This morning at 8:10am we arrive at S's school. I get a lot of hugs. I give a lot of hugs. I sell tickets to a parents' night out fundraiser while comforting kindergarten parents who are trying not to cry. I stop in the office and catch up with the administration. I hand the principal a bag of cheddar goldfish I meant to give S's teacher to give to kids who don't have snacks. I try to peek into the third grade window but the room has frosted glass. Crafty. I hear a new mom in the office confused about the dress code and I am able to offload a giant bag of clothes that S has outgrown. Phew. A new mom gets me a cup of coffee while I am flitting around meeting new parents and selling tickets. I warn her she just made a huge mistake showing such initiative and attention to detail (in this case the detail that I need coffee), then giving me her name. That's how you end up getting roped into leadership, I tell her. Another dad mentions that he's a designer and I march him over to the head of the yearbook committee. They never learn, these parents.
This is all to say, I'm still involved at the school beyond what makes any sense to me. I love it so much and it makes me crazy. I struggle with the feeling that I'm "supposed" to be making money, that I'm "supposed" to be putting my masters' degree to better use, that I shoulda coulda woulda. But we are not starving, in fact we are finally reasonably financially stable, and I have energy and passion for this school. So here I am again, building community, sharing information, connecting the newbies. The only way I could stop is if I didn't even show up. And with internet access, probably even that wouldn't work.
S and her friends pick each other up as they greet each other. I watch her from afar when she reunites with her best boy buddy, who now has teeth where he used to have a big gap. She finally has the gap. They are cracking each other up and I remember that so viscerally, that early feeling of finding your friend so funny it doubled you over, that realization that other kids can crack you up more than adults. And that you can be funny too. I see her say something, wait, then register pleasure at his giggles. I stand with his mom and we smile at their smiles, we like each other's kids. We are happy that they are happy together.
On the drive to school, S says she is nervous and excited - "good and bad nervous," "excited nervous and scared nervous," and also "so tired." She doesn't seem tired. She doesn't even seem that nervous. It feels a little like she's saying what she thinks she's supposed to say. She says that "everyone says third grade is the biggest grade and it's a really big deal." I don't say, "yeah, I'm writing a blog about that." I am tired. I am not particularly nervous. Watching her get into line and immediately help the new girl standing behind her, watching her giggle with her buddy, even seeing her once when she heads to the bathroom and I'm still standing in the hallway outside the auditorium with a stack of money from ticket sales, she is just fine. More than fine. She is glowing. She is wearing all blue today (dress code is very flex) - a sky blue shirt and turquoise shorts, navy socks, rainbow sneakers. She is glowing. And I am fine.
Last night before bed, she tried to play up the scared thing, but she was asleep before nine. No one who is really nervous falls asleep before nine. She ate a good breakfast. She chose Earth Wind and Fire and Katy Perry for family dance after tooth and hair brushing. It's 11:47 and I can't wait for 3:00. I feel lame at how much I can't wait to hear about every part of her day. I'll take her for ice cream on Abbot Kinney after school and we'll walk and talk. I'll hear about what third grade is like now. I'll choose salted caramel. I'll remember how lucky I am.
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