The Open House

A few days ago we, meaning Sarah and I, attended Sarah's open house for her new elementary school. Yes, my little squirt is going to be a BIG squirt now. It's official, they've allowed my daughter, Miss Sarah Lane Fairley to bestow her omnipotent presence in Ms. Pender's Kindergarten class. She doesn't even know what  she's in for, and I'm not talking about Sarah. From hence forward, when you say the word kindergarten or any derivative of the word kindergarten, you should say it passionately, like James Earl Jones would, as if he was reading directly from a script where he played a fearless lion named Mufasa that has practically become a standard staple in every child's library and on Broadway.

We rolled up in the very uncool, beat up mommy mobile, and directly into the wrong parking lot, which was designated for King's College students. I went the wrong way down one isle creating somewhat of a bear of a parking situation, when a very courteous male Nissan Pathfinder driver narrowly reversed his older model SUV out of a very tricky passageway that would offend a Mini Cooper just for little ole me. Moreover, he surprisingly did it without first throwing his hands in the air in exasperation or giving me the notorious "unbelievable" head shake. The fact that my enormous and overbearing beast of a Buick could have threatened his ride with a ding probably helped. It was either that or he thought I was 89 judging by my eyes that could barely see over the steering wheel, or the 1999 shiny silver Buick emblem gleaming from the dented hood, that had an impolite run on with a deer two years ago.  Guess who won that battle. Let's just say it wasn't a good day to be a deer on Hwy 51 that fall night.

Once I reparked in the neighboring and correct free parking lot, which was overgrown with weeds and loosely filled with gravel, we unloaded ourselves, after my normal long wait for Sarah to collect herself enough to get out of the car. I don't understand why it takes some people so long to get out of the car. My mother is the same way. I guess I can be at times, but if there is one pet peeve of mine, that's in the top ten.8 I guess it doesn't bother me too much or I would just be mad at the world.

Sarah grabbed my hand when we began our march to the front doors of the school, which were being held open by current students of Elizabeth Traditional. She doesn't hold my hand often, so when she does, I eat it up like a kid with a popsicle at the fair on the beach in July. I always tell her that I love it when she holds my hand. I'm convinced that she does things exactly opposite of what I like just to spite me. Oh my Gosh! I have become my mother. She used to say that to me all the time growing up- that I did the opposite of what she liked. It wasn't true. I just had total opposite taste of her. Now I'm scratching my head. How can genetics be so cruel? Sarah and I are blood related, and we are opposites too? How can that be? It'll be OK, but I will have to modify my level of need for control if we will coexist peacefully as she grows into the intolerable teenage years- what an awkward stage. I loathe the day that she will tell me no. When you are a child and you say no, it's not that bad. When you are a teenager, it becomes synonymous with adjectives like desolate and destructive, even disregarding.
As we walk into the school, which was swarming with sweaty bodies asking and answering questions, we looked at each other with wide eyes like we had just seen some homeless 50 year old wearing a pink high school prom T-shirt walking down the street talking to himself. I quickly spotted a hefty, older lady standing behind a cloth draped desk,  who was handing out Hershey's kisses. Naturally, I asked for "some," to which her reply was the silent type. She reached into the napkin lined painted white basket and grabbed one solo kiss and asked Sarah to hold out her little hand. She gingerly dropped it into her palm and directed a slight, almost sarcastic smirk at me. Maybe it was rude of me to assume the parents would be allowed to have a candy too. Come to think of it, it probably was. There were going to be over 500 kids there. How many bags would that be? A lot-too much for my mathematically challenged brain to correctly sum.

We made it down the corridor to Ms. Pender's room where inside there was this sound that made my skin crawl. It was the teacher's voice. Now don't get me wrong, I am no one to say that someone else is too Southern, but I am saying that the Southernness of Ms. Pender's voice is almost too Southern, too whiny, too oh...plain irritating. OK, so I said it anyway. She talks like she just stepped off the set of Steel Magnolias Gone Bad, and she was just about to turn a trick down behind Ruby's new hair salon down on the west side. I don't know if hearing that drawl makes my skin crawl because it brings me back to eighth grade, hearing the sound of Lindsay's voice saying something pleasant, but my eyes reading her lips saying "Fuck you, bitch. I could care less, what you think, so just shut your trap." In my eighth grade mind, everyone was a fake. I wonder why I thought that way. Maybe it was because girls are so mean. I was a victim of bullying, and there were times when I just wanted to lock myself in my room and play John Lennon's Imagine tape over and over, especially the song Strawberry Fields. It somehow was fitting at my most desperate moments. Irregardless of my weird turn offs, I smiled politely, like most plain white middle class moms would normally do, and introduced myself with a handshake. Hers was wimpy as I recall, which produced an almost instant sigh deep inside my soul. A person with a weak handshake strikes me as weak in general. I don't know if that's a valid argument, but I'll maintain my theory usually until I'm proven wrong. In this case, the determining factor will be Sarah's report cards and behavior check-ups. I hope to be dead wrong, but then again, none of Sarah's other teachers have had any behavioural concerns expressed to me. None of them have been in our house though either at 6pm as we ramble through the door, Sarah whining about having to "carry too much, " and me complaining right back that she "never carries enough." Shoes are always an issue in the car. She instantly takes them off when the door slams shut. Incidentally, I do too, so she comes by it naturally. I like my feet to feel free. So does she. But, I carry mine in, whereas she like to Amelda Marcusize the car with her stragglers.

