As the bus pulled into the condo complex, our tour guide resumed his position on the mic.
"We would like for the adults to be able to examine our properties at their leisure, so we have provided child care for all our of visitors under the age of 12. They will stay here at the complex's daycare center while we tour the facilities. Rest assured, they will be in good hands..." he continued.
"Momma! I will be 12 in September. Do I have to go? Those are little kids there. I have never stayed in a day care. Please don't make me go!" I begged my mom as I pointed to the toddlers and preschoolers running around the playground.
"Misty has to go, and I need you to watch her. Everyone else is going -Johnny and Julie and Kim. Now, go on. It won't be too long. You'll be all right," she explained, but I was quite sure she just wanted a moment's peace herself.
So off the bus we filed and into a small stucco building surrounded by a chain-link fence which kept secluded a yard with dirt but no grass and a metal swing set.
When we walked in, a woman greeted us at the front door with "Where are you guys coming from?"
"We were on the bus, and they told us that everyone under 12 had to stay here until they got through," I answered when no one else in my group found their voices.
"Great," she said, but her eyes rolled heavenward. "We are finishing a movie. Come in here," she announced as she walked us into a playroom of sorts. Children, probably 40 or so all under the age of 8, sat cross-legged and in neat rows, watching a cartoon. We filed in behind them, much larger and older than anyone else there.
"I don't want to watch this," Julie said.
"I don't, either. This is crazy. I am too old for this," I agreed.
"I want to go to the beach," Misty complained.
"I know, but we can't now, so just shut up until we can," Johnny, always the practical one, responded.
We watched as a little boy jumped from his perch to ask the daycare ladies question after question, and the daycare ladies returning him time after time to his spot in the rows. As soon as one little girl pronounced that she had to "go tinkle," two more followed quickly after her, and the daycare ladies walked them each, one after another, out of the room. After each episode, I would look at one of my companions, and we would each make a face - raise our eyebrows and look surprised, or nod our heads toward some kid making noises and smirk, or cover our mouths and look ready to explode with forbidden laughter. The last thing we wanted to do was sit and watch baby cartoons with strangers, so we were so relieved when the daycare ladies announced it was time for lunch.
The daycare ladies put us into lines and walked us outside to the fenced-in dirt yard.
"Have a seat at one of the picnic tables, and we will bring you your lunch," one of them announced.
The five of us took up the majority of one picnic table ourselves, and since we were the strangers, none of the other kids joined us. Fine with us.
First on the menu was Kool-Aid, grape flavored and made softer with extra water, served in Dixie Cups found in any home's bathroom dispenser in 1983. Then, paper plates holding a hot dog wiener in a bun plopped in front of each child. Finally, a daycare lady came around and shook plain potato chip crumbs beside each of our hot dogs.
"I don't eat hot dogs without mayonnaise," exclaimed Julie.
"Ma'am, do you have any mayonnaise?" my sister asked, but no one was listening.
"Hush, y'all," I exclaimed. "Don't embarrass me. Who eats mayonnaise on a hot dog? I can understand ketchup or mustard, but mayonnaise? Don't be gross!"
"They could give us some ketchup," Johnny agreed.
"I wonder if they have any chili," Kim chimed in.
"Chili? If they don't have ketchup, then I bet they don't have chili," I retorted.
"Are these potato chips?" Misty asked as she picked up potato dust from her paper plate and tried to taste the tiny crumbles, an action which propelled us all into that same nervous laughter and earned us the glower of a daycare lady.
"I need some more Kool-Aid," Julie cried, and we all did. Our Dixie Cups were drained empty, and we still had nearly an entire hot dog left to swallow. We were told that there was a water fountain where we could get some water on our way in.
"I wish I could swing," Kim said, but all the swings were occupied by the "regular" kids who knew the routine. They had claimed the prized playground equipment from the moment we were set free in the dirt yard.
So, we sat at the picnic table, trying to swallow dry hot dogs as we watched diligently for someone to abandon a swing. When our bus finally arrived, we couldn't wait to tell our stories of how horrible our afternoon had been and how they should have never allowed us to stay with those horrible daycare ladies, but as we boarded the bus, the solemn looks on everyone's faces (everyone belonging to us, that is) and the fact that my grandma was still not sitting with my grandpa, let us know to hold our complaints until we were alone. They must not have had a pleasant afternoon, either.
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