School Daze

I am certain I have contracted Black Lung from having navigated the sub-basement halls of the Middle School two nights in a row.

Or maybe it is just some errant germ that rubbed off on me from one of the other parents jammed into the aging hallways that are half the width due to the "renovation."

And they cram a bunch of fast-moving pre-teens with escalating hormone levels in here everyday with 4 minutes to get to class? Better get some of that nasal spray you use to avoid getting an airborne illness breathing the recycled in-flight air.

And once again, I get the full-strength pleasure of sitting with Lars for an evening of entertainment. I am not so entertained, but those around us are, no doubt.

Lars has no discernible ability to go with the flow. I can't tell whether it is blind ignorance or plain old fashioned rude disregard for anyone else. But his agenda, no matter how pathetic, takes precedence over all else.

For instance, we have, as a classroom full of parents, exactly 10 minutes to hear what the teacher feels is important for us to know, and for us to quietly assess how warm and fuzzy or strict and miserable he or she is, how his or her grading system works, what his or her behavioral/conduct/classroom/workstyle hot buttons are, and how best to reach him or her in the event of some kind of earth shattering academic crisis.

Lars, in his unwavering focus on himself, needs to grab the last waning seconds of our time together to monopolize the teacher to talk about our child. He makes his approach just as she has dismissed us seconds ahead of the bell so we might go on creaking knees to the next class.

I am not saying that everyone does not secretly desire to chat one to one with the teacher. Everyone else just realizes that that is what conferences are for.

And since there is nothing of any real substance to discuss 10 days and two holidays into the academic calendar, the teachers have little to say (even when they realize which pupil belongs to this particular lunatic). So Lars proceeds to ask leading questions - questions asked for the purpose of eliciting compliments and reassuring comments about our child's academic potential.

I have been hovering nearby, ready to disrupt any uncomfortable moments, and hoping to muster the courage to cover his face with a Wawa bag to get him to stop if necessary, when I realize in horror, that by standing there, I am an inadvertent party to the assault on the poor teacher.

I close my gaping mouth and turn to go to the next class. I am hoping to find a seat at a table with no room for Lars when he arrives.

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.

And I'm Never Goin' Back To My Old School

Back to School Night.
Does anyone actually benefit from it?

Let me ask that question a different way.

Does anyone besides the completely clueless, neurotic, not sure they can do anything right as a parent actually benefit from it?

I have two (that I am under tremendous social pressure) to attend this year. One for 6th grade and one for 7th grade. Both in the insane asylum that is Middle School.

And two because there is such an appreciable difference between 6th and 7th grade. And between last year's intro to 6th grade and this year's.

And so for two nights in a row, I am back at the very school that I attended so long ago it was still called Junior High. It is as though I have stepped out of a time machine. Only not in a good way.

First, the place is being "renovated." Renovated instead of knocked over to start from scratch. As a matter of money.

As if there aren't thousands of graduates, particularly from the 70s and 80s who wouldn't happily shell out a king's ransom for a raffle where the prize is that you get to put your name and a smart-assed comment and maybe a few pictures of some especially despised classmates or teachers or coaches on the wrecking ball. Throw in a champagne toast to sweeten the pot.

So we have to gather in the gym because the wing with the auditorium is condemned for the moment. I enter through one of the few doors that is not obstructed by heavy machinery and find myself in what is still known as "The Connecting Corridor." So called because back in the day it connected the Junior High to the High School. Purgatory to Hell itself.

I have traveled that far back in the Wayback Machine.

And to demonstrate just how little things have changed, as I step into the Connecting Corridor, I am face to face with the mural that was painted by the guy I dated in High School who went on to become a favorite local mural artist beautifying depressed neighborhoods across the city. An artist who painted this particular mural as his senior project in Art School. An artist who, like myself, will soon be getting AARP literature in the mail.

