When I pulled up to Zoey's preschool today, I saw her standing next to her friend John. They were both spitting. Tell me again what it's like to have a daughter. Because other than her recent infatuation with All Things Princess, I really have no idea.
I just hope John was already well versed in the subject and Zoey hadn't just taught him the fine art of spitting.
Anyway...
Mrs. Jones brought Zoey to the car. Normally all she will say is something like "Hi, Dad" or "It's time to go mountain climbing again" as she puts Zoey in the car. So when Mrs. Jones said, "Boy, do we have a story to tell you, Dad," my heart sank.
Zoey's a sweetheart (most of the time). She's a good kid (most of the time). But she's also in a gang. She makes her own blood. She's been known to create extreme sports. And then there's the Preschool Fracas of March 2004 that is often alluded to but never discussed. So part of me is always waiting for the other shoe to fall, especially when I pick her up at preschool.
"Uh oh," I said. "What happened?"
Mrs. Jones said, "Tell Dad what you did today." This statement didn't do much to alleviate my fears. Zoey said nothing. Christ, I thought, just get this over with.
"We made gingerbread men cookies today," Mrs. Jones said. Oh? Is that all? Then why are you freaking me out?
"We decorated them and put them in the oven. But when we opened the oven, they were gone," Mrs. Jones added. I looked at Zoey. There were crumbs all over her face. Oh God! She ate everyone's cookies!
"What happened to them Zoey?" I asked. Again, nothing. If she goes to jail later in life, the cops will never pry anything from her in the interrogation room.
"We looked all over the room for them," Mrs. Jones said. "And then we found them by the window. They were trying to jump out the window, weren't they Zoey?" At this point, Zoey started laughing hysterically. And I was able to stop hyperventilating.
I guess I shouldn't be so paranoid. Like I said, she's a good kid. Most of the time.
After she woke up from her nap (yes, she still takes naps; you're jealous, aren't you?), I asked her about the spitting.
"Were you and John spitting?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"We had something in our teeth."
Why do I feel I'll be having a variation of this conversation thirteen years from now?
Old Chag: Why are your eyes red? Have you been smoking pot?
Zoey at 16: No! I just have something in my eye!
GHS: 0 (But Mrs. Jones probably created eight or so)
P.S. Want a laugh? Read this. Mimi's always hilarious, but I think she's outdone herself this time.
Encyclopedia Zoey And The Case Of The Missing Gingerbread Men
