Voluntary Commitment

          “My mommy drinks wine. Is that healthy?” my daughter apparently asked a doctor-parent who volunteered to speak to her kindergarten classroom during the school’s Healthy Choices Week. “That depends,” the apparently scientifically credentialled dad responded. “How much does she drink?”

            I learned of this interaction not from an emergency call from either Child Protective Services or an AA sponsor, but from my child herself. I cannot speak as to why she queried this man about her mother’s once-in-a-blue-moon half-glass of wine, and not about my daily ingesting of jars of defatted peanut butter. And I cannot say whether this self-identified “health expert” parent is related to a child with whom she may someday want a playdate. But I can say that this experience should have been a wake-up call for me.

            No, my humiliation in absentia did not give me pause as to whether I should order a Shirley Temple in lieu of a Pinot Noir next time we go to a French bistro. And, no, I have not taken to wearing dark glasses at school drop-off to avoid the possible disapproving look of her teacher. (Though that wouldn’t be a bad idea because my eye make-up is usually not adequately blended at drop-off time.) What this incident confirmed to me is that I need to stay as far away from my children’s classrooms as possible.

            The “My Mommy is a Lush” scenario was not my first inkling that there is a very good reason I work at a job that is completely unrelated to my children’s educational milieu. The red flags were there early on, and wildly waving, alerting me to the danger of spending too much time at my children’s school. The traffic stops by our city’s finest, citing me for illegally stopping in a School Zone. Twice. The daily cursing under my breath (but apparently loud enough to be heard by a classmate’s sibling—sorry!) at the inept crossing guard who clearly did not ace his classes in, well, street-crossing. And the inability to recall the actual name of my child’s current teacher when calling the truancy office to explain why my child was late. And neglecting to read apparently critical flyers jammed into a designated folder in my child’s backpack. And sending my child to school with a large 15-pound pumpkin for a seasonal activity which, unbeknownst to me, involved my 5 year old needing to carry it around all day. I still don’t exactly understand that activity, because, fortunately, I was not there to witness it. But kudos to the parent-volunteer on duty who lugged the pumpkin around all day for my daughter!

            Even with all of the clues that I am not meant to spend more than three minutes at a time on an elementary school campus—and, trust me, I can do a drop-off in less time than that—for some reason I still tempt fate.

            I had a day off about a month into the school year, so I thought I would volunteer my Ph.D.-educated time and skills to my children’s school. After a frenetic set of emails with both children’s teachers (frenetic on my part, calm and reasoned on theirs), it was determined that I would help out in my kids’ classrooms for certain activities. This time around, I was savvy enough to insist that I help in the classrooms themselves. I learned the hard way in my last attempt to volunteer (two years earlier) that if a parent does not specify the desire to be able to eyeball their kid during the volunteering experience, the parent will get stuck in the Xerox room unjamming spelling lists from the copier.

            I made arrangements to spend half the morning at my daughter’s kindergarten class, the other half at my son’s 5^th grade class, and then concocted a complex schedule to maximize my one-on-one time with each child individually once they were out of school, but without either of them having to go to the dreaded “after-care” for even a moment. Perhaps you see why the Ph.D. and intensive statistical training were needed. I explained the schedule to my children, who followed the plan well enough for my 10-year-old son to interrupt me with a look of horror: “You are not going to be in my class, are you?” Ah, well, er, yes dear, that was the plan. I provided an abridged history of my life leading up to becoming a working mother, and how I would derive great joy from this rare opportunity to share in my children’s educational enrichment. My son, whose listening skills usually run the gamut from distracted to more distracted, repeated his mantra: “No, seriously, you are NOT going to be in my class.”

            Well, since the point of the day was to demonstrate my support of their academic process, humiliating my pre-teen by sitting in his classroom was indeed negotiable. So after another set of one-sidedly urgent emails, his teacher devised a way for me to help out by sitting in the hallway, so I could be near enough to peek in periodically. She is brilliant.

            So, the big day arrives and I come armed with a travel mug of coffee and fully charged iPhone. It was hard to balance my oversized Coach bag onto those little, tiny kindergarten chairs, but after rearranging the art supplies and worksheets on the little, tiny kindergarten table I was assigned to, I was ready to roll. My daughter’s teacher had Scholastic book order brochures waiting for me to collate, group and distribute into the children’s folders. Little did she know I was a pro at such projects after many years in the 1980s stuffing envelopes for political campaigns. I was determined to collate, group and distribute better than any parent volunteer before me. So much so that it took a while for me to notice my daughter was craning her neck during story time to make sure I was still there. The worried look on her face did not match the thrill I was getting from imagining how I was besting all the mothers and fathers who stuffed folders before me. She looked anxious to have me there, not knowing when I was going to leave. When the time finally came, I was still on a high from not only the quantity but the quality of my pencil-sharpening, alphabetizing, and stamping. There was no doubt in my mind that I would move up to the top of the list as the most in-demand parent-volunteer. My daughter, however, was not savoring my victory; she was crying and had to be extricated from my leg by her teacher, with assurances that I would be back to pick her up later, for Phase II of Mommy’s Day Off. 

