The "something special"

By the way, this is what we were presented with in the classroom after the graduation and before we had to help change our kids out of their party dresses and into their play clothes for a day of exploits with shaving cream. They really know how to go for the heartstrings, huh?

Pomp and circumstance

So this morning was the big graduation ceremony. Mind you, it's not officially called a graduation ceremony, but it looks like one since all 75 children are called by name, walk across the stage, fumble the handshake with the principal and the school namesake, receive a certificate and then pause for a lengthy photo op. Sounds like graduation, no? But, happily, the speeches are brief, and no children deliver them. They just sing the school song (always a tear-jerker, in my opinion). They're also the thrilled subjects of a powerpoint presentation featuring candid shots taken throughout the year. After the epic (for a kindergartener's attention span, not to mention two-year-old Lark's) roll call, the students sat on the floor beneath the stage to watch the slide show. I couldn't see them from where I was sitting, but I could hear them—the high-pitched squeal/roar of approval that met each new slide was hilarious.

Anyway, it all came off without a hitch. Dale had been up for two nights worrying about the fact that she had to stand on the top riser for the first part of the ceremony. She is terrified of the top riser—she's convinced that she's going to fall backward and split open her head and die or at least have to go to the hospital and get a shot. She is a very high-strung gal. At the patriotic musical assembly a couple months ago, she managed to get the teacher to move her down to the middle, even though she ended up obscuring the view of the kids directly behind her. She warned me that she'd probably be crying through the whole ceremony because she's so afraid of that riser, and for a few moments, I toyed with the idea of emailing her teacher. Not to ask her to move her, but just to warn her. Then I was like, no... she's got to deal with this kind of stuff on her own. She is tall, the tallest, maybe, in her class, and the top riser is her destiny. (This I can attest by flipping through my own class photos—I'm always looming with bad hair and a frowny face in the back row.)

But yesterday at pick-up, I made a point of asking how rehearsal went, and—loudly, within earshot of the teacher—if she'd made peace with that top riser. And the teacher winced, knowing the situation, obviously, and assured her that it was all going to be okay, that she didn't even have to stand there for five minutes, and that she'd make sure she would not fall. And, of course, she was okay—noticeably wobbly, and then hanging heavily on the sleeve of the boy next to her—but A-okay. There was something a little Blanche DuBois about the whole thing, but I was happy he wasn't the kind of kid to shake her off.

So here's where I'm going to say that I didn't experience a graduation ceremony till 8th grade, and this time, I don't think I'm the only one who was deprived of all the pomp and circumstance. I feel this is a fairly recent development. I vaguely recall reading criticism of these early ceremonies as symptomatic of the mollycoddling trend, where everyone is a winner and blue ribbons don't mean anything anymore because everyone gets them and wasn't this country founded on the ideals of meritocracy? So why are we so intent on building up our kids' self-esteem that we have to make a big to-do over something like advancing from one grade to the next, which used to be expected, a matter of course?

I don't personally think that kindergarten graduation ceremonies are sounding the death knell of western civilization. But it might be nice if they could find a way to make them a little less long, at least out of kindness to the two-year-olds in the audience (and their parents!).

The final four

Well, here we are, the last week, and it's not even a full week. No Friday ice cream, no Friday lunch with the teacher, no Friday folder in backpacks. Just Thursday and—wee! We're over the precipice and on to first grade. Naturally, the last week is going to be a nutty one. Got a flyer last week that the PTA president would be getting dunked in a dunking machine on the last day of school, though there was no indication of where or when, exactly this would happen, or even why? I mean, do students even know who the PTA president is or what such an office entails? Most parents don't, so I'm doubting it. However, Dale's first encounter with the dunking machine (there's probably a more proper term for that) was very positive: The "big kids" got to dunk the PE teacher on Field Day. When she breathlessly recounted this to me, she was simply glowing with delight—ah, the taste for public humiliation shows itself early, doesn't it? I've got to take her to a Renaissance Faire sometime so she can check out the stockade.

So the last four days will be a tour-de-force of Spirit Days.

Today is "Backwards Day," for which students where their shirts backward and have a reversed schedule of classes/activities. I really had to convince Dale to wear her princess kitty shirt backwards; she failed to see the humor in it.

Tomorrow is graduation, for which everyone is supposed to dress up, a concept she has no trouble with whatsoever. She's been pondering all weekend about which of her many party dresses and gowns will suit the occasion. Afterward, parents get to go the classroom and help their kids change into play clothes for a whole day of art projects (this too she will love). We're also supposed to be presented with something special—whatever could it be?

Wednesday is "pajamas and game day." Students wear their jammies to school (but no slippers! very adamant about that for some mysterious reason); hopefully this will not incite an argument as Dale tries to squeeze into the Sleeping Beauty negligee she got at Disney World when she was barely three years old. They also get to bring their favorite board games, which I think is a cute idea, though I don't expect to see any pieces come back...