I traipse the oddly unchanged route to the gym and am disturbed but not exactly surprised to find the same peeling paint in that same institutional shade of yellow often used to brighten spaces that lack even a single ray of natural lighting. And the same exposed plumbing and wire work that is painted black in an attempt to minimize the assault to one's senses. And the same icky damp gummy-looking spot in the corner where the hallway turns from the cafeteria section to the gym and shop section. The source of dampness evidently still under investigation all these years later.

I am struggling to thwart the impulse to run screaming from the building.

Hell in a Handbag

I leave a message with the secretary.

Msgr. leaves me a message.

I leave another one with the secretary.

Msgr. leaves another one for me.

By now Sweet Polly Purebread is Pissy Patty Potty Mouth.

My last call to the saintly patient secretary begs her indulgence through gritted teeth. Can she pass along a detailed message? Does she have a pen? Does she have it in her hand? OK – here goes.

I edit what I want to say with the talent of a seasoned litigator. I speak as slowly as my escalating blood pressure will allow. I try not to sound too judgy or disinterested in what ever it is that the church thinks is a reasonable commitment to one’s education in the faith. I try my best to sound sincere. All I really want is to earn the right to figuratively thumb my nose at the Church Lady and spike the ball in the RES parking lot when I prance out of 9:30 Mass with a Get Out of Jail Free card.

Hours later, another person who is not Msgr. Gregory or his secretary leaves me yet another message. She informs me that Msgr. completely understands my situation and not to worry, there will be no documentation of absences for missing the two special Masses and they are happy to see us all at the 9:30 (which in my Pissy Patty Potty Mouth crankiness, I interpret as “we will be looking for you at the 9:30 Mass to make sure you are not just weaseling out of a Mass that conflicts with the first Eagles home game.”)

And then just moments later there is an e-mail from Church Lady.

I am kind of excited that she is writing to me to let me know that Msgr. gave her “the business” and she has to acknowledge the err of her ways and apologize for being such a tyrant about all things RES.

But that is not the subject of her e-mail.

No, it is another sugar-coated message to the parents of the RES kids. RES is hosting the next hospitality Sunday. And they need volunteers to serve coffee and doughnuts and clean up afterwards.

Hospitality Sunday is once a month after 9:30 Mass and it is intended to welcome new parishioners to the parish and give them a chance to get to know other members. My kids call it Doughnut Day. I call it Mom’s Opportunity to Avoid a $20 Trip to Starbucks.

The e-mail clearly has an appropriate purpose. RES is the host of the gig so should offer up some service to its execution.

But she can’t help herself. In her indelible belief that RES families do not go to Mass, and therefore would never have seen the giant posters in the vestibule beckoning us to come for coffee, or heard Father’s announcement at the end of Mass, we must all be scratching our empty little heads wondering what in the world Hospitality Sunday is!

And so then she goes, providing an over simplified elementary school introduction to what this enduring tradition involves.

Enlightening the pagans once again.

Church Lady

In all the frenetic back-to-school hoopla I'd nearly forgotten about the conflict over the RES special Mass I was rounding the final turn toward.

But soon enough Her Royal Piousness sends another cheerfully worded e-mail inviting all the boys and girls of t Our Lady of Condemnation to join the football team and the cheerleading squad – which will meet for practice at some inopportune time for any child whose parents hold jobs.

And just as I was muttering an expletive and striking the delete key, I remembered.

Miss Holiest of Holies has never responded to my request for the identity of someone of greater authority to whom I could appeal her (nit-wit) decision.

I find the last e-mail I sent to her and forward it to her again with a somewhat pissy-toned, decidedly demanding second message stating that I would like the courtesy of a reply from her, and expect it by the close of business that day.

I wonder if she knows what “close of business” means.

I am shocked when a plainly worded (not sugar plum fairy sweet) reply message appears in my mailbox moments later.

No greeting. No bestowing of blessings with her signature. In fact, no signature at all.

“You can call Msgr. Gregory.”

You can kiss my a**.
You can drop dead.
You can go to Hell.

That’s sort of the way it sounded.

And I am sure she was thinking that surely I would be put off by the notion of contacting Msgr Gregory. Shiver me timbers!

