Growing Up, Moving On, Hanging Tight: Kindergarten...High School

One morning, in the first week of kindergarten, the burgeoning parent group held a coffee and doughnut get together on the playground after drop off. Having survived a few days of leaving my children with relative strangers I was eager to connect with parents more seasoned and well versed in school matters. I knew no one and so lingered awkwardly near the coffee table while others chatted about teachers and after school programs and reading levels.

"Do you have a child here?", asked a woman on the receiving side of the table.

"Two actually, we have twins in kindergarten."

She was the parent of a first grader and was curious as to how we found her neighborhood school, a small grade school that had been on the brink of closing only the year before.

In Chicago you can attend your neighborhood school or, if you prefer, you can apply to schools outside your attendance area and hope. When our girls were starting kindergarten our neighborhood school was simply not an option; there had been a shooting in front of the school at 3:00 in the afternoon. Safety trumped all my other concerns, we filled out the forms and entered the girls into the vast school by school lottery. Their names were not drawn anywhere, there was no choice to be made. We entered the round two lottery: one four year old was put into first grade at a nearby school, the other found a seat in second grade at a school several miles away. They tested for the gifted and classical school program; one was put in a school in the south loop, the other on the northern suburban border, a distance of over an hour in a car. Jack walked into the CPS offices to appeal our situation. They apologized for the clerical error that put the girls into first and second grade but suggested that perhaps being in two different schools might be a good thing.

"You don't have twins then, correct?'

The veteran parent listened to my long story, offering sympathetic nods and an "oh no!" where required.

"You know, as horrible as that sounds, I've heard finding a high school is even harder."

We were day four into kindergarten, having survived the long and arduous process that ended in a wonderful school, a place that has now been our home for the past nine years. High school? Was this woman serious? High school was years into the future, further even than kindergarten had been from pregnancy. I dismissed her comment somewhat offhandedly, I had far more pressing things to concern myself with, high school was not even worth considering.

That was yesterday, maybe last month.

This past Friday Mary got her high school placement, Kate having secured her spot when she moved to a middle school in 7th grade. We were in Rome when we got the email, physically as far away as I felt from high school nine years ago. Against almost all odds the girls will be back in the same school this September, having been separated for the past two years. Somewhat surprisingly they are both happy about this; separation was hard but they have enjoyed these years apart, each finding their own place.

The search for a high school was, thankfully, far less problematic than we had been warned. Perhaps because this was the girls' search, their choice, helped greatly by their nine years of hard work.

Walking into school Friday I had a moment of finality, the very familiar feeling that something has come to an end. What has been an open ended question for months now has an answer, they have a place to be in September. They are both registered, they have school t-shirts, they are looking at after school clubs and sports. Finding a kindergarten was a relief, after months of unknown, as is finding a high school. But for something that has loomed so long on the horizon, having an answer to a question posed nine years ago seems an abrupt stop to a very long conversation.

Now I stand on the other side of the table, handing out the doughnuts. Finding a school is difficult, finding one that is hard to leave, even trickier. How lucky we have been to have called this place home for nine wonderful years.

1984, Just Like it Was Yesterday

1984

Twenty years ago this summer I went to my 10 year high school reunion. Moving beyond the excessive air intake in realizing just how incredibly old I now am, I can say, with fondness, that it was a most wonderfully dull evening.

Which is not to say, at all, that I didn't have a good time. I did, I loved the whole experience, and was, I believe, one of the very last to leave. It was just that in 10 years nothing had changed. I arrived optimistic, and had done my part in cutting my hair, but found immediately that the same groups of friends had found each other (perhaps they had never left each other). The theatre geeks still sitting with the theatre geeks, cheerleaders with yell leaders, math nerds with math nerds, as it goes. I had really hoped that the girl who walked silently from class to class, outscoring the rest of our cumulative ACT score, might have found a seat with the girls who drove fast cars and scared me on Friday nights. She did not. In fact everything was so solidly 1984 that my high school friend, the one who had a knack for talking me into situations which often resulted in a trip to the vice-principal's office, almost got me kicked out of the reunion. Her refusal to pay for the $80 ticket, and borrowing my name tag to legitimize herself to the organizers, landed me a 30 minute time out and a lecture by the head of the event company. His words eerily evoking the spirit of Dr. Nichols, "Don't let your friends talk you into bad decisions, follow your own compass", and there I was, right back where I started ten years prior.

