{ The pants on the bus go "let me off" }

Every Friday I take an inventory of what is in my kids' backpacks.
... Same baggy of carrots that I just keep putting back into their lunchboxes day after day so that I will look like a good mom just in case Jaimie Oliver shows up at our elementary school... but without having to buy more carrots that will never be eaten?  Check.
... A bunch of graded papers that I throw away without even looking at them first because I figure if there was real problem I would've heard by now?  Check.
... All kinds of art projects that I tell my kids I'm keeping in their "special boxes" but really they end up in the same place that the graded papers end up?  Check.
... Next month's calendar which confirms my suspicion that the last 4 weeks of school are just for show?  Check.

The weekly backpack check is  how I found out that my daughter has 3 field trips in the next three weeks... and because I pretty much live by the Biblical principle of "better you than me" I signed up to help with the one that has nothing to do with riding a bus with 120, 10-year-olds.

Last year, when I was younger, stupider and pregnanter I chaperoned the third grade trip to the junior symphony in downtown Portland.  If you've ever considered driving a school bus as a profession - Do. Not. Do. It.  The poor bus driver lady had to maneuver what is essentially a cattle car for children down all kinds of one way streets that were clearly designed for people on horses or maybe those bikes with the really big front wheel.  Every time I saw movement out the window I'd stamp my foot down like I was pushing on an imaginary brake.  Also, I kept doing that arm-seatbelt thing across my daughter's chest like my mom did to whoever was sitting in the front seat of our car from about 1978 onward.  By the time we got to the concert my hands were totally sweaty, I was maybe going to throw up a little bit and I seriously considered calling my husband to come pick me up.  (What I learned from this was that unless you want to die in a metal box that smells like dirty feet and peanut butter and sounds like that really scary attic scene from "The Birds" you should pretend like you're an involved parent some other way.)

The field trip destination was a concert hall that's all Baroqued out with carvings and beautiful architecture and marble floors and that lovely way sounds spiral up to the ceiling in buildings that are meant to be listened in.  It also has a statue right in the entry way... a nude statue.  I don't totally remember, but I'm pretty sure that this particular nude was a woman, because I don't recall any embarrassing boys bits hanging out there.  What I do remember is that there was a lot of pointing and hands covering mouths and the kind of laughter you might do if you walk in on someone going to the bathroom.  The third graders found the naked bum part particularly amusing.  I think I spent the entire time up until intermission telling them to be quiet and stop laughing about the naked statue... at which point they went out to have another look.

Having learned last year's lesson about chaperoning field trips that have anything to do with a bus ride, I volunteered to go with my daughter's fourth grade walking trip to our local heritage center...yesterday.  It can be summarized thus:  120 ten-year-olds, 2 miles there, 2 miles back.  Old folks dressed like pioneers.  Lots of rain.

This year's lesson?  Stick to volunteering in the art program.

You still need pants - even with a lab coat.

Who here wants to repeat the third grade?  Anyone?  Well, too bad for you because if you have a child - even a really little one that doesn't make much noise and is relatively cute -  you will be repeating the third grade... along with all the other grades, too.  If this is news to you, then clearly the homework has not started coming home yet.  My third grader actually has homework that she is instructed to do "with a parent" (and this is not like the 7th grade health class homework that I had to do with my parents - you know what homework I mean.  My dad was very thorough with this.  He did not want me falling for any crazy-liberal fancy-talk when it came to the all important "abstinence only" education).  No, this is math and spelling and all the boring, and might I add, totally not-useful stuff I had to learn the first time around.  All I'm saying is that I went all the way through calculus in high school and guess what... no one cares!  Also, two words:  spell check.  (Or is that one word.  Hmmm... maybe I'll recant on the spelling thing.)

So, I've just barely figured out a way to trick my kids into doing their own homework while convincing them that I really am helping them like their teacher said, when those pesky PTA people go and mess the whole thing up.  I am convinced that these are the same people that as children raised their hands at every question the teacher asked, even if they didn't know the answer, just so they could get the participation points. Now they're forcing their participating ways onto my family by convincing my children that they want to be involved in the mother of all extended homework projects, known as the Elementary School Science Fair.

