Mother Teresa? Not likely

I've been volunteering at a daycare.

If you know me at all you'll realize how ridiculous this is.

I'm about as into babies as my dad was into me dating the long haired Lebanese narcissist he lovingly referred to as "the terrorist."

Babies annoy me the way dogs do.
They smell and they drool and they manage to get it all over your new designer shoes.
They'll stand right in front of you for minutes just staring at you expecting you to read their minds.

I don't wanna take them for a walk.
And I don't wanna carry them in a handbag.
And I'm pretty sure the only way I will actually ever pop out a baby is if the condom breaks.

But the dance studio I used to be addicted to has this exchange program where if you volunteer to work a couple hours a week then you can take all the free classes you like.
Sweet gig, right?
I've worked in the daycare now three weeks and guess how many classes I've taken?
One.

It's not that I don't genuinely want to take the classes.
It's just getting my rotund behind off my boyfriend's couch seems to be an impossibility.
I've gotten out of the groove.
And I don't wanna go to zumba.
I wanna make cookies with my bf.
We're both getting these cute little ponches from eating so much morne and I think we're all the sexier for it.

The first time I worked in the daycare there was this toddler boy there.
He was the only kid for the first hour.
He walked by me and stared at me, sizing me up.
I'm pretty sure he could smell my indifference.

I met his gaze.
Hey. How's it goin? I asked him.
He just blinked back.
It was like talking to a dog.

I don't even know how to talk baby, like the other girl who works with me.
She's some sort of professional nanny and she speaks kid with the grace of Mary Poppins.
I'm all trying to think of what to say to the five year old twins and come up with, Is your dress Calvin Klein?

The kids look at me with the same disbelief as you likely are.
They prefer the other teacher read the stories but they do let me hand them their goldfish.
I guess they realize it's pretty hard for me to screw up snack time.

I try bonding with the painfully shy girl who always acts like her mom is leaving her at a concentration camp when she leaves by coloring on a pink piece of construction paper with her.
These crayons aren't Crayola! I declare in disgust.
Certainly even a five year old can understand the pains of drawing with cheap colored wax.
She glares at me and turns her back.

Once again my big mouth seems to offend.

I better get my groove back quick because something tells me I'm not gonna last long with the drooling toddlers.
We all have our gifts.
And I do make a mean jam filled sugar cookie.