And Thursday, well, it's a surprise (something to do with the dunking the PTA president perhaps?) that will culminate with the class party, which I am happy to say I will be able to attend after all, though I will feel naked without my arm candy, little Lark.

Oh, and in other news, on Friday I totally caved and bought Dale a yearbook (recall my diatribe against yearbooks for kindergarteners only a few days ago). They had a table set up outside at pick-up and as soon as Dale got within shouting distance of me, she was shouting for a yearbook. She had back-up from her best pal, whose mom had thoughtfully ordered one well in advance. I did a quick poll of moms and the teacher about where the yearbook money went ($27) and no one was certain. The yearbook sales-mom informed me that it all went back to the school, which probably means it just goes back into making the next yearbook, but given how voraciously Dale attacked the thing, I take it all back. Yearbook = good. I will banish any vision of my sixtysomething self trying to get Dale to take ownership of the 17 boxes of yearbooks I'll have crowding my garage.

Maybe I was deprived as a small child, forced to wait until 8th grade before I could get my own yearbook to pore over. The thing has the most lilliputian photos I have ever seen (indeed, I could barely see them), but having edited a yeabook myself, I get the motivation there—you want to make sure every kid in school has at least one candid shot in the book, not just the popular joiner types. And they succeeded—Dale's mug made it in there a couple of times. My mother-in-law is even in the thing for chrissakes!

I also found it edifying to look through. I scrutinized the faces of the first grade teachers. Which one will be ours? Which ones have the best reputations? I'm afraid to inquire since you can't really request a particular teacher (it's strongly discouraged) and I don't want to be disappointed if we get one of the less-well-liked ones. I also learned that we have a Chess Club and it is ginormous—it's like the biggest extracurricular after concert choir! And there's strings—a much punier group, but, hey, strings? We did not have strings at my school. Will Dale be a cello-playing chesshead? At this point, having come this far, anything seems possible.

Party on (and on...)

For some time, I've known that during the last hour of Dale's last day of school, there will be a party in the classroom. I envisioned this party to be much like the party they had at Christmas, but with a lot more tears and fewer references to Rudolph. I also expected that, like at the Christmas party, little sister Lark would be in attendance, tearing shit up like a pint-sized maniac who's out partying with the big kids instead of taking her nap like she's supposed to at 1:30 in the afternoon.

Well, I just read the fine print on the e-vite and after double-confirming the meaning of the words "please make arrangements for siblings" with the room mom, I've discovered that Lark is not, in fact, invited to the big last-day bash. Jeez, was it something she said at the Christmas party? The off-color jokes? The lampshades on the head? The way she xeroxed her butt and passed out in the punch?

No, really, I know it's nothing personal. Apparently, school policy has changed. They're trying to make this a low-key affair. Siblings can't attend, and room moms have been discouraged from inviting all the parents to the party, so the working parents don't feel compelled to take time off or guilty about not taking time off. On the one hand, I can see that as a good thing—this aspect of working full-time would suck mightily, all the stuff you feel you should be volunteering to do but you can't afford to be taking off so much time from work and when does it really matter and when is it just silly for you to be squandering work time, etc. On the other hand, maybe those parents would prefer to make that decision for themselves.

Not sure how I feel about that issue, but it's not my battle, regardless. Mine is child care, and how I don't have any after this week. Dale is going to be so disappointed if I'm not there dishing out ice cream sundaes, assembling crafty visors and helping her carry all her last-day-of-school booty to the car. (I'm not even going to think about how sad Lark will be about missing the party, she has become a kind of class mascot thanks to her antics at pick-up—luckily, it is still possible to conceal things from a two-year-old.) Here's hoping my weekend/evening babysitter has a tiny hole in her working-three-job schedule to hang at my house during Lark's nap next Thursday.

Junebugged

On Friday, Dale and I had a little disagreement. She swore that there were only 13 more days of school. I told her that was insane, that it couldn't possibly be true and that she needed to work a little harder on her calendar exercises. A short time later, I received an email from her teacher notifying us about something that I can't remember, which she signed off with a "Wow! Can't believe there are only 13 days left!" Of course, I didn't believe the teacher either, so I re-counted the boxes on the calendar and came to the conclusion that, oh, mea culpa, I was counting Memorial Day.

Ohh.. it really is 13 days. Well, in an hour, it will be 12.

Now that the scales have been removed from my eyes, I realize that the signs have been everywhere. Last week was the LAST PTA meeting! (The last PTA meeting for me to miss this year, which I did). Also, Field Day. (Can you believe they have Field day? Here I go again, with my curmudgeonly take on all things kinder, but we didn't have Field Day until junior high, and it was at a resort in the Poconos. Dale's Field Day was a more low-key affair, held at the school gym and ball fields. She was introduced to some new activities—water balloon race, tug of war, sack race, etc—skill sets it will behoove her to have for future field days, block parties, company picnics and whatnot.)

