Parent V. Parent

As I woke up before the dawn met the night and told it to scram, I glanced at my clock:  5:11.  I had automatically woken four minutes before my alarm was to go off.  That’s what happens when I’m stressed.

I realized that I could already be too late. 

I dressed, pulling on the same black stretch pants I had worn yesterday (who’s gonna know?) washed my face and combed my hair down with water, forgetting to brush my teeth (which I would later regret), gathered my paperwork, and made the first cup of caffeinated coffee I’ve had in months.  It felt like a race day.

But that’s because it IS a race day.  A race to be first in a line-up of desperate, working parents. A race to the top of the list. 

Kindergarten registration day. 

I rolled out of the driveway at 5:33, my stomach in knots.  How many would already be there, huddled in the cars, light rain falling?  How long had they been there?  Were there other parents more hardcore then me? 

Yes.

I rolled into the lot and immediately began counting cars.  In the first row I could see…1, 2, 3, 4, 5…my heart began to sink.  There are only 15 precious slots and one third of them are sitting right in front of me.  Why didn’t I wake up sooner?  Why am I always living on the edge?  I coasted deeper into the lot where cars were lined up against the playground gate…6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12…and one car on the side…13.

I am number 14.  The clouds parted, the heavens opened and the angels began to sing.  She’s in. 

I pulled into a spot, let my car idle, and commenced the hour and a half wait until the director was to open the doors to let us in. 

Not too bad.  I can easily kill an hour and half.  I brought books, caffeine, my computer.  I’m set.  I have heard the horror stories about parents camping out the night before at other schools. 

It could be a lot worse. 

I think I need to turn on the heat in here.  My fingers are a tad numb.  Hold on a sec. 

Ah.  Much better.  So as I was saying, I really have nothing to cry about.  Number 16 will, but not me. 

A figure in a white jacket strides towards my car.  She’s got a pen in her hand.  And an envelope.  I open my door before she can tap on the glass.  It’s Ella’s mom.  She’s put together a list.  “I’m having it notarized,” she joked. 

I gleefully sign my name next to the number fourteen.  “So you’re not putting your kid in [our public school kindergarten} either?” she asks.   This had not been an easy decision, but at the end of the day I decided it was best for Sophia, given that I was planning on working longer hours next year and that kindergarten in our town is only half-day.  “No…she’s so happy here, and I’m going to be working….”

“I get it.”  She tells me.  “It was either this or the Friends school.  But I didn’t want her to have to make two transitions.”

We talk for a moment about how ridiculous this is.  How ridiculous we are for being here.  But what else can we do? 

“I talked to the director to get a sense of when I should get here this morning.” 

“I did that too.  Miss Colleen said 5:15, so I knew I had to get here an hour earlier.”  Ella’s mom was number 2.  “But I practically live in the school’s backyard (she gestured across the way).  I was surprised I wasn’t here first.  They must have got here at 3:45.”

I am so not hardcore.   “Wow.  They told me 6:15…but if I had listened….I don’t understand why they do it this way, pitting parent against parent.  I suggested to them that they do this by lottery, and they seemed surprised, like they hadn’t considered it before.”

“What did they say?”

“Oh, just that it was a good idea for next year, but they had already sent out all the information….”

“Well, in past years, it wasn’t like this.  They said last year was a breeze.” 

It’s 6:07.  Number 15 just pulled in.  That’s it.  Technically, I made the cut with a half-hour to spare.  (Hard to believe that 13 people arrived before 5:30 and just me between then and now.  I guess I lie somewhere between desperate and carefree on the continuum of parents-who-want-in.)  Ella’s mom went off to sign him on to The List.  (I am glad someone is keeping a list.  There is order.  My spot is secure.  I am glad it’s not me, for I realize in keeping that list, she will eventually have to tell others they are not on it.)

Aw, number 16 just arrived.  He’s getting out to count cars.  I watch his shoulders fall as he climbs back in behind the wheel and pulls out his cell phone.  I bet he has to call his wife and tell her he missed it by one. 

17.  18.  Thank goodness I got here when I did.  I guess there really was a chance I wouldn’t get in. 

19.  This is getting depressing.  Like any race, there are winners and losers.    Ella’s mom, the one keeping the list, is now joined by another mom—to provide her with moral support—as she breaks the bad news to the late arrivals.  They trudge past my car, heads lowered, to the line of SUVs forming.

Morning has broken, but it is a grim sky, light filtered through a wall of clouds.  Rain is beginning to fall. 

I better fill out the damn form, so when I get there, I’m ready to claim my place.   I didn’t want to do it ahead of time.  I didn’t want to jinx it. 

