We're so over before we begin

Last month, I toured the preschool we were interested in having our preeeeeshussssss, gifted, funny, empathetic, well-behaved toddler attend next fall. I would have toured two schools, but the day before the original tours my water broke and I wasn't able to hobble on down there the day after I pushed kid No. 2 out, so I had to reschedule and only one school could accomodate me.

Anyway.

So I toured the school, with its wee tables and chairs and its water tables and its toddler-sized toilets and I came home weeping because I had found the perfect place to send my child to school. I wanted to volunteer on every committee. I wanted to bring snacks for everyone. I wanted to gossip with the other moms at dropoff and pickup.

However, (pregnant pause) as at all preschools in our area, there was a lottery to get in. There were 20 total spots and they gave automatic admission to siblings and legacies. They had already filled those spots when I toured, so they knew they only had 10 spots available for the lottery. They alternate boy/girl when they choose, to balance out the classrooms, so that made it harder. Add in that they said they have six applicants for each of the 20 spots (that are now down to 10) and I realized we were going to be shit out of luck.

I told Josh that if he found me lying on the sidewalk outside in a few weeks, it would be because I had thrown myself out the window because my child could not attend this perfect preschool. One of only two in our area that take kids at 2 1/2 and cost less than $8,000 for two hours two days per week. (For those locals wondering, we applied to two Co-ops, both in Lincoln Park. Both have the word "Park" in the name. You can make your assumptions, but I am not naming names.)

Last week, we found out Jack was waitlisted at our second choice. They sent a letter saying he was 13th on the list. They might as well have said "You have no chance in hell of getting in here, but thanks for your $30 'application fee' and we'll see you at the playground suckas." But I could still hold out hope for the Uberpreschool.

I knew this was the week they were announcing the picks. Every time I came home and there was a message on the machine, my heart would leap. I might or might not have picked up the phone a few times, just to check and make sure it was working. (What am in seventh grade, waiting for Chad S. to call? Yes, I am 13 years old.)

Today, my friend called to say they got their letter from the oh-so-coveted pretty pretty preschool. They were waitlisted. I knew then that we didn't get in, so I was at least hoping for a good spot on the list. You know, like No. 1.

I had to wait until I was able to dislodge a nursing baby from the boob to run out to the mailbox. And sure as shit, there was my letter. I ran in the house and ripped it open.

18. He was No. 18.

I fell to the ground in a little puddle, hugging my knees to my chest, chanting, "He's doomed! He's doomed! He'll never get into a good college now." OK maybe I just swore under my breath and then called my friend to give her our results. You can believe whichever you want.

Again, I see them thanking me for the $30 application fee. Perhaps the membership committee was able to use it to buy margaritas while they were running the lottery picks. I certainly hope they got the Cuervo Gold if that's the case.

So now I have NO hope of time to myself next year. Wait, I mean no hope of my child learning creative play and the benefits of sharing and how to paint at an easel. Not that I would have gotten time to myself with the small one at home. But I did have visions of taking her to her very own baby classes and spending some quality one-on-one time with her. Or at least surfing the Internet with only one kid hanging on my leg.