Minnie’s pre-school is somewhere off Franklin Avenue, and although I’ve driven there before, I arrive a bit flustered. God, driving in LA is stressy. I haven’t got used to our rental car yet, at all. All the controls seem to be in weird places and I keep hooting the horn by mistake. And as for driving on the right-hand side, well, that’s just wrong. It’s unnatural. Plus, the roads in LA are far too big. They have too many lanes. London is far cosier. You know where you
are
.
At last I manage to park the car, which is a Chrysler and also far too big. Why couldn’t we have rented a Mini? I exhale, my heart still thumping, and turn to face Minnie, strapped into her car seat.
‘We’re here! Pre-school time! Are you excited, darling?’
‘Idiot American driver,’ replies Minnie equably.
I stare at her, aghast. Where did she get that from? I did
not
say that. Did I?
‘Minnie, don’t say that! That’s not a nice word. Mummy didn’t mean to say it. Mummy meant to say … lovely American cars!’
‘Idiot,’ says Minnie ignoring me. ‘Idiot American driver, Idiot American driver …’ She’s singing it to the tune of
‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’
. ‘Idiot American dri-ver …’
I cannot arrive at our first day at LA pre-school with Minnie singing ‘Idiot American driver’.
‘Idiot American dri-ver …’ She’s getting louder and louder. ‘Idiot American driiiiii-ver …’
Could I pretend it’s a quaint old British nursery rhyme?
No.
But I can’t sit here all day, either. Other mothers with small children are getting out of their massive SUVs, all along the street. And we were supposed to arrive early today.
‘Minnie, while we’re walking to pre-school, you can have a biscuit!’ I say, raising my voice. ‘But we have to be very, very quiet, like mice. No singing,’ I add for emphasis.
Minnie stops singing and eyes me suspiciously. ‘Biscuit?’
Result. Phew.
(And OK, I
know
it’s bad to bribe your children, so I’ll just feed her some extra green beans later, which will cancel it out.)
Hastily I jump out of the car and unstrap her. I hand her a chocolate-chip cookie from my emergency stash and we start walking along the pavement.
I mean, sidewalk. I
must
get used to that.
As we near the pre-school, I’m looking all around for paparazzi, but I can’t see any. But then, they’re probably all hiding in bushes. There are a few mothers leading small children in through the gates, and I subtly scan their faces as we walk in with them.
Hmm. I don’t
think
any of them are celebs, although they’re all toned and tanned with shiny hair. Most of them are in workout gear, and I make a mental note to wear that tomorrow. I
so
want to fit in. I want Minnie to fit in, and for both of us to make lots of friends.
‘Rebecca!’
Erica is greeting us and I smile in relief to see a familiar face. Erica is about fifty, with straight red hair and very colourful clothes, like a character from a children’s film. She’s leader of the Toddler Program and has already sent me lots of emails about Transition and Separation, and the Joy of Learning and Self-Discovery, which I think means dressing up, only I don’t quite dare ask.
‘Welcome to your first day at Little Leaf, Minnie!’ she adds, and escorts us into the Toddlers’ Learning Center, which is basically a room full of toys like any playgroup in England, only here they call them ‘developmental aids’. ‘Did you manage to park all right?’ she adds, as she hangs Minnie’s water bottle on her peg. ‘I know some folks have had issues this morning.’
‘Oh, we were fine, thanks,’ I say. ‘No problems.’
‘Where’s the brake?’ says Minnie suddenly, and beams at Erica. ‘Where’s the bloody brake in this bloody stupid car?’
My face flushes bright red.
‘Minnie!’ I say sharply. ‘Stop that! Where on earth did you— Gosh, I’ve got no idea—’
‘Idiot American dri-vers,’ Minnie starts singing to
‘Twinkle Twinkle’
again. ‘Idiot American dri-vers …’
‘Minnie!’ I practically yell. ‘Stop! No singing!’
I want to die. I can see Erica hiding a smile, and a couple of assistants looking over. Great.
‘Minnie’s obviously a very
receptive
child,’ says Erica politely.
Yes. Far too bloody receptive. I am never saying anything in front of Minnie, ever again.
‘Absolutely.’ I try to regain my cool. ‘Gosh, what a lovely sandpit. Go on, Minnie! Play with the sand!’
‘Now, as I explained to you, we at Little Leaf follow a transitional separation programme,’ says Erica, watching as Minnie plunges her hands joyfully into the sandpit. ‘This is the start of Minnie’s great journey of independence as a human in this world. These are her first steps away from you. They need to be at her own pace.’
