Alma Mater, Alma Schmater

I used to love going back to school. New clothes, old friends, and some new school supplies. A new notebook and a few new pens. Maybe a new calculator or something if there was a sale at Woolworths, and there always was. New school supplies always smelled so good.

It's different now. There are lists, lengthy lists, of required crap that you dare not show up without on the first day of school. And don't try to say you lost the list (lovingly printed on the colored paper schools are so fond of) that they handed to each pupil as he ran screaming from the grounds on the last day. They have outdone themselves by posting it on the website. You can run but you can not hide.

Whatever happened to getting your standard issue tablet and two No. 2 pencils on the first day of each semester and everything else was at your desire or preference? Now they even have rules about which folders to buy, which binders are acceptable and what type of backpack you better not show up with. (I think the teachers union is at war with Trappers. Their stuff is persona non grata in my district.) I secretly suspect that anyone rebelliously arriving with Trappers merchandise will have it forcibly confiscated to have it held hostage as fuel for the Homecoming bonfire.

But my very favorite part of back-to-school is Back-to-School Night. I get to return to the very middle school that I attended to roam the halls remembering the horror of it all and meeting the teachers, some of whom taught me an astonishing number of years ago, and some of which do not appear old enough to shave. One man (kid) graduated so recently he still proudly displays his fraternity pledge paddle in class. How cute.

But really, school has come a long way. Report cards are no longer issued and signed and returned. You recieve report cards, and in fact every grade, comment, quiz score, and homework assessment on PowerSchool, the parent portal to authorized spying on your kids. So from the privacy of my office at work, I can log on and find out whether Hil actually did ace that quiz on the Underground Railroad once she realized it was not really underground, or whether Pat did actually turn in that essay on Mesopotamian culture. It is a lot more involved than simply rifling through their backpacks (or even the trash cans) after they've gone to bed. I actually have to remember passwords. I can barely remember what grades they're in for chrissake.

And there is a homework hotline. A dial in message center where you, or your forgetful or avoiding child, can eventually get the assignments for the day. Even better, there is a website for each teacher where you can not only read what has been assigned and trip up your fibbing middle schooler, but in many cases download the freakin' pdf of the worksheet or flashcards or study guide they were supposed to be making responsible use of that night. The dog can simply not get away with eating one's homework. Not without being electrocuted anyway.

And I know this because we've seen it all on the interactive Smartboards that are in each classroom. Touchscreens, windows technology, and all the bells and whistles you can think of. No one is clapping the erasers in my neighborhood anymore. A disrespectful student can stay after school and de-frag Miss Crabtree's iPad instead.

And I am realizing that since they blew the budget on technology and renovations (but still haven't figured out that leak situation that still makes the corridor by the Woodshop damp and peeling with a pervasive drip-drip-drip sound in the background) we get to foot the bill for the myriad other essentials, like a certain color scheme of folders, and a particular brand of highlighters, and a year's supply of tissues (There are either a lot of runny noses or there is an awful lot to cry about in school these days.), and a picayune quality of anti-bacterial wipes. Because now, not only do we have to stock the classroom, we have to clean and disinfect it as well. (Maybe we can't afford janitorial services either?)

But Back-to-School Night sets the stage. I go and show my face and introduce myself to each teacher of import as I ping-pong back and forth between Hil's schedule and Pat's. And before I do, I make sure I am dressed smartly and stylishly, but in a way that doesn't suggest self-absorption. I make sure my makeup is tastefully applied and free of smears and smudges. My breath is beyond reproach. I will carry on breif and articulate conversation with each teacher and not insist on discussing my child ad infinitum. I want to have made a favorable impression before push comes to shove and I make my inevitable first trip to the school to deal with the bullshit that will inescapably present in the early days of the school year. When I meet them I want them thinking "the apple has not fallen far from the tree" not "so that explains that."

It will be far easier to make a convincing presentation as an involved and engaged and reasonable parent if my first impression has been more Carol Brady than Roseanne Conners.

Stay tuned. The fun is just beginning.