At the weekend my husband showed me the first episode of Battlestar Galactica. I lasted for about twenty minutes, until it became obvious that the entire human race was about to be wiped out in a nuclear attack. I decided from behind my cushion that there were better ways to spend an evening. Because I am a wimp, I spent the next twelve hours waking fitfully, looking at my husband lying beside me and wondering if possibly he was a well-designed robot from another hostile civilisation, which would at least explain his telly addiction, possibly these robots need to remain constantly attached to remote controls to survive. These robots look like people, but underneath they are all machine and no heart. (That's the first episode at least, Wikipedia tells me it gets more complex later, after a sleepless night I am in no mood to find out more)
I am glad I didn't have today's kindy conversation straight after viewing Battleship Galactica, because if so I might have just run screaming into the road shouting "They ARE coming to get us! Save yourselves! The nuclear holocaust is coming! Do not listen to a word they say, they are inhuman machines!" and other sentiments that do not tend to help maintain a constructive working relationship.
Thing is, my boys are not terribly safe round traffic, and as I drove up to the Kindy this morning I looked at the crowded roads around, sighed a little, and wondered how we would manage. Then it started to rain. After several minutes of trying to wrestle one child into an unfamiliar and thus deeply sinister raincoat, whilst persuading the other two that they didn't want to get out of the car and play jumping-off-the-pavement-whilst-Mummy-is-busy games (I failed in this)...I looked around for a kindy member of staff and asked for permission to park in one of the school staff and community centre staff spaces, so I could drop my sons safely to school.
The thing is, there is NO ONE who has ever refused this request before. Even the dodgy school in the UK who neglected to tell me that my son had left the school grounds was happy for me to use the staff carpark. No one wants to risk a child being killed. I thought it was the one request no one would ever, ever have a problem with. Until today.
"No, you have to park properly," she said. This was one of the junior members of staff, my mistake was not speaking to the lovely manager.
"Yes, I know I have to park properly, but I want to use one of these spaces."
"Oh no, you can't do that. You have to park properly."
"Yes, but you see, they are not safe near traffic, and I have three of them to manage, so I wondered if just possibly, you know, if it is no problem..." I could feel myself starting to construct complex sentence clauses like Jane Austen. I always go terribly overpolite and English and convoluted when I am absolutely hopping mad.
"Oh no, well you see, some of the parents have to park out on the road."
"But I can't do that, because it's a DISABILITY issue.."
"Yeah, you have to park properly."
I gave up. You would have got more sense out of a parking meter. And probably more sympathy from a traffic warden.
It's sorted now, obviously. I say obviously, because once I found a real human being, as opposed to this alien robot inhabiting a kindy teacher's frame (the receptionist at the community centre) permission was immediately given for me to park as close to the school gates as I needed. No problem.
So why have I not pulled my son out of this dire kindy already? Well, the only upside is that he seems to adore going there, he cries for only a minute or two when I leave (as opposed to half an hour daily when he started school in the UK) - so I am reluctant to unsettle him by a move until I have clear evidence that it isn't working for him (as opposed to me). and when Mr Cumulus dropped him off in my place and had a chat with the staff he agreed with me that the manager was excellent. So - we are sticking with it for now. Lesson learnt, do not communicate AT ALL with the junior staff.
It is strange to be in a kindergarten that seems staffed entirely by automatons, who have not been programmed to accept the word "disability." Maybe I should just ask to be put on hold. I just hope my whole relationship with the place doesn't implode drastically and dramatically, leaving us scuttling like the survivors of the human colonies in Battlestar Galactica to look for somewhere safe.