Somewhere on the outskirts of Chicago there is a place called Frontier Park. And here we are. We--Maggie and me--attempting to use the park restroom with about 120 children who seem to be attending a day camp here.

It's almost time for the kids to get picked up. I can tell that by the time, the temperament of the kids, and the drag of the counselors.

We--Maggie and me--are in this hot, sweaty (though very clean) public restroom watching our own footing carefully since little water-muddy toe prints positively pepper the surface of the slippery floor. Today must have featured a water activity.

I'm waiting for Mags who is changing from her road clothes into her lacrosse uniform in the stall at the end of the row when a little girl comes in.

"Hi!" She says to me just as a girl from another lacrosse team exits her stall closest to me. Same idea. Except she came here from Minnesota, I can see.

"Hello!" I say to this short little girl, clearly 7 or 8. Not short for her age, just shorter than myself and this lacrosse-player-stranger who has joined our trio.

She--the 7/8 year old, not the lacrosse stranger--says, "I'm just going to change my shirt..."

"That sounds like a fine thing to do," I tell her and she nods, then skips into a stall.

I look at my lacrosse player stranger-friend who is watching this play out in the mirror's reflection, and I say, "I don't work here."

She laughed a little bit, "I didn't think you did!"

The counselors outside have shirts that advertise their status--a shirt I am clearly not wearing.

"No, but..." it never fails. "Young kids the world over know a 2nd grade teacher when they see one."


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