21

A group of us moms and dads were sitting in a school bus as it heaved and groaned its way to the Smithsonian Institution for a field trip. I was feeling good, despite the migraine-inducing shrieks of the kids, who’d just spotted the highlight of their trip, one sure to be recounted at dinner tables across Bethesda that night—a homeless man relieving himself on a tree on Wisconsin Avenue.

As we parents frantically redirected the kids’ attention—“Look! A—a—parking meter!”—I suddenly noticed a little girl named Kendall staring at me.

Usually I draw stares for all the wrong reasons, like the time in Bethesda Bagels when I thought a guy was checking me out, until a woman whispered, “You have a Cheerio stuck to your behind.”

But today my jeans were Cheerio-free. I’d even taken a shower and applied mascara. (Preschool field trips are major social outings for me.) Kendall looked at me for a minute, then shouted, “You look just like someone I know. Only he’s a man!”