1994

When 20 happened I was two weeks away from giving birth to two children, and two months past measuring full term in the mid-section. I was enormous; transportation would have required a flatbed truck and very large straps to hold me down for 500 miles. Not knowing if one of my fellow graduates had chosen a career in obstetrics and unsure about delivering two children in the middle of my high school reunion I chose to stay home.

This past weekend was 30 years. The busyness of this life kept me from visiting that one, the timing coming right at the end of the school year, right as we rolled into summer (although I must note that my girth and ability to wedge into a commercial airline seat was no longer a relevant factor in my travel plans).  I followed the planning on Facebook: casual bar get together Friday night,  spouses claiming boredom being ditched, big event Saturday, cocktail dresses or pants, lunch at Taco Via every single day (disclosure: I have never loved Taco Via nor did I have any idea that everyone else did. I would have been at Winstead's but that is another story).

Sunday morning, iPad and hot tea in hand, I settled in on the back deck to check out the antics of those I had loved so much so long ago.

Who were these people? I recognized about 3% of the faces appearing before me. Hadn't these 600 plus people been the reason the sun rose and set every day? Why didn't I know every single one of them? Why didn't I know any of them? Did my brain shut down after the ten year reunion? Were all of the early 80's lost to me? 

Wait, Jeff you stand there by Paul, and then Joey, you move in next to them.  Becky, you stand next to Laura, and then Sarah and Sarah, you two together over there. Can we get Kathy and Brooke together please with Colby and Steve?  Karen, you go to the left, with Lisa and Amy and Brian, you move over there by Charles and Chris. Wait a minute, where is Margaret? Nobody move…say cheese!

Maybe at 10 years we got it all right, somethings should never change. Raiders we shall always be, as long as we stay frozen in time and stand next to those we stood next to 30 years ago, even if they talk us into trouble. I'll see you all in ten years, and don't cut your hair.

 

My wonderful grade school friend Jim and I have a date to attend 40 together. He's wearing Granimals and I'm going with gauchos. We may not fit in but at least we will know who we are, or were, in 1978.

No picture from the 2004 era, not enough room on the page.

Once a School Nerd...

"Big plans for the weekend?"
"Um, yep, school auction", as I signed the sales slip at the local book shop.
The sales clerk smushed her twenty something face into a look of grim pain, "yea yuck, good luck".

Nodding, I returned the quirky smile, wished her a great weekend, and headed out.

Because you never really stray too far from who you really are, it seems I enjoy school now as much now as I did then. Like staying after in high school to help build sets for the school play, I happily volunteer to help with the book fair, and look forward to the school auction each year. In my old age I have realized that it was never as much about the academics as it was, and is, about the social circle, and being with people I enjoy.

Jack and I are lucky. In Chicago you don't just walk down the street to your neighborhood school; there are applications and lotteries and tests for kindergarten, and our daughters, after a mad scramble, found seats in an amazing school, not too far from where we live. They are learning and growing and happy, and we, in their school, have found a truly wonderful circle of friends, as well as a network of teachers and staff who we not only enjoy but trust, every day, with our two very favorite things on earth. To be forced into an evening of wild abandonment with these people is not too much to ask.

Back when I was happily building sets for Flowers for Algernon there were no school auctions. There was no fund raising; in picture perfect suburban Kansas City there was no need. Chicago schools, and Chicago students, are suffering and parents are being asked to make up the growing distance between what is needed and what is available.


Raise your paddle, support your school, and hopefully, enjoy yourself at the same time; once a school nerd, always a school nerd.

