The Kindergarten Interview

posted in: Humor | 0

I’m running late. This is not an aberration (read more about my time travel abilities here), although no matter how often it happens it always surprises me. “Wow, I can’t believe it took more than five minutes to drive twenty miles through rush hour traffic. How did I miscalculate?”

Does anyone know of a kindergarten for kitty cats? Click To Tweet

Never mind that though. I make a quick left turn across double yellow lines in front of onrushing traffic. Yes, that was me! Cue evil laughter. Heh heh heh. A cavalcade of honking ensues. Still cackling with glee, I pull into the parking lot and sprint towards the front door of the school.

It’s that time of year again. We’re in a new city, looking at new schools for our daughter, and we have to subject ourselves to the dreaded kindergarten interview.

Pressure

The pressure on parents is immense for a kindergarten interview. Am I wearing the right clothes? Did I comb my hair? Shower? Brush my teeth? Change my underwear? Oops, I knew I forgot something.

Fortunately, my wife isn’t with me. She went ahead with Colleen. She knows better than to ride with me if she wants to be on time. I have, not butterflies flapping, fluttering their diaphanous wings, but a flock of hungry crows, squawking and beating in my stomach.

Bursting through the front door of the school…

The Pre-K Interview

My mind wanders back to the previous year, when Colleen had her pre-K interview. We had high hopes she would get in. A precocious four-year old, she would turn five two days prior to the school’s application deadline. We had paid our $200 application fee

Swearing Me In for the School Interview
I Solemnly Swear…

We sat in the office across from a panel of four interviewers. I knew it was going to be a tough interview right from the start. “Please stand and place your right hand on the Bible,” announced a man at the center of the dais.

He may have used “please”, but this was no request. I did as I was told. Droplets of sweat formed on my forehead.

“Mr. Glover, do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.”

“You may sit down.”

A fusillade of questions ensued. A bright overhead light turned up the temperature. During this trial, our tormenters denied us water and deprived us of sleep. Okay, so it was only an hour and I had enjoyed a two-hour nap that afternoon. Still, I had a tickle in my throat that just wouldn’t quit.

Then, out of the blue, one of our tormenters asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee?” A cheery smile creased her face. So, this was the good cop? This was how they planned to break us? They were a nefarious cabal.

“Yes, please,” said my wife.

After the refreshments, a cup of coffee and some of those Danish sugar cookies that come in the tin – oh, they were devious – they knew I preferred chocolate chip – we got back down to business. That was when they broke the bad news to us. “We think Colleen is too young for our program. We encourage you to apply next year though.”

Rain Destruction Down Upon Them!

What? We had paid $200, sat through an hour interview, and eaten tasteless Danish sugar cookies, and they had already made up their minds? My glass smile fractured into a thousand tiny shards.

I was silent as we walked to the car, and listened as my wife expressed her disappointment. “Why did they call us in?” “Why did they make the date so early if they knew they weren’t going to accept us?” “Why did they waste our time?” And on and on. I seethed.

As we drove away from the school, I broke my silence: “May God rain destruction down upon them!”

Maybe that was a little too biblical, but that was how I felt. If Moses could come up with an eleventh plague, maybe an attack of Texas cicadas, I wished it upon them.

I became even angrier when I found out that the school had accepted one of Colleen’s classmates. He was a nice kid and nearly a year and a half older, but that didn’t matter. The whole experience had soured me on the place.

Lord Joseph

We weren’t sure how the Deckers would react now that the school had accepted their child and rejected ours, albeit for different reasons. We’d soon find out at his next birthday party. We were enjoying small talk with other parents when a stranger in a tuxedo entered followed by two others holding fanfare trumpets.

“Who is that?” I asked my wife.

“I’m not sure.”

“Presenting Lord Joseph.”

Lord Joseph Decker, King of the Kindergarten Interview
Presenting Lord Joseph

Purple banners unfurled from the tube, announcing “Lord Joseph”. The two players blew an ascending crescendo of notes, during which little Joey Decker sauntered in, wearing a purple robe and a jeweled crown. In one hand, he carried a scepter. While he nodded at the gathered throng, he tapped his other palm with the orb.

“Lord Joseph,” continued the herald, “is entering kindergarten at the prestigious Caritas School in Austin this fall.”

