wheelbarrow is full
supplies in tow, we venture
into the future
This afternoon we take our four bursting Target bags of school supplies up to the wee one’s new school and meet his teacher.
[insert image of me, as Homer, hopping from foot to foot, hands up by my shoulders flopping nervously back and forth, with a concerned grimace on my face]
Something about school brings back memories of being judged. And I loved school! But I still can’t shake the "am I doing it right?" "did I answer that correctly?" "does everybody like me?" decidedly in-the-box-with-a-fear-of-stepping-out-of-it attitude that was instilled in me during my elementary and middle school years.
Feeling this way irritates me, because I’m happy to be uncoventional and strange and all that. I feel better when I’m antagonizing the status quo. And yet, as a kid I was Hermione Granger. I guess I still am to some extent. So just smelling the inside of an elementary school brings back some kind of muscle memory that makes me shrink down to three and half feet tall.
I am intimidated, I think. Which is ridiculous. I am the mommy. I rule the world. And yet I know that for the better part of everyday, another grown woman will rule the wee one’s world. I don’t want to defer my power to her, but I know I’m going to have to trust her. Wielding Grown Up Power over my child is not something I trust to those of a weak constitution or tendency to holler. I plan to scrutinize this teacher, as I’m sure she’s used to from mommies throughout the years. I have a page of questions to ask. I am going to try and not feel bad for being annoying. I’m also working very hard to banish all feelings of intimidation and inferiority before I step foot in that school this afternoon.
I will not be a push over. And on the other side of the spectrum, I will not be a hovering heliparent. I will relax. I will relax. I will relax.
The wee one, by the way, is incredibly, out of this world excited. And I’m excited that he’s excited.
"We get to meet my teacher today!" he squealed upon waking up. "I’m going to wear this!" And he promptly offered up the skeleton hoodie I bought him a couple of days ago. It’s black and has glow-in-the-dark bones painted on it in the shape of ribs and arms.
"It’s a hundred and seventy nine thousand degrees outside, wee one," I said. "It’s going to be too hot to wear a jacket."
His cheerful grin turned into a glower. He stared at me as if I had just happily offered him a plate of green beans for breakfast.
"Mommy," he said in his ‘don’t be an idiot’ tone that makes my ears twitch. "I’m not going to wear a shirt under it."
Ah, yes. That will make it incredibly cooler.
So think of us at about 3pm today. The wee one will be doing his best Martin-Lawrence- jogging-in-a-sweat-suit-and-slowly-sweating-to-death impersonation and I will be tamping down decades of strange leftover "a test! it’s a test!" feelings. The wee-er one will be standing in her stroller and my husband will be walking behind us pretending he doesn’t know who we are.
Yee haw, three days until It All Starts.