Lights! Camera! Action!

For most of high school, and a good deal of junior high, my free time was spent in the theatre wing, reading lines, hammering on sets and soaking up the behind the scenes atmosphere so heavy when you are 14 years old. My contributions were generally backstage, sorting out costumes and arranging set plans, but occasionally I was called to the stage, most frequently appearing as the tottering old woman in whatever production was headlining that semester. I became a master at graying my straight brown hair, tying it into a bun and creating, with brown and white pencils, the lines that now decorate my face permanently. With the rest of the cast I gathered just before curtain time, holding hands in a circle, passing love with one squeeze to the next and handing out The Robe, a gift to the crew member deemed most vital to that performance. The minutes before curtain were, for me, the whole of why I was in theatre at all, the anticipation and excitement worth all the long nights and hard work.

When I graduated from college with no clear idea of what I wanted to do, I found a job waiting tables. Friendly but forgetful, I quickly acclimated to the topsy turvy schedule and grew to love my year of living without direction. When I worked in the evening, we arrived around 3:30, an hour and a half before the dinner service began. Once the assigned prep work was done, salads in the cooler, napkins rolled with silverware, we all sat down to a quick meal of whatever was getting old in the walk-in, and a pep talk from the chef on duty that night. The camaraderie of the assembled crew was contagious, knowing that for this to be a successful night we all had to work together. When the first table was sat the show began. My mother, who was not at all pleased with my educated career choice, softened a bit when I likened this time to my high school theatre days, and the excitement of curtain time.

Each year we host a holiday party, a crowded affair, with too many people crammed into our small apartment. I spend weeks planning and preparing, organizing and shopping. I'm up early on party day, cooking, while Jack gathers anything without an assigned space to be put in our bedroom, the designated dump closet. Mary and Kate now pitch in, responsible for the playroom, soon to be completely destroyed by the army of children scheduled to arrive. With an hour left before the first guest arrives, I'm usually showered but not dressed, fumbling around the kitchen in my old bathrobe and slippers, wet hair piled onto the top of my head. The four of us work together on the final preparations: snipping chives on crostini, lighting red candles, hiding puzzles from three year old guests, and chilling beer and juice boxes on the back porch. At 30 minutes I'm sent away, to lose The Robe and hide those pesky lines now appearing daily on my forehead. Minutes before the first buzzer I appear, ready to face the evening, my fellow cast and crew by my side. We share our own love, knowing we have all worked hard to make this evening a success. Even now, almost thirty years later, the show goes on.

Still Crazy After All These Years

The two men at the next table were a bit loud, laughing heartily with a slap on the back kind of vigor. My lunch companion was Jane Austen and this wild kind of fun was a bit distracting as I read my way through a plate of rice and green lentils. "Remember freshman year, or was it sophomore, when you....", I looked up, suddenly envious.

It's not often that I have lunch with someone with whom I could reminisce about sophomore year, in fact it's almost never. My school companions have spread from New Mexico to New York, we rarely actually talk, much less have lunch together. The last time we were all together as a group was at least twenty years ago, so long ago I don't actually remember, and I certainly don't remember every saying "good-bye, see you in what, maybe twenty years?".

But that is how it happens, even with people that at one time you held so tightly that the thought of a weekend without them was torture. Thankfully laughing together is like riding a bike, you don't ever forget, especially when you realize, halfway through the beautiful wedding, that you left your car running in the driveway outside. And when you, at 45, end up being only a slightly more grown up version of the person you were at 18, reconnecting with those old selves comes quite easily.

Was this where we thought we would be? Almost thirty years later, giggling at the tiny dog in the tiny dog carrier two seats away, at the home of Peter and his husband Brian, in New York, watching our friend Laura marry her longtime partner Candace?