We received notices in backpack mail trumpeting the arrival of the yearbooks, and letting us know that a few extras will be available on a first-come-first-served basis to slacker moms who did not order one back in September. I don't feel the least guilty about taking a pass on that little memento. I bought three yearbooks during my four years of high school, and as I occasionally gaze at their spines collecting dust on my bookcase, I tend to think even that was a bit excessive (especially now, as my former classmates and their personal bidness are all over Facebook). Shouldn't we just get one at the end of our senior year in high school? Or, okay, one for eighth grade as well. (I have to say that because I was the editor of mine—a dear little pamphlet entitled "Images '82.") When I look at the boxes already overflowing with memorabilia from preschool and onward, I can't see throwing a hardcover volume into the mix... I would have six of them by the time she reached middle school! Then seven more. And what about college? Would she pass on that as I once did? As someone who goes to a lot of estate sales, and sees a lot of old unloved yearbooks teetering on the dustheaps of people's lives, I say, you can keep your yearbooks, at least till my kid is old enough to fill hers with cryptic notes. Till she's got something worth leaving in the the "class will." I guess I should be glad that they don't have class rings. Maybe next year?

Other signs of the coming apocalypse, I mean, the end of school: I have already RSVP'd for graduation (they call it something else, but the ceremony involves walking across a stage and getting a certificate, so that qualifies as graduation. I wonder how I will keep little sister under wraps while all 78 names are read and multiple speeches delivered?). And finally, the end-of-year flurry of teacher-gift-giving projects and class party throwing, which gets confusing with two kids (don't know how people manage with more). I'm pretty sure I've got some scrapbook contributions to make by the end of the week, but I'm not sure for which kid. And whose party has a beach theme and which one starts at the ungodly early hour of 10am and involves ice cream sundaes?

Now, I had been idly thinking of getting our kindergarten teacher some little token of our esteem—thoughtful, symbolic, not entirely useless but not impersonal like a gift card (did that at Christmas) or a smelly candle, because I really am grateful that she was the hand we were dealt. But, as it turns out, a group gift is being assembled, a project spearheaded by a group of more proactive moms. So we're signed up for that—I had to tie Dale to a chair to get her to fill out a lengthy questionnaire as well as write a personal essay—do I still get a gift?

Oh, probably so, but only 13... I mean, 12 days to go...

Sweet six

On May 26, Dale will be turning six, which is the age I recall having my first official birthday party. We had six to eight kids over to my house, mostly my neighborhood friends, but also my kindergarten "boyfriend." I remember it was a big deal because we had to drive allllll the way to the other side of town and deliver the invitation in person. He came, I think, but I really don't remember the party at all. Just the cake, which was white with yellow and blue flowers.

This will be Dale's third party, and her cake...oh...her cake. Dale has a grandmother who is a caterer with access to some very wonderful custom cake bakers, so she's given Dale carte blanche to design the cake, and thus far they've been quite elaborate. But this year promises to, uh, take the cake. Because she doesn't know what she wants, because she's being pulled in all different directions, she's trying to come up with a confectionary vision that will please everyone.

First, let's backtrack and talk about how preschool parties are different from kindergarten parties. In preschool, a kid doesn't really have friends—oh, okay, maybe a couple but they're mostly self-centered and just evolving from the whole parallel play thing. Also, classes in preschool are tiny (ideally) so you can invite the whole gang with relative ease, knowing that not all will come (but that it will balance out because the ones who do attend will bring siblings, even cousins). Most preschoolers don't play sports every weekend (ideally) so you can have a party on a Saturday morning and not worry about conflicts or naps. The parents of preschoolers will stay for the duration of the party and manage their offspring's behavior (ideally). Oh, and most preschoolers aren't yet aware that girls rule/boys drool or vice versa. They cross gender lines and parallel play nicely, thank you very much.

Kindergarten is a different beast altogether. First of all, class size. There are 21 kids in Dale's class, which makes for the start of a very long guest list, especially if they're all going to bring siblings and cousins. Kindergarteners don't nap as a rule, and they also do T-ball and soccer and swim team on the weekends (or their older siblings do), so party times are all over the map. I'm still sticking to my toddler-friendly slot of 10am-noon on a Saturday (there's another reason for this—San Antonio temperatures in late May can be scorching so the earlier, the better), but we've been invited to numerous late afternoon/evening parties on weekdays and weekends. I generally pass on those, unless the birthday boy/girl is someone we're really fond of. And speaking of boy/girl, are we really fond of any boys at this point? Not many.