Well, what Madame Church Lady does not know is that my mother didn’t raise a shrinking violet. I would knock on the door of the Pope himself if that was the way to get this resolved.

Of course, I have to look up his number on the parish website, because the courtesy of her reply failed to courteously provide the information needed to do what she suggested.

I get the phone and dial. I am trying hard to think like a reasonable person when his secretary answers.

I am as sweet as Sweet Polly Purebread as I make my request. This is going to be good.

Be True To Your School

And then the games actually begin.

The first day of school ushers out the last semblance of relaxation and we begin the months long tear through volumes of academic material, reams of worksheets, stacks of required reading material, a gross of No. 2 pencils, pounds of erasers, dozens of glue sticks, and countless notes and papers and reminders and permission slips.

I have received exactly three notes so far on Power School. Power School is a blessing and a curse. It is essentially spyware so you can secretly take a good long look at your kids’ grade book and attendance record from the comfort of your desk at work and never bother the teacher, who swears her door is always open. I liked it better when they just called you or wrote a note. Now I get to go looking for trouble. I got the original mailing about passwords and log-ons in early August. In late August I got a new one stating that the old one was incorrect and to disregard it in favor of the new one (for each kid). And just today, a third telling me there was yet another glitch, and an additional one will be sent and to disregard anything about Power School that has been sent except the one you get on pink paper. And all of this gets to be lovingly copied for my ex-husband so he can butt in as he sees fit.

So much for unobtrusive spying.

It’s the first day of school and no one wants to budge from bed. Even though we all swore on a stack of Bibles the night before that we’d not make the morning a tap dance through the bowels of Hell.

So in record time and several hairstyles for her, 3 different shorts/shirt combinations for him, a pair of burned bagels, the swapping of several items in the lunch bag for other items of equal or lesser nutritional value, a couple of rushed photographs where the children feign being happy to stand by each other’s sides, and one scalding cup of coffee later, they are out the door and into the car, and soon enough I am dropping them off at a nearby corner, far enough away from the gathering crowd of Middle Schoolers that no one will see their mother kiss them.

And I am sadder than you’d think to see them dash across the street to join their friends without so much as a look back.

Accentuate the Positive

The hunt for all the accessories an 11 year old glamour-puss could desire begins at Claire's Boutique.

Have you been to Claire's? It is enough to give you a seizure disorder.

It is also a brilliant concept.

It completely consumes the heart and mind of an 11 year old girl - who is shopping with her mother's money - and her mother's empathy for what it was like to suddenly feel self conscious about your looks and worried that you would not keep up - suddenly the girl you used to swap nail polish with is your competition. Every girl for herself!

The place bombards your senses with loud music and lots of hot pink and black and animal print and marabou - to appeal to the emerging and fickle good girl/bad girl image that the prepubescent, hormonally-charged young things flit through the door with.

Floor to ceiling hair notions, locker accoutrement's, stow-away-in-your backpack hair brushes and mirrors and makeup and phone accessories.

Outrageous costume jewelry, scarves, purses, backpack decorations, patches - all that glitters and all that is coveted by the average red-blooded American pre-teen.

And they very slyly provide little pink fabric collapsible buckets - light and comfy to dangle on a little 6th grade arm - and easily capable of holding way more loot than the average pair of 11 year old hands.

A great big sign - BUY 3, GET 2 FREE- beckons my gal to the vast selection of hair thingies.

We simply must have ponytail holders and barrettes and clips and bands of every color and shape and embellishment so that we stand out in every crowd. As if her platinum blond locks on their own do not scream out her Marilyn Monroe-ness when she bops into a room?

And when the little pink bucket is nearly bulging with stuff - a disturbingly pretty young man comes to have a look, and quickly assesses what other things we'd be crazy not to consider in order to qualify for another two-fer, or to get in on two more free things by placing just one more hair extension in the bucket.

No fewer than $52 later, I exit Claire's Boutique and think I have found the latest competition for crack.