“Talk about rubbing it in.” I made no mention of the horse-drawn carriage I had put a deposit on in the event they accepted Colleen.

“I can’t believe it,” said Lana. “I’m totally jealous.”

Jealousy? Hah! I was beyond jealousy. “I curse the ground he walks on!”

The Kindergarten Interview

With all those pleasant memories revolving around in my head, I enter the High Point School, several minutes late, but ready to dazzle the interviewers with my wit and charm, and perhaps a few bucks under the table.

To my surprise, Colleen is on all fours pretending to be a kitty cat. “Meow,” she says as she “paws” the interviewer’s skirt. “Meow.” My wife attempts to hide her embarrassment by pulling the hood of her jacket down to cover her face. She peeks out like an Eskimo in a snowstorm when she hears me enter.

The situation improves when I get Colleen to sit and behave like a human. At least, Mary, the woman in charge of admissions, can ask her a few questions. Or so I think. Colleen picks that moment to be “shy”. My daughter, who can talk nonstop for hours, chooses this particular instant to transition from a cat to a wallflower.

I try to lighten the situation. “You know the only thing smarter than a talking cat,” I say.

My wife is invisible now: a body with a hood attached.

“No. What?”

“A spelling bee.”

Mary smiles. “Cute.”

Colleen pretends to be a kitty cat, while my wife hides in her hoodie.
Meow…

A groan emerges from under the hood. Will the bear emerge from hibernation?

I get up and pour myself a cup of coffee from a mirrored carafe. No creamer. That’s when I start one of my internal dialogues. What are you kidding me? What kind of joint is this?   Who doesn’t have some kind of creamer available? We’re not sending our daughter here. Mary notices my distress. “Would you like some creamer?”

My wife is shaking her head frantically. Muscle spasm? I’m not sure.

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

Lana’s mouthing something. I can’t make it out. Is it “joe”? Does she want a cup too? Couldn’t be. There’s a cup on the table next to her. She windmills her arms. Epileptic fit?

“Did you want some too, hon’?” I ask.

She slumps down in her chair. “No.”

“I’ll be right back,” says Mary. Off she goes.

Lana makes another face. Muscle tic? I’m not sure. Must be the stress.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“She’s already left the room twice because of Colleen.”

“Bad kitty,” I say.

“Meow.”

“Don’t encourage her.”

Mary returns with creamer. “Here you go.” She looks at Colleen. “Is she ready to talk with one of our teachers now?” They want to verify how well she can count and comprehend reading passages. I’m glad they’re not going to grill me.

“Yes,” says Lana.

“And if you can fill out those forms while you wait,” says Mary, “I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

As Lana, so averse to cold weather she refuses to remove her winter jacket indoors, reaches for the forms she placed on the side table, her sleeve clips the edge of the Styrofoam cup containing the remains of her coffee. In the instant before the liquid pours onto the forms, tarnishes the table, and overflows onto the carpet, Lana’s eyes bug out and her face turns whiter than the paper.

Splash!

“We Really Blew It”

The room takes a collective breath. Mary looks like she’s aged a year since I arrived. “I’ll be back with some paper towels,” she says, the phrase a plaintive sigh as though she’s requesting aid from unseen angels.

I can see it in my wife’s eyes. I understand now. It took me a while to realize, but now I know. This is the kindergarten interview from hell. I drop into a chair.

“We really blew it,” says Lana.

“Nah,” I say, not believing a word leaving my mouth, “stuff like this happens all the time. Don’t worry about it.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, sure. Why not?” So, what other schools are we applying to?

Mary returns with the forms. “Okay, I think we’re ready now.” She takes Colleen by the hand. “We’ll be right back.”

Epilogue

A month has passed since the kindergarten interview and haven’t heard a word from High Point. What a surprise. Was it the kitty cat, the creamer, the spill, or all of the above? Who can tell?

One good thing came out of it. Colleen aced the exam. Not that I doubted she would. She can count to a hundred, knows her ABCs and Mommy’s phone number, and can recount the key points of any story. If only her parents weren’t such klutzes.

I suppose it’s time to implement a backup plan, although any school that doesn’t accept kitty cats is out. I need some help. Does anyone know of a kindergarten for kitty cats?

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