This is the year when the gender lines have really been drawn in the sand for us. Boys are Star Wars and girls are High School Musical and never the twain shall meet, as I've discussed previously. In Dale's class, it seems the boys and the girls really don't hang out all that much, but they still want to go to each other's parties. At the beginning of the year, the teacher made the birthday party policy very clear: First, moms are forbidden to bring cupcakes or anything else to celebrate the big day (yay!). Second, if you want to distribute your invites through backpack mail, you MUST invite the entire class. But if you want to just invite a privileged few, or do a gender-segregated party (as some girls do, apparently), then you have to mail invites to the home addresses.

I can't imagine doing the latter. All the kids talk about the parties, and jeez, it seems like it would be pretty harsh to get left out. My feeling is to invite everyone and expect that not that many will show, for reasons already stated—that on Saturday mornings, they've got sports to play or other commitments. But Dale is expecting everyone, which brings me back to her cake. One year her cake theme was "purple-unicorn-fairy"; the next it was "Sleeping Beauty." This time it's morphed from "Snow White" to ...

Dale: Mom, I want my cake to be half High School Musical and half Star Wars.
Me: Really? You've never even seen those movies!
Dale: I know, but all my friends at school have, and if I don't have a High School Musical theme, the girls won't come, and if I don't have a Star Wars theme, the boys won't come.
Me: Oh. Won't they just come because your their friend?
Dale: No.
Me: [thinking maybe I should take this occasion to lecture on the true meaning of friendship, but taking the easy way instead] Well, we're not doing a High School Musical cake. But maybe we could do something with fairies, flowers, princesses and Star Wars characters. I see them all frolicking together in a field of frosting flowers!
Dale: [Excited] Yeah, that's a great idea!

Cut to yesterday, as she was trying to explain the cake concept to my mother-in-law, who was trying to conceal her utter bafflement.

I'm not sure what the cake will end up looking like. I'm also not sure how many parents will just drop their kids off at my door and pick them up two hours later. The etiquette on when it's okay to drop off and when it's appropriate for parents to stay seems rather inconsistent. As much as I've enjoyed these front-yard blowouts, I'm hopeful that this will be the last of them and that next year, Dale will be a little more choosey about whom she invites. Then we can have a real birthday/school's-(almost)-out-for-summer wingding in our pool, and she can put whatever she wants on that cake without embarrassment—Disney princesses, Moomins, Jenny and the Cat Club, a great big self-portrait.

Journal of the plague year

This morning I had an unpleasant deja vu. I was watching the local "news," as I do every weekday morning, just to confirm the predictable weather forecast, when I realized the star ambulance-chasing reporter was standing in front of a school, and she was talking about schools, and the image that flashed across the screen was...our school?

That's a shit feeling, though I suppose the story could have been about our school getting some award/stimulus money/visit from the governor. But no, of course it was about the swine flu.

(Oh, the deja vu part? Once, several/many years ago, I was reclining on Lindsay's couch at his Central Park West pad, listening to music and watching NY1 with the sound down, when my apartment building, some 17 blocks and three avenues away, appeared onscreen, its entryway wrapped in yellow caution tape. I turned up the volume in time to hear that someone had been kicking in apartment doors all night long, robbing and terrorizing tenants, until he crossed paths with a tenant who happened to be an off-duty cop, returning from the late shift. The guy drew his gun on the cop in the hall and she blew him away. Turned out the gun was just a toy so it was big news for a good day or two.)

Back to the flu. Five highly-probable-but-not-yet-officially-confirmed cases have been reported in our school district, and one is from our school. Crap. According to the report, the school was notified the evening before and cleaning crews were called in to work overnight at swabbing our decks, and um, changing out the AC filters. Schools were not going to be closed "per CDC guidelines." I felt panicky for about five seconds, for the first time since this whole thing began, but I returned to my default even keel. The damage has already been done, hasn't it? I mean, was there a logical reason not to send her to school?

I was mostly disconcerted by the lack of communication from the school, though I'm not quite sure how they're supposed to handle it. I was thinking about all the people who don't watch the local news—they would be totally oblivious. Lindsay did the drop-off and reported that it was pretty much business as usual. Our teacher was wielding a giant vat of hand sanitizer, but that's been going on for a while anyway. He noted one dad who was buttonholing the principal and trying to find out the identity of the student who has the flu (or most likely does) and of course she didn't share it. I mean, what's the guy gonna do? Paint a big red X on the child's front door? That's where I start to get freaked out, though it is possible I read The Stand one too many times as a teenager.

Besides, I can't pretend to be completely above it. After school, I quizzed Dale about her classmates' attendance. Was anyone absent today? "Oh, just __ and ___" she replied airily. "__ is out AGAIN!"

"Really?? ___ has been out a lot lately?"

She shot me a look. "He's on a vacation, Mom!"

Right, right. Must not get paranoid.