Me and Julio Down By The School Yard

The gym is packed and people are standing and sitting wherever they can find a spot that gives them an almost acceptable view of the projector screen, in front of which Madam Powerschool is apologizing for its quality. And the lack of sound equipment.

Excuse me? Haven’t we done this before?

And further, haven’t we had all summer to prepare for this moment?

Impressed beyond description, I traipse through the corridors recently deemed fit for human in inhabitation to the wing which houses my son’s homeroom and science room. There, his teacher has begun to tell other parents that yes, he is the same Mr. Capistrano that they had decades ago. He’s in his 34th year. Retiring in June.

As I am making a mental note that there will be no heavy educational lifting on my son’s behalf during Mr. C’s twilight semesters, my was-band schleps in.

And while Mr. C is reviewing the curriculum in a thumbnail sketch, Lars is stage whispering a bunch of questions to me and scrambling my brain waves as only he can.

As I attempt to ignore him – keeping my eyes on Mr. C and pointing toward him as if to say “He has my attention at the moment, asswipe.” Lars raises his sweaty hand and begins to ask the kinds of questions Back To School Night teachers hate universally.

The ones that are not general and helpful to everyone in the room, like “What is your policy on incomplete homework?” but focused instead on one kid.

His kid.

Our kid.

I want to vanish.
In my next life I will have vanishing powers.

“Ummm – we don’t live in the same house,” he begins with an offhand gesture toward me. “The text book you sent home today – can we get another copy? The other one is at HER house." (Accompanying grimace and hitch hiker thumb thrust disrespectfully in my direction.)

Mr. C. says – more appropriately to the entire collection of parents – that he’d be happy to accommodate any situation like that. Write him a note so he can take care of it promptly.

Lars is pissed. A note? Can’t believe he needs a note. He just told him the situation.

Well, buttstick, because there will be 30 of those questions asked tonight, albeit more privately. How is anyone supposed to remember your idiosyncratic need tomorrow when the whiteboards have all been wiped clean with your son’s sock?

As the bell rings and we file out, I place an already written request for the extra book to be sent home into Mr. C's hand so Lars can lower his neurosis. And I vow to send a nice bottle of wine to Mr. C. at Christmas to make up for the rudeness. One class down. Six to go.