I dread picking up Malcolm from school. Malcolm’s 1:00 o’clock pickup time shackles me to my domestic duties like a dog tethered to a parking meter outside a store. 1:00 P.M. comes too early every day, and with it comes my consternation about how much more I had hoped to accomplish while he was at school. Also, I think about how I could go golfing if he just stayed at school until around 3!
Picking up Malcolm also creates a good deal of apprehension about the parents gathering outside the gates of the pre-school. The other parents who pick up their kids for the most part know one another and a great many of them have bathed recently. I hear them making play dates with one another, talking about all the fun things they did together over the weekend, and tell each other the great milestones that each of their children have recently achieved. They know each other’s names, their kids’ names, and are polite to one another.
Anyone want to talk to this guy?
I, on the other hand, usually show up in a sweaty mess. Sometimes this is due to me playing basketball before picking up the boy, and sometimes it is due to me being a sweaty pig and having an alarming rate of perspiration under normal conditions. I am terrible with names, so I cannot greet people like the others do. While others begin a conversation with, “Hey Margaret, how’s Jacob doing? He really enjoyed your backyard on Sunday,” I am forced to limit my comments to, “Hey you! Do you like puppies? I sure do!” Most of the time, I use my disgusting appearance as a conversation prophylactic, making it seem like I am so out of breath that I can’t even talk. Everyone, including the teachers, refer to me as “Malcolm’s Daddy” not because Malcolm is the star pupil who serves as a frame of reference for everyone at the school, but because no one has the foggiest idea what my name is. With the way that I look, I can’t say I give them much reason to learn it.
I feel like a total outsider, which is a bit lame, because many of them are nice people who I should know and interact with. My initial attempts to make friends have not gone well. Malcolm’s best friend at school is Quinn, who’s daddy’s name is Rashaan. I saw Rashaan one day and said, “Howdy Sharan! How’s things?” After a minute or two, I realized I had basically called him Sharon and tried to save face by blaming my rampant sweatiness for my overheated mind. I cannot figure out whether he was least impressed with my getting his name wrong or saying “Howdy” to him. I need flashcards with everyone’s names on it, and a shower an hour or two before picking Malcolm up. This won’t make 1:00 feel that much better, but it will sure make me feel less like a dufus afterwards.
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