Being mean

Lyla has smart teachers and dumb teachers. I'm not being mean; it's just the way it is. Lyla hasn't been herself since about Saturday, so yesterday when I picked up the sniffling, out-of-sorts child, I asked one of the dumb teachers if she had noticed anything unusual. She answered with a series of statements that sounded like questions.

"Yeah, um, not really? Lyla just, you know, seems more fussy? But she was fine today...just a little fussy?"

"So you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary." Lyla began to whine and ask for her mama.

"Um? I mean, not really, you know, just a little fussy?" The woman's eyes began to glaze over as though she had forgotten she was alive.

"Okay." I moved with Lyla to the door, and the smart teacher called after me.

"Lyla didn't have a BM all day today. And she barely ate."

I glanced at the dumb teacher, who briefly interrupted her standing coma to offer me a shrug.

So this hot mess of a child was a hot mess because of her inability to create a hot mess in her pants. That would suck. The problem continued last night and this morning, so this afternoon when I picked up Lyla again, I walked with her right past the dumb teacher to the smart teacher, who took one look at me and said, "At 11:15 it all came out."

"Dude," I said. "Was it pretty intense?"

"Ah, yes. The pants she arrived in are in a baggy in her cubby."

I thanked her, and Lyla and I strolled away. "Bye bye?" said the dumb teacher to the backs our heads. Lyla turned around and waved. I love that kid.