My busybody downstairs neighbor was walking her little drop-kick yappy dog (named Princess, of course) when the bus pulled away. This woman has an opinion on everything concerning how I should raise my child; when he was an infant, she admonished me for washing his clothes in the building's laundry room, declaring that it was full of germs and she would feel safer hand-washing a baby's spit-up-on onesies.
"What school does he go to? Oh, and he gets to take the bus! How lucky!"
I said something about how the school district's budget cuts mean only special ed students get bus service. Immediately I realized this was a can of worms I didn't need to open, but it was too late.
"He doesn't look special ed to me!"
Yeah, that's supposed to be a compliment or something, right?
"Well, he is."
|Exhibit A; the boy participating in "Very Special Olympic Day," a field day for all the special ed classes in our district. BTW, he cheated at all the games.|
At this point, I knew this conversation would go nowhere. I thought of the many elegant explanations I could give about the benefits of special education, or the observations I could make about living conditions in her native land, or the response I most wanted to give ("Where I come from, we mind our business.")
But instead I just said, "I don't want to hear this from you," and I walked ahead of her into the building, closing myself in the elevator before giving her a chance to ride up in it with me.
In the immortal words of one of my favorite daytime tv judges, Stay in your lane, I know how to drive this car.