Long ago, at about this time of year, we'd all wrap ourselves in ragg wool, borrow a family wagon and drive west for a day at the Renaissance Festival. After hours of eating turkey legs, making hand dipped candles and listening to poorly tuned accents, we'd pile back into the woody wagon, pop the Vivaldi cassette in the player and muse about spending days like this for the rest of our lives. Of course at 17 we failed to consider that things change; life doesn't always stay in suburban Kansas City, and that we were just beginning to discover who we might be for the rest of our lives.

Family wagons morphed into mini vans and we moved away, found new friends, grew up, and grew apart. We married, had babies, watched babies go to college, and two weeks ago found ourselves back together for the first time in a very long time. We discovered that saying hello again is just as easy as saying goodbye, and that after all these years, we were essentially the same wonderful people we knew so long ago. It seems that knowing people so intensely, and so thoroughly, works to bind you together for years to come, even if you don't spend any of those interim years together.

Politics and ceremony aside, it was really nice to be back amongst old friends.

"Did you think Laura would grow up and marry a woman?"
"I don't suppose I thought Laura would grow up".

Camp Sunshine

More than 20 years later I have no idea where they came from, or who bought them, or where mine might be right now. They were bright yellow with a white crest on the upper left side, the silhouettes of small children and birds frolicking within, and underneath, Camp Sunshine.

At 16 it seemed perfectly logical to define your peer group with matching shirts, opting for camaraderie over snappy high school fashion. When everyone else was wearing neon colored, and loosely knit, v-neck sweaters with platform shoes, we wore Camp Sunshine t-shirts and fishing hats. Today it's not often that my friends and I wear matching clothes, not intentionally. Maybe things would be different if I thought I could go back to camp.

We knew nothing of the true identity of Camp Sunshine; it sounded like a cheery place, and we were quite happy entertaining ideas and creating our own scenarios: an isolated refuge for aging Bingo addicts or a woody hideout for former, and unaccomplished, theatre students.

Now I tend to think Camp Sunshine might look just like this:


There's Peter, a former yellow shirt counselor, his husband Brian, their twins Hudson and Mercer, Hudson and Mercer's mom (minus her girlfriend), a couple of nannies, four other dads, a pair of moms and six, in total, happy, lucky and loved children.

Camp Sunshine, as it turns out, looks nothing like what we envisioned, and everything like a happy week at the beach, with people you love, should. Time to dig out that bright yellow t- shirt, I think I'd like to run the tennis program at this camp next summer.

Behind the Scenes

The bulk of my time in the high school repertory theatre group was spent painting walls or moving furniture. Infrequently used, my onstage skills were called upon only when a tottering old woman made an appearance, and then I would be covered in gray hair and handed a cane to wave wildly about. My true genius, and delight, lay in sneaking around backstage amid the created rooms and faux trees, but kept buoyant by the smattering of applause that followed my old lady spin across the stage.

Twenty years later I am still fascinated by the behind the scenes view. From my perch on the eighth floor I look out at a snow covered Millennium Park, home to Cloud Gate and the Frank Gehry designed Pritzker Pavilion, a wonderful front door to Chicago and a definite stop for all visitors. Those same people who spend Saturday wandering Michigan Avenue need to ask their taxi driver to take lower Wacker on the way to the Field Museum. A world down under, it is seedy and dirty and fascinating and, I am certain of this, full of rats. For this reason alone I am enchanted, feeling my true edgy self whenever I wander the streets below. Never on foot, my wandering is generally limited to the seemingly safe backseat of a taxi, but I peer out the window, just waiting to see a giant rat attacking a produce delivery truck. Has not yet happened, I'm optimistic. Never one to let the driver move along in silence, or chatter on his phone in a language I don't understand, I ask about the neighborhood where he lives, or where he likes to stop for lunch. Jack is convinced that all taxi drivers think I am from Iowa, in fact Jack is convinced that people the world over think I am from Iowa, and if they were to think about it, perhaps they would. Which is to then assume that all people from Iowa are madly curious and bothersome, which I doubt to be true.

