Student: “My bat mitzvah is next month!”
Me: “I know, that’s so exciting! I can’t believe it!”
Student: “And just so you know, I asked my mom if I could invite you but she said that’d be wayyyyyyy too awkward.”
Oh. Well thank you for making it less so.
Dentist: “Wow, Nora, your teeth look beautiful! You’ve been brushing twice a day, correct?”
Nora: “Yes and I don’t have to lie anymore because I ACTUALLY DO brush them twice a day every day now!”
Dentist: “Well that’s great! But Nora, if you weren’t brushing your teeth before, you didn’t have to lie to me.”
Nora: “Mom said I did.”
When Nora announced she wanted to take ballet lessons, I was of course supportive, but also amused because as a child (and adult!), I was the furthest thing from a graceful dancer. Or any kind of dancer. I don’t exactly walk straight.
I was a soccer player. And generally a tomboy who partook in nothing classically “girly.”
But when your child is excited about something (that is actually productive and not mind-numbingly stupid, like Candyland or football), you hop on board. So I got her the necessary gear and dropped her off for her very first ballet class. I was pretty proud of how professional she looked in her lavender leotard, pink ballet slippers and ballerina bun. No one could ever guess her mom had to google “stuff for ballet?” in order to get her ready for class.
Then when I picked her up…
Instructor: “Hi there! You’re Nora’s mom?”
Me: “I am!”
Instructor: “In case you’re wondering why Nora’s barefoot— I had her take off her shoes for class.”
Me: “Oh, were they hurting her?”
Instructor: “No, she couldn’t point her toes in them.”
Me: “Oh. Because they’re too small?”
Instructor: “No. Because they’re not ballet slippers.”
Me: “They’re not?”
Instructor: “No.”
Me: “They look like ballet slippers to me!”
Instructor: “Ok. They are not, though.”
Me: “How can one even tell these aren’t ballet slippers?”
Instructor: “Well, you can tell because they’re not slippers. And they’re not, you know…for ballet.”
Me:
“Well then what kind of shoes ARE these?”
Instructor: “Pink shoes. Flats. They are pink flats. With a rounded toe.”
Me: “For…?”
Instructor: “Walking? Wearing to school? Or a party? They’re for anything, really. Except, of course, ballet.”
Me: “Ok, well. You can see my confusion.”
Instructor: “I cannot.”
“Yes, I do like! Is pretty design! I like you do all color different.”
— Nora, age 4, thinking she’s being polite by responding to the manicurist “in the same language”
At the kiddie gym this morning, Nora was being particularly social and adorable, walking up to kids and giving high fives, sharing her blocks, hugging all the nannies, and giggling at everything. I sat in the corner with a random dad, both of us watching her make her rounds, when the dad turned to me:
Random Dad: “Ok, so I have to know– what’s your secret?!”
Me (laughing): “Honestly, I don’t have one! I don’t know how she got this amazing, friendly, adorable personality. It’s certainly not from me! She takes after my husband more, I think. He’s very outgoing. But I’ll take some credit because she’s with me most of the day, so I guess I must be doing something right?”
Random Dad: “Oh. I meant how’d you get that coffee in here? They never let me bring mine in.”
Oh.
Rushing to kiddie class this morning, I’m pushing Nora’s stroller down the street when I get stuck behind the world’s slowest stroller-pushing woman on the world’s narrowest sidewalk. At one point, thank god, the sidewalk widens, and so I take this opportunity to speed up and bypass the woman and her stroller. I guess she didn’t appreciate this maneuver, as she then yelled, “Excuse me– don’t think you’re better than me just because you have a bigger, fancier stroller!”
Which is absurd.
Your stroller is carrying a 30-pound cat.
THAT is why I’m better than you.
After class at the kiddie gym:
Other Mom (to me): “Well that was a fun class!”
Me: “I know, I agree! And I’m so glad that [your kid] and Nora are really becoming friends now.”
Other Mom: “Me too! And speaking of, I think it’s time we actually learn each other’s names!”
Me: “Oh! Ha, yes, we should– I’m Emily.”
Other Mom: “Nice to ACTUALLY meet you! I’m Cheryl.”
I fucking know, Cheryl. That’s why I’ve greeted you with “Good morning Cheryl!” every day for the past 3 months.
During class at the kiddie gym…
Instructor (about Nora): “You know, you’re really good with her. Like, REALLY good.”
Me: “Oh my gosh thank you so much! I appreciate you saying that.”
Instructor: “Yeah and trust me I’ve seen a LOT of nannies. I hope they’re paying you well.”
In Union Square, a standard pamphlet-waving, presumably Jesus-preaching weirdo approaches me…
Weirdo: “Oh, honey. I really think I can help you.”
Me: “Um, yeah no thanks, I don’t need to be saved by Jesus today 
.”
Weirdo: “Oh no no– I’m a stylist.”
At the kiddie gym, Nora is playing at the chalk board with another boy.
Nora (picks up yellow piece of chalk, shows it to boy): “It’s yellow!”
Boy’s Mom: “Oh my god, she knows her colors?! That’s amazing!”
Me: “Yeah I know it’s crazy.”
Boy’s Mom: “She’s a genius!”
Me: “Haha I like to think so!”
Nora: (picks up pink chalk): “It’s yellow!”
Nora: (picks up green chalk) “It’s yellow!”
Nora: (picks up blue chalk) “It’s yellow!”
Me: “Haha ok maybe she doesn’t know ALL the colors….”
Nora: (picks up bug off the floor) “It’s yellow!”
Me: “No no Nora that’s a bu—”
Nora: (eats bug)
Me: “Nora, no!”
Nora (mouth full of bug): “It’s yellow!”
Boy’s Mom: <Picks up kid. Leaves.>
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