All clear, preschool registration

So it's been a week. C had comp time for his horrible work schedule of a while ago, and so we had a go about our normal crazy routine week. A couple highlights for you:

A had two follow-up doctor visits so far and he's doing great. One with the asthma specialist at our pediatrician's, who says he's sounding great and is taking him off most of his drugs. One with the ENT (finally) to check his ears to see if they are affecting his hearing tests. His ears are crystal-clear gorgeous and he's fine and ready to go to town on the hearing test, so cross your fingers that we can get that scheduled soon.

While C braved the pediatrician's, I went to public preschool registration, which was a little three-and-a-half hour slice of hell. First of all, when I entered the room (about the size of my grandparents' barn, but louder), there was a violin class for eight-year-olds going on at the front of the room. Thirty little children sawing away on their violins weren't even the worst of the noise. There were randomly arranged tables and hundreds of metal folding chairs that appeared to have been dropped from the ceiling and left where they fell, because there was no order to this room.

The room was filled with screaming, largely unattended children, mostly under six. It was stuffy and hot and the parents were obviously too frustrated with the processes of bureaucracy to care about whether or not their little ones were behaving. There were two sisters who took on the alpha mean girl roles and took toys away from other children and hit them when the other kids complained. They were nasty enough that other parents were just saying, "Stay away from those two," instead of slapping the girls around.

I was number 108. I was second to last.

The system works like this:

1. Go to entry table. Show all documents (birth certificate, immunization record, proof of address, proof of income). They make copies and assign you a number.
2. Wait to be called. For three hours. In kiddie hell.
   
3. Go to the document confirmation table. Woman confirms that you have all the documents and that you filled out forms correctly. She gives you a folder for all your copies. Go back and wait some more, maybe twenty minutes.
4. Wonder if the small children coughing near you have TB. Take your hand sanitizer and wipe out your lungs.
   
5. Go to the proof of income table. Woman does math with paystub to determine whether your child qualifies for Head Start (low income and disadvantaged in some way), preschool (low income but not as low or disadvantaged as Head Start), or School Readiness (everyone else). Smother urge to ask woman if you really needed to go through this charade since you darn well know you are not low-income.
6. Wait again. Cheer up when you talk to someone who made it to the inauguration and how amazing it was.
7. Go to the nurse table. The nurse sees the asthma box checked, hears the word, "hospitalization," and produces four more forms to be filled out by you and the child's doctor. She also tags your folder with a sticky note that says ASTHMA so she'll know who you are later.
8. You're almost the last one, so there's no waiting for the last table, the school choice table. You ask for the school near you that has public preschool for kids regardless of income and a great speech therapy program. She tells you it's almost full. What are your second choices? Um... She makes some suggestions. You accept them, because you have no clue. He's only three. You're beginning to feel like he's not going to get in anyway.