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I’m not myself today.

Yesterday, after cancelling Plan 1 because I’d forgotten about Plan 2, I found out that Plan 2 wasn’t until today. So Paul and I had a lovely stay at home day, filled with Legos and laundry and learning and I’m sure there were some other things that start with L, but I can’t think of them at the moment.

In March I’d grown disenchanted with the first grade curriculum and finally put the book back on the shelf, working with Paul on other ways to learn. About a week ago, he discovered the book himself and I found him an hour later, happily doing the worksheets on his own. So instead of grinding through the chaff, we’ve been concentrating on the, well, wheat. Yesterday found us making instruments from boxes so we could pretend to be the Bramin Musicians, a six year old’s version of a logic problem, and cutting out little houses with contractions like “is not” on the outside, and “isn’t” on the inside.

Of course, Paul is learning all the time, everywhere, no matter what he’s doing. We’ll work together on the bus or the subway, all of our walking games are educational in some way. But there is something to be said for a day like yesterday, filled with basic everyday activities.

As I told an acquaintance the other day, “Socialization is the least of our problems. It’s finding the time to stay home and learn that’s our biggest struggle right now.”

At about five thirty we set off to meet Todd for dinner at a restaurant. A few blocks after we’d gotten on, a woman boarded the bus and sat down. The bus driver accelerated and she said, “Can you let me off at the Downsview subway station?” which is kind of like getting on a bus headed for Montana and asking to be let off in Florida.

The bus driver hesitated, then said, “Uh, well, I’m headed for the subway. So you can get off there.”

She realized her mistake, and chuckled nervously. “Sorry, sorry. I’m not myself today!”

“I’ll bite,” said the bus driver. “Who are you?”

“Angry!” she said. “If anyone bothers me, I’ll punch ‘em in the face.”

The bus driver had nothing to say to that. Then she went into a long sad story about something that happened to her when she was twelve, which started out so sadly that even I made a concerted effort not to hear it.

When we got off the bus and headed into the subway station, we could hear two women yelling at each other. Both women were behaving oddly; it seemed a case of two vastly differing world views crashing into each other. By the time we passed the first woman, the second woman had given up and was scurrying towards the subway car. The first woman stayed where she was, to howl, “I want to go to weeeest!” leaving the very kind concessions seller to ask which west, as there are four stations which answer to that description.

Everyone else, including me, hurried by and hoped she wouldn’t notice us.

So I wondered why there’s that impulse, the head down “I did not see you, I am not here” hope to be invisible that happens when people behave outside of the norm.

While we were standing on the subway platform, Paul kept asking me to point out something weird so he could write it down in his notebook. I had to resist the urge to direct his attention to the crazy lady stomping up and down the platform, talking loudly to herself, instead going with the ten full grocery bags lying underneath the payphone.

I can’t really hide behind “well, I have a child with me,” because I do the same when I’m alone. I think it’s a dread that helping once won’t be enough. That the person in question will keep on asking, and asking, and asking, until I’m tapped out and have nothing more to give.

I mean, look at the woman on the bus. The bus driver gave no indication at all that he thought she was behaving strangely. She told the bus driver that terrible story, probably because she needed someone to talk to and didn’t have anyone, and he was treating her with respect and kindness. For her, there was no sense of boundary, of being formal simply because she didn’t know him.

I know people who wouldn’t even consider walking by someone in trouble. I’m just…not one of them.