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Proud Mommy & her first schoolgirl

So last week, I was a “room Mommy” in Savannah’s kindergarten class. As we walked into school hand-in-hand, I realized I don’t have as crappy of a memory as I thought. Everything was eerily familiar: the tiny molded plastic chairs, the belly-high coat hooks, the smells of fresh crayons and disinfectant, the clamor that made even our chaotic house seem suddenly peaceful.

As we stood for the Pledge of Allegiance, I could see Savannah trying to suppress a giddy smile, and I suddenly remembered, with vivid clarity, that feeling of euphoria and slight embarrassment that comes with seeing your parent in the context of the classroom, like a cow that’s accidentally wandered into a grocery store.

I wasn’t sure what exactly would be expected of me during class, but it didn’t take long to catch on. For 2-1/2 hours, my duties included telling kids to sit down, turn around, stop talking, stop cutting their pants with scissors, pick up the mountains of teeny-tiny paper bits that accumulated on the floor during craft time, STOP TALKING, get over here, go over there, blow your nose, wash your hands, and other similar goat-herding activities. After 15 minutes, I was already checking the clock and fighting a wave of exhaustion. I made a mental note to ask God to promote all elementary school teachers to sainthood.

It was during reading group that everything really came full circle. When the teacher asked the kids to go get their homework folders out of their bookbags, I allowed myself a triumphant little smile, relieved that I’d remembered to stick Savannah’s folder in before we left that morning. But my smile quickly faded when, after the kids had returned to the circle, the teacher asked them to open their folders and get out last night’s homework. Savannah opened hers to find it empty, then shot me a wide-eyed look. “In the car,” I mouthed silently, smiling to hide my rising panic.

As the teacher made her way around the circle, murmuring her approval of the kids who’d completed their homework and subtly chiding the ones who hadn’t, I felt my neck and palms grow hot and my heart thud a little faster. Savannah waited patiently, her legs crossed Indian style, looking down at her empty folder with a mixture of concern and resignation. In a flash, I was transported back 28 years, suddenly remembering exactly how it felt to sit in class knowing you were about to come up short.

Finally, too quickly, it was Savannah’s turn. The teacher looked down at her empty folder and then back up at Savannah, whose gaze was fixed on the floor. It was the moment of truth. “It’s in the car,” I blurted out, my face heating up as if I’d just admitted treason against my country. “It’s my fault.” The teacher raised her eyebrows, nodded, and then moved on to the next kid.

If my stint as room Mommy taught me anything, it’s that I’m destined to relive my entire education vicariously through my children. Their homework will be my homework, their triumphs my triumphs, their failures my failures. And I’ll share, too, in their embarrassments and excitement, their friendships and exclusions.

At the end of class, as everyone gathered their backpacks, I witnessed one boy’s humiliation when another boy discovered his spare pair of underwear in a plastic baggie and loudly announced whose mommy had “packed him a diaper”. My heart broke not only for him, but for all of the little and not-so-little embarrassments my girls will endure during the endless 12-year march toward high-school graduation.

One of the hardest lessons about mothering school-age children is that you can’t succeed for them, and you can’t shield them from everything. You can make sure their folders are in the right place, but chances are you won’t be in the room to provide excuses when the teacher finds them empty.