Inside out

Inside out. Happens to the best of us. Apparently.

Last night I had one of those sleepless nights - toss and turn, toss and turn. Spaniards are enthusiastic double parkers when it comes to city streets, and there's etiquette involved. The person that's caged in just sits in his car laconically and honks his horn until the offender comes out and moves his car.  It happens daily, to the general exasperation of the surrounding neighborhood.  Last night must have been a double parking bonanza, because the horns went on, and on, and on.

Then I woke up an hour early against my will - Daylight Savings Time, I'd like to have a few words with you.  Went to school, yawning all the way, and lo and behold, second graders aren't any more fond of Daylight Savings day than I am.  They were unprepared, cranky and generally unhappy, and the teacher let them know exactly what she thought of this behavior, in a voice that can be described as nothing other than...shrill. Very, very shrill.

This was not a promising beginning.

In my class of five-year-olds, it got worse.  Out of their seats, screaming and yelling with energy and a zest for life that is frankly more admirable when one has slept soundly the night before (as I'm sure all parents can attest).

Then, finally, a breakthrough.  One of my kids, a mischievous little soul that looks startlingly and adorably like a tiny Barack Obama, turned to me.

"Seño, Seño!" he pestered, pulling at my leg.

I looked down.

He had two colored pencils, one yellow and one red, fixed firmly in each nostril and pointing downward like tusks on a walrus.

"May I go to the bathroom?"

I giggled.

He grinned wickedly.

I belly laughed.

He was delighted.

And then I looked down and realized that I was wearing my shirt inside out.

And it returned to being a so-so day.