‘Absolutely.’ I’m slightly mesmerized by Erica. She sounds like she’s describing an epic trip around the world, not just a toddler going to playgroup.
‘So I ask you, Rebecca, to stay by Minnie’s side this first morning. Shadow her. Reassure her. Identify the exciting new discoveries she’s making; see the world at her level. Minnie will be wary to begin with. Introduce her slowly to the concept of life away from Mommy. Watch her gradually blossom. You’ll be amazed by her progress!’
‘Right. Fantastic.’ I nod earnestly.
I can see another mother nearby, sitting with her blond, curly-headed boy. The mother is pin-thin and dressed in several layers of T-shirts (I happen to know that each one of those T-shirts costs a hundred dollars, something that Mum would never understand in a million years) and she’s watching intently as the little boy daubs paint on a sheet of paper.
‘Interesting colours, Isaac,’ she’s saying seriously. ‘I like the world you’ve made.’ As he smears paint on his face, she doesn’t flicker. ‘You’re expressing yourself on your own body,’ she says. ‘You made that choice, Isaac. We can make
choices
.’
Blimey. They do take everything seriously here. But if I’m going to fit in, I’ll have to be like that too.
‘I’ll be around if you need me.’ Erica smiles. ‘Enjoy this first morning of simultaneous discovery!’
As she heads over to another child, I turn my phone off. I’m feeling quite inspired by Erica. I’m going to be totally focused on Minnie and her morning.
OK. Here’s the thing. It’s all very well Erica saying ‘stay with Minnie’. I honestly want to. I want to be like a mother dolphin and its young, gliding along together in a beautiful duo, simultaneously discovering the world.
But the thing about mother dolphins is, they don’t have Lego to trip over, or playhouses to get in their way, or toddlers who can’t make up their mind which direction to go in. It took about three seconds for Minnie to get bored with the sandpit and rush outside to the yard, to play on a trike. I’d just about got outside, stumbling over a box of blocks, when she changed her mind, dashed back in and grabbed a dolly. Then she ran outside to hurl the dolly down the slide. She’s been in and out about ten times. I’m puffed out, just keeping up with her.
All the time, I’ve tried to keep up a stream of encouraging, reassuring chatter, but Minnie could not be less interested. All her anxiety from this morning seems to have disappeared, and when I tried to hug her tight just now, she wriggled away, exclaiming, ‘No hug, Mummy!
Toys
!’
‘So, you’re discovering … er … gravity!’ I say, as she drops a toy bear on the floor. ‘Brilliant, darling! Now, are you going to express yourself through water?’ Minnie has headed over to the water tray and is swishing it around with abandon. ‘You’ve made the choice to splash yourself … Argh!’ I cry out as Minnie sloshes water into my face. ‘You’ve made the choice to get me wet, too. Wow. That was an … interesting choice.’
Minnie isn’t even listening. She’s run over to the playhouse, which is quite adorable, like a little gingerbread cottage. Hastily I follow her, almost tripping on the squidgy colourful alphabet matting.
‘Now you’re in the house!’ I say, racking my brains for something to say. ‘You’re discovering … er … windows. Shall I come in, too?’
‘No,’ says Minnie, and slams the door in my face. She looks out of the window and scowls. ‘No Mummy!
Minnie
house!’ She bangs the shutters closed, and I sink on to my heels. I’m exhausted. I can’t think of any other discoveries to identify to Minnie. I want a cup of coffee.
I pick up a toy with wooden beads strung along coloured wires and idly start to fiddle with it. It’s quite a good game, actually. You have to get the different coloured beads into the four corners, which is harder than it sounds …
‘Rebecca?’
Guiltily I jump up, dropping the game on to the playmat. ‘Oh, hi, Erica!’
‘How’s Minnie doing?’ Erica beams. ‘Is she learning to take those gradual steps away from you?’
‘She’s playing in the house,’ I say with a smile, and open the shutters – but the house is empty. Shit. ‘Well, she
was
in the house …’ I cast my eyes around wildly. ‘Oh, there she is.’
Minnie has linked arms with another little girl and is marching her round the room, singing
‘My Old Man’s A Dustman’
, which my dad taught her. I try to follow them, but it’s not easy, what with toddler trucks and jumbo foam blocks all over the place.
‘Well done, darling!’ I call. ‘You’re expressing yourself through song! Er … do you want to tell Mummy how you feel about that?’
