At 6:50 am this February morning I was outside our catchment public elementary school waiting to register Eva for kindergarten.
Registration began at 9am.
What we do for love.
There was only one other person when I got there, and only a dozen or so when the doors opened at 8. This is what happens when you transplant a New Yorker to Victoria: you tell me to come early to guarantee the spot of my choosing, I wake to beat the rooster. (Is that an expression? If not, it should be.)
After registering Eva I then raced across town to the Board of Education to apply to transfer away from the very school I’d been stalking since 7am. And then walked away knowing we might actually defer this whole kindergarten-thing for a year, given we’ve got a wonderfully sweet and somewhat shy mid-fall babe. I could write paragraphs about my thoughts on this decision, but will spare you and move on–
So: after my morning of queues and race-car driving I stopped in at a suburban shopping-plaza in which, I’d been told, a “real” bra-shop existed. Despite having spent oh, say, 7 years (but who’s counting) writing a novel set in a bra-shop, I’m still wearing nursing bras even though I weaned Tillie the first week of September. Not only that, they’re nursing bras I bought when I was nursing Eva.
In other words: Sima would take one look at me and roll her eyes.
“Well, that one sure doesn’t fit!” the coiffed saleslady told me, as I stood semi-dressed in a velvet-curtain- type of dressing room. Wielding measuring tape (Sima doesn’t need measuring tape, I couldn’t help thinking), she outfitted me in a nice assortment of practical & fancy, and thirty-five minutes later and a significant amount of money poorer (I do remember the exact amount, but can’t quite face writing it) I emerged from the shop with properly fitting bras carefully placed within a fabulous hot-pink heart-shaped complimentary tin.
The tin is now a fancy bed for my daughters’ dolls. Which means really that for the money I got not just bras but also home furniture, right?
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