School Daze

Five years ago, I waddled around New York, my body swollen with baby, my heart pregnant with hope.

Until someone asked where we were sending this kid to school.

From that moment, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put that burst bubble back together again.

We were going to have to leave the city before she went to kindergarten. Simple as.

Now, that’s not to say there aren’t good schools in New York. Because there are, great ones. And they usually come with waitlists, or as they say now, “wait-pools.”

They also come with big bills. And Mama can’t pay that. 

If they happen to be – GASP! – good public schools, you can bet your bottom dollar there’s a waitlist there, too.

See, there are a limited number of desks in those schools, and my child shouldn’t have to rely on luck and a lottery. My baby should not have to wait on Superman.

Hey, Baby! No waiting for princes or knights in shining armor, either.
August 2006.

She should wait on the bus. And she should wait, quietly, with hand raised, for her teacher to call on her. But not for Superman.

Now, this is not a New York problem. City schools across the country – including Birmingham and Atlanta – are struggling. Which is why we we’re not living ITP. (Translation: Inside the Perimeter. Further Translation: Not the ‘burbs.)

We live about 45 minutes north of downtown, close enough to both good shopping and cow pastures. You know what else is close? Some of the best schools in the state.

You know what might be even closer? Parental meltdown.

The anxiety just radiates off of her, doesn't it?
May 2011.

Kindergarten Meet and Greet was this week: it was a big night for Mom and Dad. Not so much for Olivia. She seemed rather bored. But Mom? Oh, yes, my eyes drank in every detail with excitement… and abject fear.

All the cubbies and desks and books and art supplies and computers and bulletin boards and tissue paper butterflies called, “You’re daughter is going to love us!” Then the empty halls yelled back, “Just wait till we’re filled with fifth graders pushing your kid around. Just wait till someone tells her she’s fat. Just wait till someone tells her she’s stupid, and she doesn’t want to talk in class anymore. Just wait.”

Mean halls. They don’t play fair.

All my school-age insecurities swirl around me now, and tonight I sit here scared that Olivia will fail tomorrow’s Kindergarten screening. There isn’t even a “fail” option, and yet, I’m scared of it. How stupid is that?

I’m struggling to learn a lesson that I comprehend but can’t quite put into action. My behavior teaches Olivia better than most anyone else’s. If I’m scared, she’s scared. If I’m too demanding, she’s too demanding. If I want things just so, she wants thing just so-ier.

I’ve got to calm down and breathe. If I can't, it won't matter how good the schools are: she'll be the smartest, most screwed up little bundle of nerves the world has ever seen.

So, please, wish me luck tomorrow. 

Livvie will be fine. That kid reads like a champ. But me?

Total mess. 

Perhaps I should write, "I will not screw up my daughter" 100 times on lined paper. That'll help, right?