‘
No
,’ says Minnie, and before I can catch her, she runs out into the yard, climbs to the top of the slide and gazes down triumphantly.
I glance at Erica, who looks lost for words.
‘Minnie’s a very … self-assured child,’ she says at last. ‘Very independent.’
‘Er … yes.’
We both watch as Minnie whirls a skipping rope around her head like a lasso. Soon all the other children on the slide are copying her, and shouting, ‘My old man’s a dustman! My old man’s a dustman!’ even though they probably don’t even know what a dustman is. They probably call it a ‘garbage collector’ or ‘refuse sanitator’ or something.
‘Minnie seems to be transitioning with great confidence,’ says Erica at last. ‘Maybe you’d like to sit in the parents’ lounge, Rebecca. This is a facility for our parents of children who are at the latter stages of the transition programme. It provides proximity yet independence, and helps the child attain a sense of self, while feeling secure.’
I didn’t follow a word of that. All I heard was ‘sit in the parents’ lounge’, which has got to be better than ‘chase after my daughter, tripping over toy trucks and feeling like a moron’.
‘I’d love to.’
‘We also find it a useful forum for parents to exchange views on parenting issues. I’m sure you’re burning with questions on curriculum … socialization …’
‘Yes!’ I perk up. ‘Actually, I
was
wondering, do the mothers have lots of coffee mornings, parties, that kind of thing?’
Erica shoots me an odd look. ‘I meant socialization of the children.’
‘Right.’ I clear my throat. ‘The children. Of course.’
As we near the pale wooden door marked
Parents’ Lounge
, I feel suddenly excited. At last! A chance to make some friends. What I need to do is launch myself whole-heartedly into school life and volunteer for everything and then I’m bound to meet some nice people.
‘Here we are.’ Erica swings open the door to reveal a room furnished with brightly coloured foam chairs, on which are sitting three women, all dressed in workout gear. They’re chatting avidly, but stop and turn with friendly smiles. I beam back, noticing already that one of them has that cool embroidered bag I was looking at in Fred Segal.
‘Let me introduce Rebecca,’ Erica is saying. ‘Rebecca is new to LA, and her daughter Minnie is joining our Toddler Program.’
‘Hi!’ I wave around the room. ‘Lovely to meet you all.’
‘I’m Erin.’
‘Sydney.’
‘Carola. Welcome to LA!’ Carola, who has dark curly hair and lots of interesting-looking silver jewellery, leans forward as Erica leaves the room. ‘How long have you been living here?’
‘Not long. We’re here temporarily for my husband’s work.’
‘And you got a place at Little Leaf?’
‘I know!’ I say brightly. ‘We were so lucky!’
Carola stares at me blankly for a moment, then starts shaking her head. ‘No. You don’t understand. No one just gets a place at Little Leaf. No one.’
The others are nodding their heads emphatically. ‘No one,’ echoes Erin.
‘It just doesn’t happen,’ chimes in Sydney.
I want to point out that if no one gets a place at Little Leaf, what are all their children doing here? But they all look too intense. Clearly this is a serious subject.
‘We didn’t just “get a place”,’ I explain. ‘Minnie had to do a pre-test. And I think my husband made a donation,’ I add a little awkwardly.
Carola is staring at me as though I understand nothing.
‘We all do the
pre-test
,’ she says. ‘We all make
donations
. What
else
did you do?’
‘We wrote five letters,’ says Erin with grim satisfaction.
‘Five.’
‘We’ve pledged to build a rooftop garden for the school,’ says Sydney. ‘My husband and I have already engaged the architect.’
‘We coached Alexa in Karate,’ adds Carola. ‘She’s here on a sports scholarship.’
I stare at them all, open-mouthed. Are these people
nuts?
I mean, I’m sure it’s a good pre-school and everything. But at the end of the day, it’s still just children hitting each other with Play-Doh.
‘Well, we just turned up,’ I say apologetically. ‘Sorry.’
The door swings open and a woman with chestnut hair bounces in. She has merry dark eyes and is wearing a stylish blue swingy top over jeans, covering the teeniest little pregnancy bump.
‘Hi!’ she says, coming straight up to me. ‘I’m Faith. You’re Rebecca, right? Erica just told me we had a newcomer in our midst.’
She has a gorgeous lilting Southern accent which to my ear sounds as though it’s from Charleston. Or Texas. Or maybe … Wyoming? Is that Southern?
Do I mean Wisconsin?
No.
No
. That’s the cheese state. Whereas Wyoming is …