The After-School Joy of it All

So I arrived home after a long teaching day followed by a slog through report cards. They're due next week. The pressure's on.

I was greeted at the door by a frenetic Grassy the Ant. Grassy said in a high falsetto, "I'm Grassy the Ant! I've made a traffic light! Come and see!"

Sure enough, a large play dough traffic light was squished onto the wall, with all the right colours in all the right places. Clear evidence that the energy was a-scattered.

"Oh!" I said. "That's a traffic light, all right."

We managed to remove the play dough and tidy up slightly, and then Grassy and Mommy read together and began to watch a bit of Alice in Wonderland. Mommy actually began to unwind from her day.

Then Grassy was unexpectedly replaced by Child From Hades, who suddenly realized that when she hadn't been looking, Daddy had set the table. Apparently this had been the divine ordained right of CFH, although nobody is sure exactly when the honour was bestowed upon her from on high.

She began by shouting with terrible outrage, "You said I COULD DO IT!" Then she stamped her little self into the dining room and began forcibly removing all of the silverware. I went into the kitchen at this point. The way I saw it, if she wanted to remove everything and replace it, that was fine.

And it would have been fine, had she actually replaced everything. Instead, she meticulously put it all away in the silverware drawer, grumbling and growling all the while. Then she closed the drawer.

"So," I said after a minute. "Are you planning to set the table?"

"We....ll," she said. "Now I don't think I want to set it anymore."

So I began to give her a lecture about how you can't take everything off the table and put it in the drawer and not replace it.

Midway through, she decided she would set the table.

"Good," I said. "I'll be back in a bit."

I went out to the living room and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally I went back into the kitchen. Spilly was fingering all of the forks peacefully.

"Are you going to set the table?" I said.

"Yes!" She jumped. Apparently she had been lost in thought. She began grabbing silverware again. In the meantime, I poured milk for everyone, and put it out on the table (Spills is not allowed to carry the glasses around).

Next thing I knew, from the kitchen I could hear grunting sounds, as if someone was lugging something cumbersome.

"What are you doing?" I called.

No answer.

Out to the dining room I went. There she was dragging glasses off the table, liquid sloshing here and there, a mulish expression on her face.

"You are spilling the milk!"

Daddy showed up at this point, less than satisfied. Turns out, good chunks of his day with Spills had been less than satisfying--tantrums over zippers, refusal to put on outer clothing, etc.

Let's just say the whole thing ended in tears. And words. And more tears. Tears throughout dinner. The tears of a tired and frustrated small person, who would like to be a good deal more autonomous than she is. And who had a supply teacher today and sat through a boring RRSP meeting at the bank. And whose Mommy came home late because she was wrestling with report cards.

We worked it all out during dinner. And at last Spilly's tears dried, and she became philosophical.

"Mommy, what did you want to be when you grew up?"

"Well," I said. "I wanted to be a kindergarten teacher, when I was about your age."

"And you AREN'T."

"Well, I'm a grade six teacher. And I wanted to write a book, and I did. And I wanted a little girl exactly like you."

"And you got me!" she said with great satisfaction.

"And I wanted to marry someone like Daddy, and I did."

After awhile she said, "Mommy, I'm not going to work when I grow up."

"Really?" I said. "What are you planning to do?"

"I'm going to stay at home and look after you."

And suddenly the day seemed a lot less dark and a lot less gruelling.