There was another family who was meeting Ms. Pender at the moment, so I made it over to Ms. Reagan, her assistant, who looked to be nearing retirement age, and was obviously very humbled in her years. I liked her instantly, and I felt relieved that there was someone who was over the age of 30 taking the reigns with 23 new students, who may or may not have been privied to pre-school. I'm imagining that most of the students at Elizabeth Traditional have been to pre-school, which is a lottery school in CMS. The Brooke version of lottery in CMS essentially means your name is drawn out of a bingo type machine that spins names and numbers around until someone quickly and somewhat ineffectively crams their arm in the breezy spinning machine and fights to catch a slippery piece of thin paper. In reality, I doubt that's the way it happens at all. I would safely assume that there are lines drawn across the county, and each name from each section of the county in these unclear to the public lines, are then mashed together, and spawn from certain geographic areas of the county, there are a certain amount of names drawn from each section, making sure to sprinkle enough blacks with whites with Hispanics and the "others" which usually make up for about 5% of the population. That would explain why both me and Marsha got our girls in Elizabeth. We live in the same neighborhood, and incidentally, are both single moms, both homeowners, both hard workers, and both complete bitches. That's probably why we understand each other, why when we have arguments we just don't ever speak of them again- probably because we both think in our own minds that the other is wrong, but deep down, we both know we could have done something different, but it might very well kill us to admit we were wrong. So we just pretend like nothing ever happened.

With all of the commotion, I felt somewhat overwhelmed by it all. So I did what most people do when they feel uneasy, what everyone tells you to do when you are about to find out some bad news. I plopped it right down at the desk that was intended for a 5 year old, maybe 8, but that's pushing it. With my legs crammed underneath the shrouded desk with a name tag taped to the top of it, I began filling out forms. Oh Lord. The forms. You might as well buy a stamp that has your name, address and phone number on it because that's all you are filling out on these forms that probably wiped out an entire rain forest in Brazil. Who is allowed to pick up Sarah from after school? What are their phone numbers? What is Sarah allergic to? Nothing yet, but I'm picturing a severe ongoing, almost immediate allergic reaction to homework starting in the second grade and lasting throughout college. What is the father's name? I put Immaculate Conception right there in the name slot.  You think I'm joking? I'm serious. I bet they will make me fill that out again. I think I made a disparaging comment on that line at Briar Creek Preschool when I first signed her up there, to which one of the ultra-Christian teachers, did not find amusing. I thought it was pretty funny. I think I put low life scumbag in the name line. She asked me to rewrite that page. I did begrudgingly, and I believe I just left the name part blank. I can't recall. I think at that point, Paul may have been more prevalent in Sarah's life. But even then, that meant seeing her once every couple months for a few hours. Now, he goes six months to a year without seeing her. It breaks my heart. But therapy will probably help one day, when I decide to take the plunge and delve into all of my twisted thoughts with someone who can dissect each one of them, shrinking my mind to the point of near breakdown.The thought is repulsive.

As I am sitting there, all scwunched up, back hunched over, and madly scribbling names and addresses and filling in blanks with checks and flipping pages, I realized that I am the only single parent in the room, and for a moment, I felt empty inside. Pouring inside the large doorway were moms and dads, with other children, pushing strollers, introducing themselves as Addie's mom, or Mile's dad. I suddenly felt alone, insecure, shrunken down, and small enough to fit at the very desk that I was uncomfortable cramming my legs under. It was as if I was the elephant in the room, and everyone was wondering where my husband was. Where is Sarah's dad their minds wondered. Who is Sarah's dad? Does she even know who Sarah's dad is? I'm sure those thoughts were probably not roaming the minds of these new kindergarten parents to be. They were concerned with book bag sizes and whether or not a gummy snack was considered a fruit or not. They wanted to know where the drop off line began, and what time lunch would be so they could make sure that they left their offices in time to make it to the lunchroom to sit with their now big kindergarten kid. Of course, no one was thinking about me and Sarah. But I was thinking about it. I couldn't help but feel slightly sorry for myself for a fleeting moment. After all, even Riley's dad was there with Marsha, and she can't stand the sight of him. She doesn't hate him enough to put him in her phone as "Can't Standhim" like I did in replacement for his actual name which is Paul, which is what Sarah calls him when he does grace her with his ever alcohol wreaking  presence. I couldn't help but think how nice it would be to have a husband who cares about us, who wants to be there at school functions and actually owns a camera for taking pictures, instead of from his cell phone, which will eventually get lost or broken, never having printed out any actual paper copies- memories left just as naked as the word. Those are such trivial things in the grand scheme of it all, but the trivial things, I've found, are what make life grand. And we are guilty of ignoring them. We are guilty of not being thankful enough, of not recognizing each other for the happiness that we arrive from knowing and loving one another. I was guilty of being jealous. Sarah was just happy to find her cubby and hug her friends, Riley and Maddie, whom I'm sure she will somehow pick a fight with on the reg.

All in all, the open house went well. It met my expectations, and we left holding hands just as we had when we walked in.