The daycare has taken over my life. All my free, off-duty thoughts wander there. If I have a bruise, it came from there. If I have a pulled muscle, I pulled it there. If I have a cold, someone sneezed on my face there.
The last time I was proposed to – it happened there too. Not that I minded this time. Any proposal employing novel methods or introducing new concepts gets my full and immediate attention. (I suppose this is because I’m a teacher. We applaud independent thinking.) This proposal involved polygamy and was the night’s very-cleverest-joke until I realized I was the only one laughing. He was looking at me very earnestly, the way dads do when they’ve decided to never think of me in my official capacity again and drop the “Miss” from my name. Still – at least there isn’t any jilted wife in this scenario, and at least it isn’t the old teacher-will-you-walk-me-out-to-the-woodshed – it’s marriage!
Of course I declined immediately. Perhaps a little too forcefully. May have even used the word ‘jihad’, as in ‘I will bring the jihad to the side of your head with an empty tequila bottle,’ a phrase which has somehow managed to cool even the most fervent passions. I guess passion is always mercurial, even at the best of times, when you’re not standing with a too old for you dad inside your daycare surrounded by dried spaghetti artwork and little tempera paint hand prints.
My lifelong distaste for woodsheds, however, remains.