Without question my favorite routes are just as worthy as the destination. On the days that I put the book down and look around the train do I find the ride most enjoyable. Enticed by what passes outside my window, I am equally interested in the woman sitting across from me plucking hair from her chin (that's not true, hair removal is infinitely more interesting than back porches). However, it's the train ride that takes me far from my north side neighborhood that really engages me. To Devon Avenue, and the shops and restaurants of India and Pakistan, or south to Chinatown, or west to Harlem and Italian markets and bakeries; what lies beyond is what draws me in.

The front of the house is spectacular but the world behind the curtain gets me every time.

Two To Consider

The ultrasound technician, without looking up, said "well there it is, and yes, there is the other one". The other one? What other one? And why was she still looking? I pushed up on my elbows, Jack's head snapped and she looked up, "oh, you didn't know? There are two". My elbows collapsed and Jack's head fell off, "I'm so sorry, I had no idea, yes, two, and quite strong".

Inside Jack's head, I imagine the dialogue went something like this, "Two. Two. Not one, two. Only two, is she sure? How well did she look? Maybe it was only one but she saw it twice, she didn't seem too bright. Two. Maybe two boys, or a boy and a girl, no, I know, two girls, of course, why wouldn't I have two girls? Two weddings. Right, two college tuitions, and of course, grad school. I should have known, her cousins are twins, serves me right. Two. Quite strong? Two, really? How about that? We can do this. Two!"

Of course he actually said very little, staring at a point somewhere in space for an extended period of time.

My inner voice said "Two. Two. Two. Two! Really, two! One of each, or maybe two boys, or maybe two girls! Two? Of course there are two, we should have known, maybe I did know, yes, I could tell, I knew, Moms know. Two! Oh, two, are they alright? Will there be enough room? Of course there will be. Two to lose. Stop, they are fine, she said strong right, that's what she said? What did I eat for breakfast? Where is my husband? Is he here? Did he hear her? There he is. Why does he look like that? I'm terrified. I'm excited. I can't do this. Of course I can. We can do this. Two!".

Oddly neither of us, in that moment, considered that two meant that both would head off to kindergarten on the same day five years later, and eighteen years beyond they would move on to college at the same time. Somehow in that instant we both missed this key point, and while I wouldn't change one thing, I do, for the first time, envy my friends who started with one and moved on to two. When they wave good bye in a few weeks there will still be one holding tightly to their hand. Three weeks from today my hands will be empty, both raised and waving madly at two backpacked adorned figures waddling away from me.

Two, what a blessing, I wouldn't change one thing.

Sing Me A Song

The list he put together was painful, lining me up and shooting me straight at middle aged suburban motherhood when I was just barely 30. He started with Michael Bolton, and then it got really bad, Celine Dion, Rod Stewart. We were sitting in his car, listening to his edgy Nebraska music, which caused me angst and occasional pain, whereas Celine and Rod would put me to sleep, the latter preferable as it was late and I was ready to go home. Jack thought he knew me so well, smug so early in our relationship.

Several years ago he bought me a Barry Manilow CD for my birthday. "Barry Manilow, come on", but I loved it, and I knew all the words. There is no such discovery when John Denver sings and no hiding the love, John Denver is the music of my childhood, of summers spent in Colorado listening to him sing of poems and prayers and promises while breathing in the crisp evening air tainted with smoldering logs on the fireplace next door. Perhaps I can hide my Barry love but I'm all out when it comes to John Denver.

But in high school, when everyone else was listening to Prince and Madonna and Michael Jackson, my heart belonged to the Piano Man,

A bottle of red, a bottle of white, perhaps a bottle of rose tonight.

I'll meet you anywhere you want, in our Italian restaurant.

He sang that and an amazing list of others, but of course there was so much more, including my favorite love song, that missed the cut. Elton John was there also, they sang together, they sang apart, and I sang along, every single song, my middle aged housewife self, serenading my husband, and 40,000 others at Wrigley Field last week.

Two years ago I was a purist, music at Wrigley Field? Please no, Wrigley Field is for baseball. No longer do I stand on antiquated baseball principle; bring on the music, it was a magical night.