sibling(s) to eat Play-Doh and forbidden cookies. Hopefully.

The baby Pretty One was such a trip! Here's hoping her little
person will give her as much fun as she gave her family...

And hopefully it will be as sweet, and feisty, and charming, and full of life as its beautiful Mommy and wonderful Daddy. And most of all, more than anything, regardless of its gender or looks, I hope beyond all hopes that she will name the child La. Because that is what I will call it, both here and in real life. So she might as well go ahead and make it legal.

Because, while The Pretty One is the one of us more attached to tradition and sentiment, I can be stubborn and sentimental, too. And there are certain childhood dreams that I refuse to let die.

So, welcome, little niece/nephew La! Your Aunty Me loves you to pieces already. And she even promises not to drop a TV remote on your head. Hopefully.




*Applebits are small, colorful, plastic beads, ideal for doll allergies.