I’ve filled them out in doctor’s offices, surrounded by preschoolers who were spewing out rhinviruses the size of rhinos. I’ve filled them out on the first day of school, trying to beat the clock before the school bus arrived. I’ve filled them out while using my daughter’s back as an emergency desk, after I discovered that she wouldn’t be allowed on the camp bus because I’d forgotten to provide her fully mapped human genome on form FU-Mom, Part II.
So of course it makes perfect sense that I could easily win a run for president – all I have to do is look the mothers of America in their collectively weary faces and promise “No New Permission Slips.”
First of all, I have to ask – who really needs this information, anyway? The idea that there would be a serious injury at my grade schooler’s "Cupcake Surprise!" Summer Daycamp stretches incredulity beyond Spanx. To think that the 16-year-old genius-in-charge, faced with a life-threatening buttercream incident, would really have the presence of mind to a)find the forms; b)start calling each of the 12 telephone numbers I was forced to provide and c)also ring up the health insurance company, just to see if the emergency sprinkles removal will be covered on our plan … no, it’s not gonna happen.
Second of all, I have to say – I don’t give a damn about privacy. I’ve given birth, so that was the end of that, anyway. You could paper a spare bedroom with the number of permission slips I’ve already completed with my name, address and any other deeply personal tidbits that were required of me. And don’t get all Trilateral Commission-ish, Brave New World-esque on me, either, because the cat, she is out the bag. I’m just trying to control the litterbox situation here, if you follow the metaphor.
What I propose is simple: One kid, one form. When you fill out the birth certificate in the delivery room, you’ll get a Universal Permission Slip that will carry your child through every outing, class, summer camp and after-school detention for the next 17 years. Tell them to bring a pen to college, because after that, they’re on their own.
And if you think the mothers of America wouldn’t vote for this one-plank platform, then you’ve never stirred frantically in the bottom of a purse for a working ballpoint, just so you can fill out one more damn sheet of paper for one more educational opportunity that isn’t complete without the name and cell number of your ex-husband’s stepmother.
Vote for me. And never complete a permission slip again.
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