An older woman with glasses emerges from the front of the building, the front door of her house that is attached to the school.  Everyone pours out of their cars and cheers as she walks up the path to the main entrance.  She’s 20 minutes ahead of schedule. 

The celebration is brief.   Ella’s mom reads out from the list as parents dutifully take their place in line.   There is a bit of confusion as both men in positions 15 and 16 are named Matt—so Ella’s mom reads through the list again, this time with last names, and the men stand accordingly.  I turn and realize there are mostly men at the back of the line.  Two of them I know fairly well.  One had previously expressed to me how much he needed his daughter to get in.  I had talked to the wife of the other, who said the same.  How did they find themselves at the back of the line, I wonder?  Did they take what the director said at face value? Did they doubt the degree of competition for the spots?  Could they simply not get out of the house any sooner?

I wave.  They wave back with somber faces. 

The one woman who is behind me looks as though she is about to cry.  She is dressed in a suit, holding an infant in one hand and a toddler in the other, while the would-be kindergartener stands compliantly at her side.  I imagine that she has done all of this alone—awakened three children, fed them, dressed them, got ready herself, packed everyone in the car only to arrive too late.

Inwardly, I am deeply relieved, but I find it impossible to smile myself.  Any giddiness at my success is mediated by the disappointment of others. 

I did not want to be this woman’s competitor.  I did not want to edge out the parents of my daughter’s friends.  I quietly hand in my form and head home to wake my fortunate four-year-old. 

Playing Games

“Let’s play Candyland!” Sophie exclaims, retrieving the game from its hiding place underneath the coffee table. Obviously not well-hidden enough.

I inwardly groan. I used to like Candyland. In fact, I was the one who suggested my sister buy it for her in the first place. As a kid, Candyland held the same mystique for me that toy stores did. Now, when I walk into a toy store, all I see is tons of junk that costs tons of money. But when I was a kid, the walls were lined with possibility. I didn’t even need to buy anything to derive pleasure from a walk down the aisles. And this was before there were Thomas the Train tables and kid-sized kitchens available for the playing. All the fun existed in my head. Candyland was like that. Nothing on that board was edible, and yet the idea of it was delicious. The candy hearts, the gum drop mountains, the ice cream floats…I couldn’t wait to get to the next treat.

Of course, I wanted Sophia to experience that. And because I practice sugar deprivation (I won’t let her drink juice, let alone eat a gum drop), I knew just how much she would love it.

So here we were setting up the pieces. “I’ll be red, because that’s my favorite.” (Not really, but it’s the closest approximation to hot pink.) “You’ll be blue because that’s YOUR favorite.” Playing along, I tell her, “You’re right!” I instruct her to put the pieces at start, shuffle the cards and set the pile face down. Because she doesn’t yet have the manual dexterity to slide the top card off the pile, I set it askance for her. “You’re the youngest, so you get to go first.” I’ve read the rules. I know how the game is played. Pleased, Sophia draws a card. “Double blues!” she practically shouts, and proceeds to place her red gingerbread boy on a random blue spot on the board. I patiently point out the path and count out two blue spaces. She slides her piece to the right spot. I go quickly, and it’s her turn again. “I want Queen Frostine!” she squeaks, and she’s digging into the pile turning over all the cards to find the picture of the princess with the ice cream cone…a marriage of her two favorite things in life. (Ice cream is occasionally permitted. It’s calcium rich. And, besides, it’s my favorite.)

This is not how the game is played. You can’t just go through the pile and pick out any old card. You have to pick the card at the top of the pile! I tell her this, and a struggle ensues! “I want the princess!”

“You have to keep taking turns and maybe you’ll get her.” This is apparently not good enough for Miss Unable-to-Delay-My-Gratification. She’s still flipping cards over and I feel my patience evaporate.

I try to remind myself that this is developmentally appropriate. That she is playing with the game in her own creative way. And what does it matter, really?

But it does. I know I’m being completely irrational, but it’s making me crazy. I tuck the cards back into a neat pile and urge her to pick the card on top. She pulls her first face card…the candy cane. Her expressive little face breaks into a huge smile. “I got the candy cane!” “Fabulous,” I tell her, “now move to the candy cane spot.” She does. I motion for her to place the Candy Cane card into the discard pile, and she grips it with her chest, her smile disappears into a scowl. “NO! IT’S MINE!”

All right. Well, it’s not like it’s going to affect the game. I let her keep it and take my turn.

It’s her turn now, only she’s too busy talking to the Candy Cane card to notice. “I want to eat you, Mr. Candy Cane!” she tells him, and pretends to gobble him up.

“Sophie, it’s your turn.”

“Oh! Okay.” She picks a card and moves her piece appropriately. I breathe a sigh of relief and go again. I get the Gingerbread Man, which sends me practically back to start. You’ve got to be kidding me. I make a mental note to take the Gingerbread Man out of all future games.

