For me, the schoolyard is uncharted territory

At five past eight-thirty, I drove past the schoolyard in our village. And there I saw them, three women in (I think) their early thirties. I hit the brakes a bit, because the whole color parade is painted on the street to indicate that this is a primary school. I had really seen it from those drawings in the window and the mother who was late pushing her child across the schoolyard and those very large letters on the facade with the word ‘school’. Really.

Seeing those three women certainly gave me a square of questions. What time is it? Five past eight-thirty. Are they as old as I am? Maybe just two years older, but just barely, you know. How many children do they have? One or two, I think. Do they know each other out of obligation or is it voluntary? Maybe their daughters play together and they can't stand each other. Are they going to the work? Hmmm, it's five past eight-thirty. But if you're going to work, you can't just stand there chatting, right? Or do they work from home, Adeline, it's 2018. What time did they get up to stand here looking nice on the schoolyard? And do you have to get up half an hour earlier for each child, for example? Otherwise, you'll never make it. What would life on a schoolyard be like? I. Have. No. Idea.

The schoolyard is unknown territory for me. The last time I was there, I went to pick up my little sister, which was fourteen years ago. I don't know the rules of conduct, the relationships that are hidden just below the surface. I don't know if you can go into the classroom or if other mothers get angry if you arrive late. Or if you have to make fifty cupcakes a year and are chased by the cupcake mother. And if something happens there, Ms. Ankerige things then I have no idea, because I never go there.

So when you drive past there at five past eight-thirty, you get a glimpse into a world where you don't belong. Put me among ten women who come running in at volume level hundred, shouting that they forgot to put on their mascara, and I know exactly how to act. Send me onto a schoolyard and I'll walk to the monkey bars to do a couple. That's just what I did, the last time I was there.

Deep down, I want to know everything when I see those three women standing there wrapped in their coats. Maybe they're drinking coffee or tea together or liters of wine? Or does the one in the gray coat and hood on the left want to drag the one in the burgundy puffer coat on the right by her hair across the schoolyard? Or who knows, maybe they're planning a playdate for the boys and girls. At whose place today and what time do they have to go to yoga/swimming/violin lessons/soccer again? Or are they discussing where, when, how, and why the next lice inspection is? I. Have. No. Idea.