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Broke Wife, Big City
No
one told me there’d be a quiz
By Aprill Brandon
I had big plans this winter, guys. BIG PLANS. I was finally going to
give in and jump on the hygge bandwagon. That Norwegian...or is it
Danish?...Swedish? practice of making everything super cozy and
charming. And you know what, it doesn’t even matter the origin because
I planned on practicing a super-Americanized version of it where I
spend the next three months in stained thermal leggings under three
dog-fur covered blankets, dutifully ignoring my children and ordering
calzones from Grubhub whilst binge-watching “Elementary” on Hulu.
Oh, and, of course, a lit candle. Because the candle is the fine line
that makes the whole thing cozy and charming and not a symptom of
Seasonal Affective Disorder.
But then...sigh. Then two words ruined everything.
Kindergarten. Registration.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been unfortunate enough to register a child
for school. Or what is required for school registration where you live.
But I barely survived getting my oldest into preschool last year
because, where I live, registration requires 132 copies of random
documents that you haven’t the foggiest of how to get your hands on.
Oh, you mean you didn’t keep your receipts from every time you bought
diapers for your child? Well, ma’am, we really need those before he can
attend. And also a notarized copy of your rent agreement signed by your
son’s pediatrician and your electric company.
Then there were the 27 forms just for emergency contacts. Everyone I
know is now my son’s emergency contact. Even you. Yeah, you, reading
this right now. You are an emergency contact.
And that was just preschool. The JV squad. It doesn’t even count.
Kindergarten is the big leagues.
That’s the thing no one warns you about when you’re thinking about
having kids. You will spend approximately 40 percent of your
post-children life filling out forms. All the forms. There are so many
forms. You cannot escape the forms.
Because it’s not just these endless school forms. Take my daughter’s
first visit to the dentist. We walk in. We exchange smiles and
chit-chat. And then they hand me a blank novella attached to a large
clipboard with the friendly instruction to “fill it out.” Forty minutes
and one cramped hand later, I realized I didn’t know anyone this well.
Not even myself. Not to mention, the girl only had two teeth inside her
head. She hadn’t even been alive long enough to warrant that many
questions about her life.
My favorite is when they ask me for my kids’ social security number.
Like, are you joking? Look buddy, no one knows their SSN until they go
to college. It’s pretty much the only thing you do learn in college.
And as for the actual physical copies, hahahahahaha...they’re probably
in the back pocket of the maternity pants I was wearing when I gave
birth. Which I burned in a ceremonial fire after deciding that two kids
is enough and I’ll have more over my dead body.
Perhaps worst of all, though, is the oral form of the form. You know,
when those well-meaning medical professionals verbally throw difficult
questions right at your face, like “what is their date of birth?” I
don’t know, man. You asked me too quick. I knew it thirty seconds ago.
It was one of the cold months. Obama was still president. I mean, do
you know how many things have happened between their birth and this
present moment? You’re lucky I remembered to bring them with me.
No one ever wants to know the important information about my kids. Like
that my son will refuse to eat reheated mac and cheese. And trust me,
he KNOWS. You cannot hide the fact you reheated it. He is the Sherlock
Holmes of boxed pasta. Or that my daughter will eat hamburger but only
if you call it sausage, and that when she starts acting drunk you have
exactly ten minutes to get her to sleep before a tantrum erupts from
her body, volcano-style.
Sigh. And that, in a not-so-tiny nutshell, is why my winter is ruined.
I will now be spending these forthcoming long dark nights gathering
ridiculous amounts of paperwork and signing up unsuspecting friends and
family as emergency contacts in order to register my child for
kindergarten.
But at least I’ll still have my lit candle. Which should make my
ensuing mental breakdown much more charming and cozy.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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