“I want the Gingerbread Man! Give him to me!” It also makes me crazy that every request is issued as a demand of late.

“Ask me nicely, please.”

“Give me the Gingerbread Man please!”

“How about, “may I have the Gingerbread Man, please?” She spits it back to me in an insincerely, sing-songy voice.

“Okay,” I relent and hand it over. The Gingerbread Man is introduced to the Candy Cane man. I can see this game is never going to end.

Nan calls, I pick up the phone. She has something serious to discuss, and I balance the phone on my shoulder, attempting to continue to play with Sophie as I listen to what she has to say.

“Mom? Is it my turn?”

I cover the mouthpiece. “Yes, go ahead.” She picks blue and promptly gets stuck in a licorice swamp.

“Yay! I’m on the licorice spot.”

“It’s not like it’s a good thing, Sophie. Now you have to miss a turn.”

“But I like licorice. I want to stay here!” Honestly. How can you play a game with a person who has no desire to win? With no competitive fire? Who wants to lose a turn?

I interrupt Nan to explain what all the racket is about. “I’m sorry,” I fess up. “we’re playing Candyland.”

“I REFUSE to play Candyland.” She tells me. “Reid always wants all of the blue cards. It makes me crazy.” I can always count on Nan to validate my experience.

Yes. I could just not play the game. Or, I could let it go and let her play the game the way she wants to…the way she thoroughly enjoys it at this point. There is plenty of time for competitive fire. To stick to the rules. To be a good sport. Not every moment is a teachable one. Sometimes, I need to just go with the flow.

And I slip all the candy cards out of the deck and hand them to her. Sophie beams. “I love Candyland,” she tells me. And I am a little dismayed to realize that, though I do like to play, I am not a kid anymore.

Bragging Rights

We’ve all been in the room with her.

She parades her baby around like a trained monkey. “Look,” she says to her captive audience hunched together on the couch, “She pounds her chest like a gorilla!” She turns to the baby. “I’m a gorilla, and I can thump my chest!” she models as her daughter squirms off to chew on a coaster, loathe to the task. “She doesn’t always do it when there are other people around,” the mother apologizes. So she moves onto the next trick, “She can identify herself in pictures!” She shoves a photo in front of the baby’s face singing, “Who is it?” The baby grabs at the picture and crumples it in her grasp. “I don’t know what’s with her today,” the mother mumbles, feeling her embarrassment. “Well, watch this…she just loves books,” she pulls out “Goodnight Moon,” which, she claims, her daughter can recite half of. The mother points to the moon and says, “Goodnight….” the sentence hangs in the air and every observing adult has the urge to complete it. “Bah!” says the baby. “Moon! IT’S MOON. You KNOW this,” says the exasperated woman. At this, the baby smiles.

This annoying woman is me. For some of you, this did not take much guesswork.

I guess when I do it, I don’t think of it as bragging, exactly. I’m just so excited about every new development I want to share it with the world. So listen to this, world—two days ago when Sophia pooped her diaper and I asked, “Sophia, where’s the poo?” she patted her behind! The kid’s a genius.

I wonder why my friends rarely brag to me about their kids. Do they think I wouldn’t care? (I would) Does it not occur to them to do it? (Possibly) Do they have much better self control? (Probably)

There’s really only one person I can brag to without feeling a little sheepish about it. (Bragging to Kevin doesn’t count, or, rather, doesn’t count as bragging as Sophie is as much a product of his genes and parenting as she is of mine. With Kevin, it’s more like… gushing. And gushing about Sophie is our number one topic of conversation these days. I admit—we’re disgusting. On the other hand, we’re far more tolerable than when we spoke this way about our cat.)

That person is my mother, who also has a bragging issue. When she’s having a cringe-worthy conversation with, say, the guy at the checkout counter of the 7-11, it’s as if she’s holding up a full-length, three-way mirror to me that betrays every unflattering angle:

“This is my granddaughter, Sophia. Sophia, can you say, ‘hi?’ Say ‘hi.’” (Brief pause for Sophia to oblige.) “Can you believe the way she’s talking at only 15 months? She (indicating me) talked early, too, of course, but not like this one.”

“Mom,” I tug at her sleeve with the hand that is not wrapped around my baby.

“What? Can’t a grandmother brag a little about her baby?”

Can she? Does grandma have bragging rights? Do I? And if so, to whom?

This is one of the unspoken rules of parenthood that eludes me. Am I allowed to be proud? When does pride cross the line into arrogance? Am I provoking competition? Are my motives pure? Is bragging like sexual harassment—mattering less how it was intended than how it was received? How is it being received?

Do I really want to know?