The Wrong Door

When I was picking up Troy today from daycare, I ran into Misha and her mother on their way out. I gave Misha a hug, and she said, “You need to go pick up Troy.” I assured her that I would, and she went on to play with the security guard, while I talked to her mother. When we had finished talking, and they were preparing to go, I told Misha goodbye, and she replied, “Bye! Don’t forget to pick up Troy.” I assured her once again that I would, and then I headed into the bathroom before heading down the long hallway to his building.

The next thing I know, Misha pushed open the bathroom door and yelled, “Troy’s Dad, you went in the wrong door! He’s in the other door!” I could hear her mother outside telling Misha not to go into the bathroom with me. Misha stood there, door halfway open, and I could picture her exasperated hand gestures as she tried to explain to her mother what an incompetent moron that I am. “But he went in the wrong door. He’s supposed to go in that door over there! I need to show him.”

“Misha, leave him alone. Don’t go in that door. He needs some privacy,” was the reply.

“But that’s not where Troy is. That’s not where our class is.”

“He knows that, Misha. He’s going to the bathroom first. He’ll go down there afterward.”

“Oh. Okay.” And I finally heard the door close, and I was left in peace.