Back to School: Part One

               On a rare day off from work, I volunteered at my son’s elementary school. Even  though I was going to be amongst hundreds of unemployed 6-11 year olds, I made sure I was dressed in business casual so my son’s teacher and peers would perhaps see me as a no-nonsense type who possibly possessed advanced skills, and I would get assigned a really cool volunteering assignment, like color-coding flash cards or laminating worksheets. Basically, I was angling for anything but grading papers.
                There is something about being at an elementary school that can be very unsettling for those of us with still-raw memories of their own early school experience. If I screw up being a Mom Volunteer at school, will it go on my permanent record? I felt like I was in trouble right off the bat--It didn’t even occur to me that I was supposed to sign in at the office, let alone put on a bright red “Visitor” sticker. While the front office staff did not officially “tsk tsk” at my attempt to breeze through the office, they clearly were not going to have any rebellion here. An Insubordinate Mom would not reflect well on the child, who will in turn never be nominated for the school’s monthly “Best Citizen Award” because of his parent’s own poor display of Citizenship. I entertained the notion of signing in as somebody else’s mother, but had visions of them asking me for ID, and then being publically shamed by the assistant principal on the PA system once my ruse was discovered. 
               I put on the sticker with a smile, hoping to get bonus points by commenting on the charming bubble-letter font used to identify me as an oversized interloper at an elementary school. The principal was just getting up from his desk, so I pretended to be acutely interested in a flyer for Chess Club as he walked by me out of the office. Cleverly greeting the principal would be way too much pressure for a not-fully-caffeinated Monday morning. An awkward pause or poorly received attempt at lighthearted small-talk could send my son’s academic future down the toilet. Once he was gone, I scurried out of the office into the perfectly symmetrical courtyard, enclosed by identical looking structures where the classrooms are housed.
                I have been to my son’s school many times, but have never entered the school grounds from the same entrance more than once. I think finding the classrooms (no directional signs appear anywhere) is a test to see if your kin is genetically predisposed to have a semblance of intelligence and spatial relations skills. Well, hopefully no one will spill the news to the school department that I finally found Room 102 only after being pointed in the right direction by a first grader with a bathroom pass. I took a deep breath and rapped on the door several times. When there was no answer, a slight paranoia came over me that the teacher had dared the classroom to play a practical joke on me by hiding under their desks and pretending to be at recess. I peeked in the room, calling “Helloooo???” in my most cheerful-sounding falsetto. Nothing.
                After convincing myself that I was not re-experiencing a traumatizing school-age prank from my own childhood, I regrouped and went back to the front office. I explained to the efficient front desk administrator how I was pretty sure this was the day I was supposed to volunteer, but maybe there was some sort of miscommunication because no one was in the classroom. The staffer sensed my insecurity and did nothing whatsoever to assuage my anxiety. “Really, no one there?” she asked, gesturing in such a way to indicate that this was a great mystery to be solved. “Well,” I apologized, ”maybe I just didn’t see them. I mean, I didn’t look all around the classroom, just opened the door and didn’t seem to see anybody.” The staffer wondered if perhaps the class was at the principal’s “Discipline Assembly” in the Multipurpose Room, and why didn’t I go check there? Already feeling humiliated at not being able to locate 35 pre-teens in a 20X20 room, I didn’t have the nerve to ask for directions to the “Multipurpose Room,” but I thought how if the sign on the door of the room spelled “Multipurpose” as two words, I would have no choice but to go back to  the office and inform them of this engraved grammatical error; however, a hyphen  between “multi” and “purpose” might not be worth ruffling any feathers. My mind then wandered to thinking that if someone donated a wad of cash to the school, they could get the “Multipurpose Room” named after them, as long as the bequest didn’t specify only one purpose, because then it would have to be called a “Singlepurpose Room,” especially if the money were given anonymously. My focus was completely shot at this point and the thought of Xeroxing or sharpening pencils was getting more and more daunting as the moments ticked away.
                I ventured back into the courtyard and stood for a minute as though I were contemplating the dimensions of the courtyard for a renovation project. I was hoping that another bathroom-bound boy would take pity on me and show me where the Multipurpose Room was. Alas, a custodian sensed my confusion and offered to escort me there personally.
                The Multipurpose Room, despite its many purposes, had only one entrance. The principal was standing at a podium just feet away from the open door. He was on a roll, pointing at his Powerpoint slide and explaining an awkward acronym meant to serve as a mnemonic device for elementary school students to remember not to fight, cheat, embezzle or chew gum while at school. The teacher was sitting across the crowded room and did not initially see me standing at the doorway; however, the principal and the 100 members of the school’s fourth grade certainly did, and turned around in unison to stare at me. I had flashbacks to the time I gave a presentation in class not realizing I had a visible booger in my nose. I tried to scan the room to find my son, but the teacher had already started her journey toward me, stage-whispering “excuse me” every few kids and trying not to trip. When she finally reached me, my mind went completely blank except for the thought that she looks exactly like my son’s teacher from third grade, and I suddenly couldn’t remember what her name was. I should have crammed more for this outing. Going back to elementary school is not something that is covered in graduate school… but for those of us who double-degreed in parenting and academics, seminar on how to be an adult in a child’s setting would have been a class with actual real world applications. But I digress……