They hooked my daughter first.  She came home armed with half a plan and dreams of a first place "I'm a Better Scientist Than You Are" ribbon.  She recently won the "design a bookmark" contest at school and I think the fame has gone to her head.  She then proceeded to convince my son that his short life's ambition is to taste the glory of science fair victory, as well.  I'm telling you - it was Adam and Eve all over again (except this time I can't kick them out and tell them that they're on their own with their big idea project).  I thought that I could derail them by pointing out that it's 2009 - not 1983, and that means that no one actually gets to win anymore.  The most they're getting out of this thing is a lousy Certificate of Participation and a mother that's slightly more grouchy than usual.  Nope, they still want to do the stupid projects.

So, now I'm helping coordinate two, count 'em, two elementary science fair projects.  I felt it only fair that I should get to help choose the subject matter, since I will end up doing at least 5o% of the work.  I had two solid suggestions that were pretty rad, if I do say so myself.  

1. "Peeps:  What the Heck Are Those Things?"  OK, tell me that that title didn't catch your attention and make you think "Yeah, what are those things?" Seriously, we could blow one up in the microwave, see if one freezes, see if one floats, leave one out on the counter for 6 weeks and see if it's still edible, even use one as a conductor of electricity (I thought we could try to make some kind of lamp out of it).  The list is endless, really.  In addition to this idea being really good science, my family has a joke that my dad actually died because he ate too many Peeps.  I still laugh every time I see one of those little guys, which means I could at least derive  a little dark pleasure from this experience.

2.  "Poop:  A Study in Gender Differences"  This is an anthropological study really, and you can try it for yourself since it didn't make the cut.  Just say the word "poop" to a male of any age and he will laugh.  I have tested this with four of my nephews, a few of my brothers in law, my husband and my sons.  It doesn't matter how old or young, saying the word "poop" is an easy way to amuse any boy.  Girls, on the other hand, stop laughing around age 8.  After that they just think it's gross.  Of course, our findings would've been based on a randomized sample of random men, but I'm telling you, it's as concrete as XX and XY.  

Unfortunately, it turns out my kids are not only curious about science, but they are also totally boring.  My daughter chose a project about how sound travels through different "media" like water, air, plastic, and metal (or some such nonsense).  My son's project will evaluate the soil benefits of worm castings, which my son explained to me are just "worm poop".  And guess what happened next.  Giggling pile of little boy all over my floor.  Hypothesis proven.  First prize ribbon to me.

There's a late slip in my pants pocket.

I was never late to school when I was a little girl.  Not once.  I always felt sorry for the little kids that sort of tip-toed into class during the Pledge of Allegiance with their heels hanging out of the backs of their sneakers and a cold piece of toast in their hand.  Their hair, as I recall, usually bore a striking resemblance to Albert Einstein's after a night of clubbing with his homies.  Sad.  I always felt bad that they had to face the firing squad made up of the judgey front desk attendance lady and a teacher that could put that kind of stuff down on your permanent record, or worse - put your name on the board... especially since I assumed it was their loser parent's fault.  I mean, what 6 year old gets themself to school?

Well parents of the Lockwood Elementary kindergarten class of 1980, I apologize.  Turns out, those little juvenile deliquents earned every one of those little pink tardy slips all on their own.  

When my husband left the house at 7:59 this morning to take my son the .8 miles to school the timeline should've gone something like this:

8:04 arrive at school

8:06 arrive in cafeteria where Mrs.P is waiting to greet you in all of her kindergarten teacher        glory; talk Star Wars and Legos with best friend M.

8:15  walk to class in one straight line - no talking, no pushing, no spitting  (I made that last one  up, but I cannot believe that it wouldn't be part of the rules)

8:20  start class... on time... responsibly... making your parents look good

Instead it went something like this:

8:04    arrive at school

8:06    walk through the doors of the school

8:06a  turn head for one last look at Dad driving away, notice huge snowflakes that look               exactly like fluffy cotton balls 

8:06b   wonder if it is possible to catch those huge, fluffy, cotton ball snowflakes on tongue

8:07    turn body and walk back outside

8:10    catch snowflakes on tongue

8:15    catch snowflakes on tongue

8:20    catch snowflakes on tongue

8:25    catch snowflakes on tongue

8:27    be escorted back inside by a judgey front desk attendance lady that notices you out on         the lawn catching snowflakes on tongue (finally - hello?)

