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. 

Big, Small Decisions

I first overheard the rumor at a birthday party.  “People,” I heard one mother say, “will start lining up around 5 am.”

“But why so early?” another mother replied, looking alarmed. 

“There are only twelve slots,” the first explained, her forehead creased with concern.  “It’s first come, first served.” 

I felt the seductive pull to freak out about this, so I moved to the other side of the room.  Fear is contagious, and I have a weak immune system.  

Because I didn't want to believe the hype, the next morning I walked into the director’s office.  The two women who run Sophie’s nursery school always have their door open.  They greet every child by name.  On this particular day, the sound of Billy Holiday was wafting out of their office. 

“So, are the rumors true?” I asked, without offering up a context. 

Her face broke out into a half-smile as she rolled her eyes.  “I’m telling everyone to get here around 6:15.  We’re not opening the doors before 7:15.  And then, it’s in the order that you came.  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.  People are respectful.”

“But then why wouldn’t I get here at five, or earlier, if it’s in the order in which we arrive.”

“You can,” she shrugged. 

Ugh.  Parent pitted against parent in a race to be first.  These are the parents I have come to know over the last couple of months.  Parents of Sophia’s friends--lovely people.  

Parents, like me, who work outside the home and need full-time kindergarten. 

You see, our town has half-day kindergarten.  I am told by that the teachers pack a lot of learning into those two and a half hours.  But almost as soon as you drop your children off (or they walk to school, there are no busses), it’s time to turn around and pick them back up again, rendering it virtually impossible to work.  Even from home.

The parents I know who work outside-the-home full time are fairly irate about the half-day situation.  Many have had children in day care since they were babies.  A half-day program feels like a step backwards to them.  They are resentful that they have to pay double to get the hours they need (taxes plus tuition) after having paid their dues for the past four years.  Particularly when in the Northern part of our state full-time kindergarten is the norm. 

I am fortunate.  I have options.  Not everybody does. 

Thing is, I really want to send Sophie to her public school.  There are a million reasons she should go—the quality of the education…to be with her friends from our block… to ensure she has a spot in our neighborhood school…she’s dying to… our taxes pay for it…but all of this is trumped by the fact that you blink, and the school day is over. 

I know that Sophia’s future does not rest on the quality of her kindergarten experience.  She will adapt to and thrive wherever she goes.  The anxiety that surrounds this decision, like all things, will become something that I smile at one day—the time I pitched a tent in front of Sophie’s nursery school to get her in a coveted slot. 

And yet, if I increase my hours next year because I enjoy my work, I have the opportunity to do some good in this world, and it will help pay the bills, I want to know that this decision has the lowest level of impact on Sophia.

I am not sure what that means, really.  Maximizing her comfort by minimizing change, perhaps.  Or maybe it’s about my own comfort.  Staying with what’s familiar, in a place where its homey and safe. Where I can leave Sophia for seven hours at a time, and when I come to pick her up, she begs me to stay longer.

So, ridiculous as it is, come November 13th, you can find me, parked in my Subaru, hands pressed against the vents for warmth, as the sun creeps into the sky.