8:29   receive tardy slip

8:31   tip-toe into class during the Pledge of Allegiance... not on time... not making your parents    look good

So... after today my son's permanent record reads a little something like this:

Mack - tardy due to inclement weather and the complete inability to not be a little boy.

Good for him.

New pants can be uncomfortable

Today was Avery's first day at her new school - and as I learned yesterday, her teacher and her class moved up together from the 2nd grade. This means that Avery was the only new girl in her class - everyone knew everyone except her. Do you hear my panic people? Good, because there's nothing like a little mass panic to drive your point home.

I was very worried. But in vain... because there was a very nice girl named Bailey who saw Avery when we walked in, came right on up and said "do you want to sit by me?" Just like that, no biggie, no nothing, just friends just because. Adults do not do this. Adults do not befriend someone unless they know something about them first - we need a friend resume. We need to have similarities, we need to have commonality, we need to have a connection. The thing is, we really don't - we just need to be kind, like Bailey.

Maybe she was new once too and remembered what that felt like, maybe not. Maybe her mom told her to be nice to any new kids in her class today, maybe not. Maybe she liked Avery's smile and freckles, maybe not. But it doesn't really matter, she did right.

And so... I am inventing : "the Bailey Prize" to be awarded to those whose acts of kindness effect (or affect - I can never remember) my life - and the first recipient? Bailey.

No pants today little missy

Sentimental Rant...

I went shopping for "first day of school" clothes with my kids today. Did we find anything? No we did not, but this blog is not about them, so that is the last you'll hear of them - I just needed a good starting sentence. This little outing, not unlike the one Mary Poppins took with Jane and Michael Banks when... oh no - I mean the one those little rat kids took with their dad where they caused a run on the bank and the police came and everything around them was thrown into chaos - yes that's the one - it got me thinking about the first day of school and how it seems so much more stressful dressing someone for their first day of school than it was actually going to the first day of school.

I was not allowed to wear pants to the first day of school. I think my parents hoped that my good grooming would divert the teacher's attention into overlooking the fact that I was a slightly bossy know-it-all who did not like to raise her hand and loved a good "death drop" from the monkey bars, dress or no.

My first day of kindergarten I wore a navy blue dress, knee socks (I'm picturing them in red)and Buster Brown shoes. I'm not sure if I liked the dress or not - quite frankly I should've been more concerned with the space between my two front teeth (seriously, you could've driven a semi through that thing) - but it never bothered me. I guess I figured that I was sufficiently armed with my Big Chief writing tablet (which I'm sure they no longer make, for obvious reasons, but I'd still like to have one), and various other sundry supplies and I was ready to learn... whatever it was I was going to learn.

The first day of going to school after we moved to California I wore jeans - I think my parents felt sorry for me and so let me out of the dress thing. They were acid washed - don't pretend like you didn't have any- and had , like, graffiti writing up one leg. Hot. Looking back I think I should've gone with a pair that had a zipper and bow on the back of the ankle - but those were hard to peg so...Luckily my mom had just permed my (short) hair and I still had the aforementioned space in between my teeth. Again, hot. I didn't even know enough to be scared. My school in Montana had 250 kids k-8, my school in California : 1800 kids 7-8th. By the end of the day, I sat down in the quad and cried right on my acid washed jeans. The next day I begged my parents to let me stay home, but they didn't, and it got better. And better. And better. And then it was really good...and I was ready to learn...whatever I was going to learn.

The first day of my Junior year (oddly, I don't remember what I wore when I was a Senior)- I wore a light blue kiltish thing with a red turtle neck. Sadly, I finished the look with cream tights and brown shoes of questionable styling. (Oh, 1992 - where have you gone?) There is a picture of me standing in front of my mom's car eating an apple - she was dropping me off at my boyfriend's house so that I could ride to school with him (and my sister, and his brother, and anyone else we could fit in the car probably) and even though I didn't have a Big Chief tablet, I still look like I am ready for...whatever I was going to learn, and I still didn't know enough to even worry.

So it comes down to this, after 13 first days of school and even though I said I wouldn't mention them again - I wish this for my little leaders of the Jane and Michael Banks fan club - I hope my kids never know enough to be scared and are always ready for... whatever they are going to learn. I'm sure I would be if only I could still fit into those tight ankle zipper jeans.